12.13
I would think that a road this wide and flat should be used for cars, or carriage, or maybe even large pack animals. However, there are no tire tracks, grooves from wheels or hoof prints. Built up a few feet from the forest floor, chipped wood mulch blankets a bed of packed clay. Both mulch and clay a matching rich rust red. The entire road is very well manicured, remarkably so. Not a weed, leaf or twig can be seen anywhere close by or in the distance. Were I a giant, it would be a large flower bed, not yet planted, extending on for miles. Rather I say it “might” go on that far, if not for the unusually dense layer of fog hanging low a ways off, blocking all visibility.
To either side of the road are the thick walls of the surrounding forest. Dark pines tower over the road, blocking any direct light, though casting no shadow. They grow in neat, evenly spaced rows, each offset from the next. Not much room is left between each tree, only enough to see the row directly behind. The roots of their trunks are barely visible through the thick carpet of needles, freshly fallen, still retaining a verdant life.
The atmosphere is thick, warm, and everything looks to have just enjoyed a fresh rain. Nothing is particularly wet, just damp and strangely vivid in color. Bright green needles above and below, the deep brown bark of the pine wall, the red clay and thick mulch road slicing through it all, only to eventually fade and vanish behind the curtain of fog. Were I not here in person, I could imagine every piece of mulch, every tree and pine needle being meticulously placed, every surface being spray painted to its vibrant matte finish.
There is something there, a bird standing in the middle of the road. I didn’t see it fly down before, but it is there now. Pitch black feathers marked in stark contrast against the rusty damp earth. How did I not see it before?
As it happens, this particular raven is not doing typical bird-like things, hopping around, pecking at the dirt, cawing in its native tongue (or beak). Stranger still, it’s the only other creature I have seen, or even heard out here. Come to think of it, nothing has made any sounds here. No wind to stir the branches of the forest, no sound from the mulch road underfoot, not even a lonely cricket hidden among the carpet of pine needles. Everything is still, save for myself. As I walk closer to it, the raven looks at me, as if only just noticing I was here. It is only curious for a moment, before it flies off disappearing into the mist.
The road no longer looks so distant. Each step taken towards the raven had brought me closer to the roads end and the wall of fog. Moments ago it was all so far off. Now only a few steps more and I am standing at its end. I decide to follow the raven in and I am quickly enveloped, everything white, gray and dense. No more road in the pine forest, no raven. I cant even see my hands or the rest of my body. However, I can still feel the soft mulch underfoot and use it to guide my way. I can finally hear it now, sound and texture changing with each step. The ground is becoming more firm, coarse, scraping like rammed earth and gravel. With the next step, the fog suddenly disappears and I find myself standing on a new path. This time cool, gray and rocky. This time quite visibly well traveled, unkept and lost.
Set between two grassy fields, the path leads not far off, down a slight hill, to a small cliff by the ocean. At the end, just before the cliff is some sort of stone formation. Sitting atop one of the stones is the raven. It is very much the same one as it looks at me just as it did before. It waits patiently, still, only flinching as the waves crash far below and the occasional gust of wind swirls about.
The raven flies away again as I make my way along the path and come to stand beneath the stones. As I get closer I can see that they are not natural formations after all. It is difficult to tell, but these were certainly placed here a very long time ago. Three large stones, twice as all as myself, thrust out from the ground. Each has four distinct sides, heavily worn and smoothed over by the elements, leaving only a hint of where its edges once were. Each stone is tapered, the base twice again as wide as the top, giving them a strong hold into the ground. There is room in the center of the three to stand, stretch out my arms and feel their surfaces. The light gray stones are covered in various places by moss and lichen almost resembling a spotted fur. Slight indentations and discolored shapes run vertically on each face of the stones. It would seem at some point in the past there was something carved there, words or symbols long since eroded. I wonder what these looked like when first placed here, perhaps once a shining white marble, each face with a story to tell. Maybe they have always looked this way. This place held great meaning for someone at some time, as it does for me now, though I can’t yet know what it is.
I reach out to try and make sense of it all, tracing my fingers around the hidden lines of these forgotten memorials. More worn symbols, more lost words, the trio of stones the same. Why are my feet hanging over the ground? I am floating now, being pulled away slowly from the stones, hands sliding over their faces, rubbing away patches of moss and lichen. Looking up I see the raven, considerably larger than before. It looks almost as big as the sky itself as it carries me off into the night. Is it night time now? It lets go and I fly, just behind, like I have been flying all my life. Faster now. Its massive wingspan silhouettes against a star filled space. I don’t bother looking back. I know it is nothing but dark behind me now, having flown so far and so fast with the raven. The earth, the paths, the three stones by the cliff, all just a moment ago. We fly for what seems like hours, weaving in and around violet rivers of cosmic dust. I follow still. Faster now. Giant feathers start to shake before falling away. Feather by feather the raven is dissolving, still on its course into the depths of space. No longer a shape, no longer a wingspan, nothing more than a fluttering sheet of black feathers. Finally it is gone, only the color remains, blocking out all the stars, brushing away the violet dust. I am left with myself, nothing but darkness around me as I continue flying on the ravens course.
2011.12.13
