Lost and Muddled
At the galvin crossing Earzo stood examining the signpost for several minutes in some bewilderment. The names on the four metal plates were not what he expected, no distance was given, and his compass, he concluded with impatience, must be hopelessly broken. Shaking it vigorously then keeping it still, he stooped to study it more closely. The wind blew the hard at him. The compass needle was almost indecipherable in the fading light. It appeared, however- as well as he could make out- that two miles back he must have taken the wrong turning.
He remembered. That path had looked inviting; he had hesitated a moment,then followed it, caught by the usual lure of walkers that it 'might prove a short cut'. The short-cut snare was as old as human nature.
For a few minutes he studied the signpost and compass alternately. Dusk was falling, and his back was too heavy to carry. He could not make the two guides tally, however, and a feeling of uncertainty crept over him. He felt oddly baffled,frustrated. His thought grew thick. Decision was most difficult. I'm muddled,' he thought; 'I must be tired,' as at length he chose the most likely plate. 'Sooner or later it will bring me to a house or inn, though not the one I intended.' He accepted his walker's luck, and started briskly. The plate read 'To Winters Valley' in small, fine letters that danced and shifted everytime he looked at them; but the name was not recognizable from the map he had used earlier, 'how could I have misplaced it' he thought. It was however inviting like the short cut.
A similar impulse again directed his choice. Only this time it seemed more insistent, almost urgent. And he became aware, then, of the exceeding loneliness of the country about him. The road for a hundred yards went straight, then curved like a river running into space. So many things that afternoon were similarly unexplained: the short cut, the misplaced ma, the names on the signpost, his own erratic impulses, and the growing strange confusion that crept upon his spirit. The entire countryside needed explanation,though perhaps 'interpretation' was the truer word. Those little lonely trees had made him see it. Why had he lost his way so easily? Why did he suffer vague impressions to influence his directions? Why was he here- exactly here? And why did he go now 'To Winters Valley'?
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