Flint's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Flint woke before dawn and rolled up his tent, stuffing it into the pathfinder pack alongside the water jars and rope. The camp looked smaller now, just a circle of flattened sand where he'd spent three days preparing. He shouldered the pack and felt its weight settle across his back. The eastern sky showed the first hint of gray light. He needed one more stop before heading out—the bulletin board near the records booth. Mesa's journals mentioned water sources marked on the old trail maps, places where barrel cacti grew thick enough to signal underground springs. If those markers were posted anywhere, they'd be there. The wooden board stood against the side of the booth, covered in notices and expedition warnings. Flint found what he needed near the bottom—a hand-drawn map of the desert trails leading to the peaks. Red dots marked spots along the routes, each one showing where water could be found. He counted seven dots between town and the eastern canyons. The closest was two days out, near a cluster of barrel cacti Mesa had sketched in her notes. Flint traced the route with his claw, memorizing the turns and landmarks. This map gave him what the journals couldn't—current information from travelers who'd walked these paths recently. He pulled out his notebook and copied the red dot locations, adding them to his own growing map. The sun broke over the horizon, painting the sand orange. Flint turned toward the peaks and started walking. Mesa's trail was out there, marked in stone and hidden springs. He had everything he needed to follow it now. The first hour passed quickly, his boots steady on the packed sand. Then he saw it—a sandstone watchtower rising from the flats ahead, its walls crumbling at the edges. The structure leaned slightly, half its roof gone. Flint approached and ran his paw along the rough stone. This must have been a lookout point from the early mountain expeditions, back when explorers first tried mapping the forbidden peaks. He climbed the broken stairs inside and reached what remained of the upper platform. From here he could see the entire route ahead—the desert stretching toward the foothills, the canyons cutting between the rocks, and the high peaks beyond. Mesa had probably stood in this same spot, studying the same view before pushing forward. Flint pulled out his compass and checked his bearing. Two days to the first water source. Two days to prove he could follow her path. He climbed down and kept walking, leaving the watchtower behind as the sun climbed higher. By midday the terrain changed. The flat sand gave way to rocks and dry washes cutting between low hills. Flint found the first canyon mouth exactly where the map showed it, narrow and shadowed. He stepped inside and the temperature dropped. His eyes adjusted to the dim light. A large black boulder sat at the turn ahead, grey moss hanging down its sides in thick curtains. Flint stopped. Moss meant moisture somewhere close, maybe seeping through cracks in the stone. He pushed past the boulder and found what he was looking for—a cave entrance, dark and cool, water dripping from the ceiling into a small pool. Mesa's journals had mentioned these hidden springs, places where the mountain held water even when the desert burned dry. Flint filled one of his smaller jars and drank deep. The water tasted clean and cold. He'd made it to the first marker ahead of schedule. The forbidden peaks rose closer now, their slopes visible through the canyon walls. Mesa's path was real, and he was walking it. Tomorrow he'd push deeper into the canyons. Tomorrow he'd get closer to finding her.