THE WOODS.
“Not all those who wander are lost…”
The hibernating fire burns in a cave past the valleys and up the snow-swept foothills. No one tends to it, because no one needs to. The firewood is never used up, even if it’s blackened and resting in ashes. When you enter the cave and sit by the fire, you can hear a sharp crackle. The fire tosses out an ember at you to acknowledge your presence. You’re welcome, the fire says. Just don’t disturb its hibernation. Be careful, you are the one coming to the cave.
Walk a day from the cave, and you’ll find yourself in a forest so steep that only the mountain goats feel at home there. If you are dextrous enough, you’ll find yourself on a flatter surface. The trees are no less dense, but there is a stream that winds its way through them. If you really listen to the crystal tinkling, you’ll find that it’s a game the stream is playing with itself. It asks if you can play along, if you have the time and the inclination.
They say the earth itself is broken in places, and one of those places lies near the stream. A crisp crevice stretches down infinitely, reaching into the bowels of the earth. It’s wide enough for a person to fall into. It’s quiet, reserved, relaxed. And still, it begs you for your attention. “Won’t you fall?” it asks. Won’t you watch the sunlight disappear?
In ages past, a queen built a hovel on the mountain. Tired of courtly life, tired of her kingdom, tired of her family, she retired without her retinue. Shorn of her royal finery, shorn of her royal graces, she built a home for herself, brick by brick, until it looked like it could house her mind. How long did she live there, the hovel asks itself. It wonders aloud, and if you have an answer, it will laugh and wonder again.
The summit of the mountain reveals itself to be a lake. A grand goblet, filled to the brim with the freshest of water. Its glass surface is creased by ripples made by the deer that drink along its edges. How deep is the lake? Perhaps it reaches the foot of the mountain, a shaft of nothing but water, darker and darker as it goes, competing with the emptiness of the crevice. Enter me, the lake commands. You must obey.
It doesn’t matter how long you can hold your breath. The lake is always deeper. Once you start to sink, you struggle to find which way is up. Your mind can barely make out that there is a light somewhere, and you think that might be the surface. But you’ve been swimming for so long now that sheer despair clouds your hope. It cackles at you, jeers at you.
Once you settle to the bed, you wear your despair as a cloak. The hibernating fire, the stream that plays games, the crevice that never ends, the hovel that struggles to remember, and the lake that pulls you in; they all fade and become a part of you.
What will you say, and what will you ask?
Who will answer?
The woods are lovely,
dark and deep
but I have promises to keep
and miles to go before I sleep
and miles to go before I sleep
forever.
