The Right Road

And then I emerge, weary, into a soft, pale-yellow light. All I hear is the crunching of my footsteps on the sandy-dirt road, regular, reassuring.

I push on.

After a while, a new sound combines with my metronomic paces – a kind of gurgling close by. I lean over and part the grass by the side of the road. Nestling there is a tiny creature – soft, pink. I lift it out, bringing it up close to my face. It’s warm and smells of freshness.

“Hello little fella,” I whisper, because whispering seems the appropriate register.

“Goo,” it says, smiling. It squints its cloudy-blue eyes at me, as if trying to focus.

My weariness falls away. I’m filled with a strange euphoria, which I’m sure comes from this tiny thing. I’d like to take it with me but something tells me its rightful place is where I found it.

I lay it gently back among the blades of grass and breathe a farewell.

Moving away, I hear it gurgling happily behind me, then that fades. The only sounds left are my footsteps and the breeze through the leaves on the trees that line the road.

On, on … until I come to a multitude of new roads that fan out before me. They all look similar and there are no signs. I’m sure I can’t go back, so I choose one at random and follow it.

Boisterous birdsong joins the soundscape now, broken eventually by an incongruous WHOOP! I scan the surroundings, trying to locate the noise. Nothing.

An acorn plops at my feet. Then another. A third pings off my head.

“Ouch!” I exclaim; it’s a reflex rather than an expression of real pain. I look up. There, in a grand old oak tree, is a boy. He’s about to throw yet another acorn.

“Please don’t do that,” I say.

“Why not?” the boy says, lowering his arm.

“Because it’s not nice,” I say.

“So what?” he says. I sense this is just bluster; he must know it’s wrong to throw acorns at passing strangers.

I keep silent, giving him time to come to this conclusion himself. He begins hacking at the bark with a sheath knife, ignoring me.

I watch him for a spell, envious of his freedom perhaps. But I feel I should be getting on.

“Can you tell me if this is the right road?” I ask.

He stops hacking to glare down at me.

“Could be,” he mutters sullenly.

“Good boy,” I say and carry on. I haven’t gone ten yards before an acorn pings off my head again. When I whip round, he’s gone.

There was something about that boy, I decide, though I can’t quite put my finger on it.

And so on I go, a little disconcerted by the incident.

By and by, I catch a waft of honeysuckle – sweet, thick. I stop to inhale it. I could stay here forever, wallowing in the heady scent, but a little further along the road – which I notice is smooth asphalt now – I can see two figures sitting on the grass verge, leaning back against the hedge.

I quicken my pace, without hurrying. I’m soon able to discern a young man and a woman, kissing.

Preoccupied with their activity, they don’t notice me, and I don’t think it right to interrupt. So I watch – out of curiosity rather than for titillation. They seem quite intent; I’m getting a feeling of warmth, as if through a wave they’re exuding.

A long time passes before they come up for air. They each hold the other’s face in their hands, exchanging gazes, maybe seeking some kind of truth. Then, quite naturally, they turn to me; it seems as though they knew I’ve been here the whole time.

“Hello,” the man says simply. His tone denotes a familiarity that I don’t entirely feel, although like the boy earlier, there’s something…

“Hello,” I say. We take each other in. On the periphery of my vision, I notice the woman fading, disappearing, gone. I think to myself how strange it is that I find this unremarkable.

We stay there, motionless, speechless, the echo of our hellos filling the void.

I’m about to ask him the question – whether this is the right road – when a bright smile from him pre-empts it. I return the smile in lieu of a thank you and set off again. I feel that, as with the young boy, if I looked back, the man wouldn’t be there. So I don’t.

My steps are fuelled by a kind of reckless exuberance. I break the rhythm with some skips and twists – dancing, in effect.

I note that it’s becoming warmer but I dance on regardless, inventing new moves as I go, deriving immense pleasure from it. Until something else catches my eye – there, up ahead.

Four figures this time, indistinct, shimmering in the surface heat haze. In the optical illusion, two of the figures appear elongated, two compressed. The closer I get, the more distinct one of the figures becomes, while the others shimmer away to nothing.

When I draw level, I’m faced with a balding man, sitting beside a gingham table-cloth, surrounded by picnic refreshments.

His “Good afternoon!” is open, friendly. I didn’t realise it was so late.

I respond to his greeting, watching while he busies himself cutting up a pie and pouring drinks. He doesn’t want to converse apparently, so I ask him the question:

“Can you tell me if this is the right road?”

He stops what he’s doing, giving me his full attention. I can’t help but note his eyes, which remind me of the young man’s. I don’t have time to muse much on the matter, though.

“Oh, yes!” he says, with such conviction that I catch myself beaming. I thank him effusively.

As I move away, he’s already occupied with arranging the picnic things. After I’ve taken a number of paces, I believe I hear the happy tinkle of comfortable, shared laughter.

Buoyed by the encounter, I stride on, confident that all is as it should be.

But soon my strides have shortened to steps, each taking more effort, I notice. It occurs to me that I should have asked the man for something to eat, to give me stamina. However, this thought is immediately replaced by a different one: what if it isn’t the lack of food that’s causing my growing fatigue?

The asphalt has become sandy dirt once more, strewn with red-yellow leaves that rustle and scatter at my passing. There’s a chill in the air, too. I shudder, wrapping my arms around my torso. The sky’s growing orange, and it’s in the dimming light that I spot him. It takes an age to reach the bench where he’s sitting.

The man is ancient, with thin strands of white hair clinging to his shiny pate.

“Good evening,” he says. “Have you come far?”

“Very far,” I say. “And I’m very tired. Can you tell me if this is the right road?”

He chuckles, causing him to break into a fit of coughing. When he’s recovered, he trains his cloudy-blue eyes on mine.

”It always has been,” he says. “Not far to go now.”

He raises a thin, liver-spotted hand, pointing. And for the first time, I notice it – I wonder how it’s missed my attention: a vast, black forest, the first trees looming over us.

I recoil at the sight. He catches my reaction.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says. “It’s not as bad as you might imagine.”

His voice has become soft, mellifluous, soothing. I feel I trust him innately.

“Thank you,” I say, “and farewell.”

I turn away, and before I’ve gone a dozen paces, I’m enveloped by the forest.

The old man was right. I’m not fearful. I merely continue on my way – gliding now rather than walking – blindly but surely, further and further into the silent blackness.

That’s practically all I know for what may be minutes or aeons; time seems not to exist here. The only things I have are the sense of myself and memories of the road, the people I met, though these fade to nothing when I feel my feet on solid ground again, with the darkness dissipating.

And then I emerge, weary, into a soft, pale-yellow light. All I hear is the crunching of my footsteps on the sandy-dirt path, regular, reassuring.

I push on.