The path we choose.

I suppose it could be worse, he told himself, I might have ended up on the side with the bear. Max scrabbled his feet against the earth, struggling to find a foothold before his weight pulled him down. Desperate, he dug his fingernails into the dirt trying to gain purchase on something that wasn’t there. He looked ahead into the forest, his chin at ground level, focusing on the moss-covered tree trunk lying a mere three feet away.

The edges of the trunk were crumbling away, softened by the natural dampness of the forest. Sun-dappled leaves spattered the moss with flickering light and shadows. Max watched a beetle scurrying along the side of the fallen tree. Savouring life, he drew in a breath full of the earthy scent of decomposing leaves. He ignored the ravine beneath him and the wind that plucked at his back.

Years ago he mastered the art of blocking the things he didn’t want to think about. He mastered it when he was a young lad. It made his life more, well, far more comfortable. It was what was in front of him that mattered. It was the only thing that mattered. Never look back. That was his motto.

The tip of Max’s boot found a slim ridge.  His heart gave a relieved leap and his adrenal gland acknowledged his luck with a helpful shot of adrenaline. He might survive this after all. Taking immediate advantage of the almost non-existent ledge, he swung his other foot up, his heel landing on the cliff edge. When he was certain his heel was secure, Max took a breath, steadying himself. In one motion he got his leg over the ridge and heaved himself up, from there he was able to roll the rest of his body onto the firm earth.

He lay on the ground, panting, staring up at the clouds scudding across the stormy sky. Knowing he was alone he turned on his side and curled into a soothing foetus position, wrapping his arms across his chest. He looked back across the ravine. The bear paced back and forth on the other side of the deep chasm, its head waving from side to side, watching him with black beady eyes.

They stared at each other whilst Max recovered his breath. He knew the bear was only going to leave when he did. It was a kindred spirit and bore a grudge the same way he tended to. Rolling himself up to sitting, he looked over his shoulder and turned in his seated position, his forearms resting on his bent, sprawling legs. The forest hemmed him in. Apart from the small area by the bridge, the trees came up to the very edge of the cliff, thick and full, dark and old.

A shiver travelled down his back, there was someone there. He caught a glimpse of a face. It was the same face he saw last night. A laughing face. A round mischievous face with glittering black eyes. Beady bear eyes. Last night he had put it down to his imagination. Now he was angry. The heat of his anger bubbled in his chest and tightened his jaw and flexed his muscles, he liked the sensation. There was safety in anger.

He stared harder, his face mean, his piercing glare unwavering as he rose to his feet. He blinked. On the other side of the blink, he froze for a fraction of a second and then a smile jerked his lips. Bending over he laughed deep hollow laughs. From this height, the face was not a face. It was the pattern of leaves against a tree trunk. The eyes were the glinting reflection of the sun on droplets of water. “Honestly,” he said. “I’m beginning to spook myself.” He raised a hand and rested it on his chest. “Get a grip man.”

The dirt on his hands was wiped off in a brusque workman-like manner whilst he searched the depths of the forest for a pathway. His eyes flicked from place to place seeking the light. His only choice now was to go through the dense woodland and for the sake of his nerves, and temper, it was not helpful to see the darkness or hear the whispering in the trees.

It was harder going than he’d anticipated. There must be a path or road around here somewhere. Why else the bridge? After struggling through the forest for an hour, ignoring the pain of his thorn-ripped body and using the pattern of moss on the trees to keep to a straight line, he came upon an area where the forest was clearer. The thicket of brambles and saplings was not so dense.

Hoping he was nearing the edge of the ancient woodland, he pushed through. Although the forest wasn’t quite as dense, the sharp barbs still reached to scratch at him and the tree roots still rose to trip him. A pungent green smell of broken vegetation followed his path, outraged by his intrusion and offended by his blatant disregard for the sanctity of growing things.  

The sky ahead became lighter, the greenery thinner. When the resistance he fought against gave way, Max was taken by surprise. He stumbled, landing on his hands and knees, pain shooting through his wrists and legs. “Damn it!” he yelled at the ground. “Damn it!”

From this new position, grovelling on the ground, he stared down at the lichen on the cobblestones. Relief quickened his pulse. Civilisation. He was safe. Tucking a foot on the hard surface under his chest, he forced himself to stand. His thigh muscles protested at the activity, tired from carrying him so far without rest.

How could he rest when one calamity after another was forced upon him? Fists on his waist, feet apart, Max looked along the path. It ran in a line parallel to the cliff edge. He had expected it to run straight on from the bridge, a path to somewhere. Now, looking left and then right, he couldn’t decide on which direction to go.

Max lifted his hand to his forehead and held it there. His normal carefree approach to life had disintegrated in the last few hours. In its place, a bad feeling sat on his shoulders like a brooding imp. It was going to go wrong. Every choice he was given since yesterday evening led to yet another bad outcome.

First, the horse ran off carrying all his profits with it. Then he discovered, midway through the night, the campsite where he laid his bedding was on an ant’s nest. Alerted by their fiery bites he jumped up and removed his shirt, attracting the attention of a wild boar with his yelps. The wild boar chased him into the night.

Trying to find his way back to the campsite, to retrieve his knife, money and food, the easy path he chose along the river bank collapsed under him. He tumbled into the river and was swept over a series of rapids. Half-drowned and bruised and battered he pulled himself out of the river onto a sandy bank, the only place he came across where he was able to get out of the water.

He eased himself onto the sandbank only to discover he was surrounded by a group of crocodiles who couldn’t believe their luck. Breakfast served lively. Running from the crocodiles he stumbled into a clearing where he tripped over a sleeping bear. The bear proceeded to chase him over the rickety wooden bridge that collapsed into the ravine when he was halfway across. It was only luck that he managed to grasp an old rope to swing himself the rest of the way across. The rope snapped when he hit the cliff face. He was left to claw his way up.

An uneasy thought entered his consciousness. In general, Max was not one for self-reflection. A person couldn’t be in his line of work. What was it that old woman said yesterday after he knocked her off her horse and relieved her of it? She tried to grab the reins and he punished her for her audacity by kicking her in the chest. He kicked her so hard that he knocked the breath out of her.

The expression on her face was hilarious. He laughed at her. The way her mouth stretched when she tried to breathe. The strange sucking noise she made. It was her fault anyway. What self-respecting woman would be travelling by herself? In a place where she could be attacked by a fellow of his trade, no less. If he didn’t do it someone else would have. She should be grateful he hadn’t killed her. What was it she said? Some stupid woman’s curse, calling on the fates and bringing him to their attention. As if anyone believed in that sort of nonsense anymore.

A golden coin was tossed into the air. Its flight was watched by multiple eyes as it spun high into the sky and plummeted back down to the waiting hand. Heads it is. Max turned right. A path meant civilisation in both directions. Casting off the unfamiliar gloom he strode forward with new confidence. His luck was changing.

He didn’t hear the sharp tittering in the bushes or the bets being placed. But any moment now, just after he reached the bend in the path and found the wall blocking his way, he would hear the howls of the wolf pack tearing up the path behind him. At that point, if he survived, he would know his luck hadn’t changed at all.