The Exodus Journal: Entry 9-10

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The land unforgiving and desolate, they brave through the highlands, trying to find a passage to the other side — to the promised land.

Entry 9

Having performed my duties as overseer, I am now heading back towards the front of the caravan, where my superiors are eagerly awaiting my report.

It is safe to say that they will be pleased, for the supplies are lasting and the people remain spirited, despite the horrors that they have faced. However, it is clear that it is going to take weeks before we are able to ascend the mountain, perhaps months before everyone is safely on the other side.

Time we simply do not have.

I cannot help but think that all of this would have been much easier if the caravan had remained united into homogenised sections, as was the plan from the beginning. But time was not on our side, and as a result, the caravan is a mishmash of different peoples; different nationalities and social classes. Though such things do not matter any longer, it is hard to deny the inevitable conflict that arises when so many people with different opinions and experiences are mixed together.

We truly are a strange race who manages to find conflict in the midst of our demise.

Entry 10

As we climb ever higher, the more arduous the journey becomes — the terrain turning rocky and inaccessible. The land, borderline desolate, with only thin patches of grass and bushes growing on the mountain side. Not even birds or rodents seem to thrive on these heights and I am starting to wonder if the land is indeed as accurst as the stories suggest. For even mountains has some sort of wildlife, an ecosystem where resilient animals live.

Furthermore, could a civilisation really survive this harsh climate? Or did the climate change? Perhaps something else allowed it to survive and thrive? Something that we couldn’t even fathom today?

But, I am getting ahead of myself, as I have yet to find any proof of the existence of such a civilisation, regardless of how much I wish it to be… And I really do; to the point of lunacy, one might say. But the prospect of such findings helps me cope with the endless drizzle that chills down my bone. Never allowing our bodies to fully warm — our clothes always wet.

At least the wind is calm, mercifully sparing us of the additional suffering such weather would bring.
Not that it would hinder us more than it already has, with its slippery slopes and none existent paths.

That we have managed to take our wagons this far is nothing more than miraculous, but I fear this is as far as we go for the peaks are simply too steep. Impossible to climb even alone.

We can only pray that we may find something that will allow us to escape these wretched lands. Another miracle perhaps? Avos be willing.

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