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Everyone knows about the bad spots left from the Voodoo wars. I went past enough of them as a dispatch rider to know them well, because the darkest and worst of them weren't an ending, they were where the opening volleys anchored themselves in the land and grew new seeds of melancholy.
There are good spots too, but it's harder to map them. They don't anchor into land, they anchor into people, and people move around, especially in a war. Give me a bike over a bad spot any day. Good spots lean phlegmatic rather than melancholic, calm contentment rather than crushing despair, but it isn't something anyone advertises, like a touch of Other on your back or your shoulder.
When the war broke out, I added a tree tattoo to my collection, ink mixed with holy water for extra protection, traded in the chrome decoration on my bike for silver replacements, and took to the road. You don't stay put for long on that job, even though staying put's the one way to build out from the seed of a good spot, because in war the good go first, and you have a duty to get the message through. You move fast, sleep light, and don't talk about what you've done in case some poor purely human kid gets it into their head that they can do what you can, when they really can't, if you get my meaning.
I got through. More than most did. Kept moving afterwards, looking for some place to set down a few roots and grow a few seeds, until I came to Charlie's and saw flowers in the square outside and Sunshine in the bakery. I still don't talk about it. No one should. But I found a good spot to call home. For now.