Fiction

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Clay walked with a long, relaxed stride and unhurried on a narrow path. The light breeze felt good on his face and moved in rhythm through his long, reddish whiskers and his shoulder-length, wavy hair. His faded jeans and checkered red shirt hung loosely on his slender body even after he had tightened his belt another notch just yesterday. His back-pack contained a few essentials, enough to survive a few days in the wilderness.

“Don’t forget it’s Wednesday,” he told himself. He had left his harried life on Monday. His journey progressed unplanned, on impulse, as he usually traveled, though he briefly studied the generalities of his chosen location in advance. He purposely hadn’t brought a watch or phone but due to the new terrain, his pant pocket contained a small compass. In the monotony of some of the landscape it was easy to forget what day it was or that he may lose his way.

Clay’s thoughts drifted somewhere between his yester years and tomorrows, sometimes he felt them speeding past like the view out of a train window, solid with earthy wonders and sometimes they seemed like cirrus clouds, without much substance. He liked being carried along in a twilight of feelings and memories. Every once in a while something brought him back to reality, a field mouse, a rabbit or some other small animal that crossed his path and he would slow down his steps to observe them and appreciate his commonality with them in being alive in space and time.



An hour had passed since he had spent a little time on a log having a spare meal. He purposely ate only a few bites to calm his growling belly and reminded himself of the purpose of his trip….

As he walked on he noticed the steady incline and the sparseness of the grass. The colors around him took on grayish hues, instead of the lush greens of well watered foliage. Stands of trees lined the path that had become more and more overgrown with wiry weeds. Before him opened a vista of distant mountain terrain and he realized that he was gradually ascending toward his first mountain climb.

Clay stopped a moment, consulted his compass and decided to veer to the left to avoid a direct climb as he had no intention to climb any mountain, it was not the purpose of this trip.

The path led along a stream of clear sparkling water, shaded by trees and shrubs. He realized he had entered a perpetual forest, so dense he could no longer see the far off mountain range. The air cooled about him intoxicatingly sweet and clean and through the dome-like covering of foliage broke sunrays, transforming the landscape into a Renoir painting. He loved it here.

Clay sat on a moss covered rock at the bank of the stream. He took of his boots and socks, touched his toes to the cool water, leaned back, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

A shadow fell on his face and his eyes sprung open in alarm. Nothing had changed around him. He stood and peered into the denseness but saw nothing; it was very still, more so than it had been. Every tree seemed large enough to hide someone; every tree became his instant enemy. Uneasy, he squinted upward, penetrating the dome of green to see if a cloud might have passed overhead and thrown a shadow on his face but all he could see was blue sky and sunshine. A breath of cool air swept over him and he shivered as if death had walked past him; as if death had a presence that continued to linger near him.

The intruder had no right to follow him here; he would root him out and force him to desist.

Clay felt shaken. He put on his socks and boots and noticed his trembling hands when he turned his shirt inside out to hide the red checks. At the same time anger rose from the depth of his being at the thought that the shadow messenger had dared to rob him of his peace.

As he crawled up the bank of the stream he tore some of the vine that hung nearby and draped it about his head to camouflage himself. He slid along on his belly only raising his head high enough to spy the nearest tree. As he crawled from tree to tree and with each sigh of relief he realized the darkness of evening settling over the forest.

His body ached from the strain of crouching and slinking from tree to tree, he’d counted at least a hundred.

As he stood and stretched he felt the sting of coldness blow over him once more and again he shivered. He realized that he stood in a clearing, on a narrow, overgrown path, that seemed to lead nowhere. At his feet the ground began to tremble slightly, like a far away earthquake and he thought he heard a sigh and a whisper, “Don’t walk here!”

He stared at the ground with foreboding but he would not let his emotions translate into thoughts, instead he directed his focus on the enemy.

“Who are you, show yourself, coward!” he shouted into the stillness. But he knew he could not walk onto the cursed ground. Something terrible had happened here.

His mind recalled an area hereabouts where hundreds of years ago one of the fiercest battles and unspeakable atrocities of human sufferings had taken place between the settlers and the Indians, both sides guilty of crimes that should have been tried in tribunal court.

“So this is it?” Clay questioned softly. This place had witnessed humanity’s full display of evil and this ground could not rest, bearing the secret weight of it.

He sank to the ground and wept and repented of the evil and he wept for himself, for having the gift of Seeing. “Forgive them!” he cried aloud.

He had come away to rest a few days from the daily burdens of his demanding double life that had left him vulnerable to sudden attacks from an unseen world. This was the first time death had violated its agreement to allow him interludes of rest.

“What have you done, the voice of your brother’s blood cries to me from the ground; it still does and will until all things are judged.”

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