Free Advice

I left the lighthouse feeling renewed in both energy and purpose. For I finally had a direction. A destination. A heading I could navigate with. I made my way toward the town of Cant... so I could learn as much as possible about the lost continent of Occasia and, hopefully, return home with my discoveries.

The village was visible in the distance as I crested the first hill along the trail. But there was something else I saw, too. Nestled between hills was a wooden booth, right beside the path. As I approached, the wording of the sign above it came into focus:

FREE ADVICE

How curious.

The man behind the booth, however, did not look like the sort to be giving advice to anyone. He was thin and wiry, with a face that most resembled a mouse's. I could not picture a more stereotypical robber if I tried. So I tried my best to avert my gaze and walk silently by, until he beckoned to me.

"Hey, traveler. How about some free advice?" he called.

"It is a tempting offer," I replied, "but I'm really in a rush."

"Then I'll make it quick. What do ya say?"

I considered it for a moment, then shrugged and said, "All right, what advice would you give me for traveling to the town of Cant?"

"Come over here so I don't have to shout it at ya," the man replied.

I hesitated for a moment, then took a step toward him.

"Better." The man said, then he pulled on a dangling chain connected to the sign above.

The sign flipped.

It now read:

TOLL BOOTH - FIVE DOLLARS

"What? I thought you said it was free advice!" I cried in protest.

"The advice is free. Walking past me is not. Pay up." The man held out his palm.

"Can't I just go? I don't know if my money is any good here. I'm a foreigner, after all."

"I don't take excuses," the man said. "I take dollars."

I grumbled, but complied. Five dollars wasn't that much anyway, and he looked like someone who might need it. So, I counted out five dollars, but my hands were shaking with latent anger. The wad slipped out of my hands and scattered across the ground.

The toll collector was incensed. "Wait a sec... that's just paper! Where's your dollars at?"

I gestured down to the wet, muddy money at my feet. "Those are American dollars. You don't take them?"

He eyed me suspiciously, then stood up. "I don't take paper money. I take these." He pulled something out of his pocket and held it up to the light. Upon further inspection, it appeared to be a glass coin. One imprinted with a shell symbol, presumably a sand dollar.

"Your money is made of glass?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, and yours is made of paper. At least mine is more transparent." He chuckled at his own joke.

"Very funny. I don't have any of your glass coins. Can I go now?" I was not amused by his antics.

"Not until I see what's in your bag." He gestured toward the leather satchel slung over my shoulder.

"Hell no. I'm going now." No way was I giving him any of my things.

"My gun says otherwise, buddy." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a revolver–six chambers. My blood froze, and I could do naught but stare at the weapon.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa... can we just talk about this? I'm not from around here. I don't know what I have that could be valuable to you."

He gestured to the table before him and said, "I'll be the judge of what's valuable, bud. Dump it all here."

Begrudgingly, I untied the sack and let its contents fall out: a knife, an empty canteen, and a compass. Along with my journal – the one you are reading – and a small bag of charcoals. None of it seemed particularly valuable to me, and the robber seemed to agree.

He began to sort through my belongings. "Now let's see here... trash, rubbish, garbage..." Then he flipped through the first few pages of my journal. "Pretentious garbage."

He dropped it with a thud, and my heart jumped.

"Hey, be careful with that! It's my private journal." I did not like having my journal treated so roughly.

He ignored me, grabbing the compass and examining it. His eyes suddenly widened. "What is this?"

"It's a compass. Have you seen one before?"

The robber paused, searching his memory. "Not one like this."

He set the compass aside. "Anyway, it's junk. And since you don't have any valuables... I'll have to steal your ideas instead."

"My ideas? Why would you need to steal my ideas?" I could see this was no longer a simple robbery.

"Because I've heard every reason not to steal from people. 'Rocco, don't do that, it's wrong!' According to what? Your feelings?" He waved his arms around, which only intimidated me further. "'Rocco, don't do that, it's bad for your karma!' Bunch of hypocrites. Nobody cared when I lost my job, my home, or my family. So I take what I want, when I want, how I want. And right now, I want your ideas. So you better start talking... or else you'll be sleeping with da fishes. Ya get me?"

I was scared, but also confused. And a little more sympathetic than I ought to have been. "Are you saying you want... my advice?"

"If that's all you got, then yeah. Lay it on me, 'Jules Rider'."

My mind raced for a response. "Uh... you shouldn't steal from me because it's wrong?" I suggested, knowing how inadequate my argument was.

"That's it? That's your big reason? I'm a bad guy, remember? I don't care about your sense of morality. Come on, you can do better than that." Rocco said, waving the revolver at me again.

I wracked my brain for a better answer, but I was drawing a blank. "You... you shouldn't steal from me because... stealing is against the law?"

He laughed. "Oh, that's good! Tell me, kid, where's the law here? The guy with the six-shooter, or the guy who's unarmed? Guess which one of us is the law right now?"

I swallowed. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

"Deadly. Now come up with something a little more... creative. Or else I'll get creative with the trigger."

Okay, think Jules. Think, goddamnit. Why shouldn't Rocco kill you?

"You shouldn't steal from me, because... because it would be wrong to steal from a visitor to your country! You're supposed to be hospitable to foreigners." Please work, I thought.

Rocco looked at me, firearm still pointed right at my skull. "Not bad, kid. I'll give you that. But you know what? I'm not a very hospitable person. So you'll have to do better."

Now I was fed up with this game.

"Fine... if you want to shoot me, then do it! But then you'd be a murderer! Is that what you want?!"

Rocco paused for a moment, and I held my breath.

"You know, you've got a point there. Robbery is one thing. Murder is another. I've never killed anyone before, and I'm not sure I want to start now." I did it. I got through to him.

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, there you have it. Can I go now?"

Rocco shook his head. "Nah. I still want your stuff. Except the book. Keep it. I don't like to read."

Damn it all. Now the journal was all I had. Reluctantly, I picked up the journal, along with the charcoals.

"Good. Now scram. Before I change my mind." He said with a scowl.

I scurried away from the booth, eager to resume my journey to Cant. I didn't look back until I was almost out of sight. Rocco rifled through my bag, throwing some of my belongings away and pocketing the rest. Oh well. It could have gone worse, I suppose.

As I put more distance between myself and Rocco, I wondered what made the man change his mind. He didn't think stealing was wrong. Or threatening people with violence, for that matter. But once I pointed out what he'd become if he shot me, the line became clear for him. As clear as one of his glass dollar coins.

Occasia is a strange land, with even stranger people. And now I knew just how dangerous it could be...