The Path

A Story by Laz K.

The first rays of the morning sun poured their golden-honey-light over the mountaintop to the east. They flowed down the slopes, through the large windows, and into the bedroom where they gently pried open the man’s eyes. He looked tired but alert. Sleep had been mostly eluding him for months now, and he had a restless, uneasy, apprehensive air about him. He knew that time was running out before he could explore all the paths in the great wilderness of life.

“What will it be next?” he wondered. “A den of vices and pleasures? An assembly line in a busy factory? A quiet farm with a vegetable patch? A grand art gallery, or a concert hall?”

There was no time to sit and ponder the how or the why. The past was an aged tapestry, a series of fading images, and all that was left of a lifetime of memories was a vague sentiment, a drop of distilled perfume made out of thousands of rose petals. Yes, his reel of film was quickly running out, and the future was waiting out there in the thickly forested mountains behind his house.

His heart sat heavy in its bony cage, like a black, rust-spotted lump pulled by a mysterious magnetic force. This force led him like a guiding hand all through his life. It attracted him to the land on which his house stood now; it moved him around like a pawn on a chessboard, or like a game piece for a run of Snakes and Ladders, Jeopardy, or Monopoly.

This same force pulled him out of his bed now, and it dragged him down the mountain path behind his house, directing him toward the woods.

Every rock, tree, bush, twig was like a road sign on a well-traveled highway. He could have walked the path with his eyes closed. Up to the big redwood tree, that is. He never ventured beyond this point. The redwood, like a sentinel, struck by lightning, split in half, ravaged by storms, stood resolute and ancient at the end of the path.

At the edge of that darkness there was an eerie silence that amplified the throbbing in the man’s ears. His throat was dry, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. A visceral sort of apprehension was tugging on him, pulling him back toward the path, his house, his bed, his sunlit world. But his iron heart could not resist the pull forward and onward. There was no going back; one can never go back. He knew this with a certainty more powerful, more absolute, and more terrifying than fear itself.

He took one more look over his shoulder, taking in the familiar sights, his eyes searching for the distant silhouette of his house, where he used to feel safe, protected, hidden. Ferns, branches, and the tall grass seemed to open up to receive him, guiding him forward, deeper into the early morning mist lingering above the ground.

“A few more steps…almost there now…” he repeated to himself over and over to drown out the other voices, the doubting, blaming, angry voices, the shrieking, terrified voices, the lustful, greedy, demanding voices, the cacophony of life, the residue of a lifetime of choices and consequences.

“A few more steps…almost there now…”

The first rays of the morning sun poured their golden-honey light over the mountaintop to the east. They flowed down the slopes, through the large windows, and into the bedroom where they gently pried open the woman’s eyes. She looked tired but alert. Sleep had been mostly eluding her for months now, and she had a restless, uneasy, apprehensive air about her. She knew that time was running out before she could explore all the paths in the great wilderness of life.

“No…not again…” She heard these words in her head, but she didn’t will these words, and she didn’t comprehend their meaning. She sat up in her bed, and suddenly a sense of calmness came over her. It was a flood of warm confidence, some hitherto undiscovered, unnamed hormone in her blood, communicating to every cell in her aged body: “It’ll be OK.”

She nodded, chuckled a little, and though her eyes were wet with tears, she stood and walked out of her house, down the mountain path, toward the ancient tree at the edge of the forest. As she stepped out of the house - an architectural wonder, both aesthetical and practical - warm tears were now freely flowing down her wrinkled cheeks.

“Oh, stop being sentimental,” she chided herself. She looked back over her shoulder, knowing she would never see this house again. Her feet were taking her closer and closer to the edge of the dark forest of oblivion.

“To start from scratch, from nothing -- it’s unthinkable!” a feeling of terrible loss and futility has come over her. She longed for renewal, a fresh start, and yet, to lose it all! No!”

“Remember! Stay awake!” she forced herself to take note and register every step, every sensation, to catalogue her memories, to replay them starting from this moment moving backwards to the previous day, and beyond that, the preceding weeks, months, years, her entire youth, and childhood.

The faster her feet moved down the misty path, the more momentum her reeling memories gained, and faster the images went by before her mind’s eye. She saw herself as a young woman, a teen, a small child, a toddler, a baby, and it wouldn’t stop, the reel kept rolling, and she saw whirling lights, then darkness, and lights again, and she saw a boy, and the same boy turning into a grown man living where she lived, walking the same path she was walking now, and she knew that they were somehow one and the same being.

She couldn’t feel the earth beneath her feet now, whether she was floating or swimming in the thick white fog she couldn’t tell. With all her might, she was clenching her teeth, and her fists, and every fiber in her old body resisted the white fog that was forcing itself in through every pore of her skin tempting her to fade into the void. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t.

Suddenly she felt light, weightless, expansive. She opened her eyes and still everywhere there was the white fog, so thick that she couldn’t see her hands in front of her, and it was as if she had no body at all. Out there in this sea of fog, somewhere in the distance, there was a flickering light. Mesmerized by the warmth of the orange flames, she moved, glided, flew toward them.

The flames got bigger, brighter, she could feel the heat enveloping her. Oh, how beautiful the flames were, hugging each other, joining, then separating, moving rhythmically together! Sparks erupted from the depth of their passionate dance, and she was a moth falling into the flames, warmed, cleansed, renewed, reborn.

III

The young couple’s car came to a halt on the gravel driveway.

“Let me help you,” the man said. He opened the car door for his wife, who was now a mother holding their newborn baby in her arms.

He went on ahead, opened the door of the house, and ran into their bedroom to pull the heavy curtains aside to reveal the large windows. She came in after him.

“There,” she said, placing the baby in a pram, turning it toward the window to give her newborn a better view.

As they turned, the baby squinted in the bright light, and soon rested his eyes knowingly on the great forest looming beyond the edge of the garden.

© 2024 Laz K.

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Reviews

Ern M. Yoshimoto

this was a very contemplative and clever work. in these few pages the story explores themes of life, death and memory. i really liked the repetition and contrasts that were present. the mist was a very good motif. they say that death is cold. the denouement was a very good touch. we are reminded that all old people were once young and expecting so much from life. life is kind of cruel in that way. we lose so much as we approach the grave. there was so much i liked about this short story. the author has a sharp mind and poetic sensibilities. looking forward to reading your other works.