Tuesday, August 02, 2005

The Journey

He embarked on a quest to unearth the origins of the anguished outcry; traversing the labyrinthine forest, he stumbled upon disoriented and frightened children. Bestowing them his sustenance, he recognized that their intended goal diverged from his own. Nevertheless, he chose to recalibrate his objectives, if not his fate. He intuited that leading these young souls to their intended refuge was his inescapable dharma. With resolve, he veered onto a constricted pathway, wending through dense undergrowth.
The instant he planted his initial step, he sensed an oppressive burden descending upon his shoulder, its mass incrementally intensifying to nearly buckling his knees. Subsequently, an ethereal voice reverberated. He was uncertain whether the utterance emanated from his innermost being or the enveloping obscurity, but it presented him with a dichotomy.
Option One: Should he shepherd the children to their end point, he would be obliged to bear an insensible but ponderous wooden crucifix. Additionally, any advancement would irrevocably enable his faculty to retrace his steps.
Option Two: Abandon the children in the treacherous gloom and reorient himself backward.
His gaze met theirs, reciprocated by beatific smiles. He discerned that he represented their beacon, and turning back was an untenable option.
The odyssey proved arduous. He consecrated all his victuals and hydration to the young ones. Ultimately, they arrived at a riverbank as the sun retreated behind the forest's veil. Their temporal perception blurred; they could no longer delineate day from night. Opting to repose adjacent to the river's edge, he shut his eyes yet still envisioned constellations etched into the celestial dome, a recurring phenomenon of late. His memory replayed the variegated fauna they had encountered along their route. The spectral voice resurfaced, furnishing him with another bifurcation of options.
Option One: The children might venture solo across the river, albeit at the cost of losing some. However, the survivors would gain liberation, and his burdensome, intangible crucifix would dematerialize, thus clearing his path toward his personal objective.
Option Two: Alternatively, he could escort them individually across the fluvial expanse, ensuring their collective emancipation. Nevertheless, he would be compelled to trek an additional distance to locate a life-giving well. Quaffing from this source would replenish his vitality, facilitating his onward journey sans the cumbersome crucifix.
He remembered Robert Frost:
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.
The sun heralded the advent of another resplendent day. Though the crucifix weighed heavily upon him, its mass was rendered inconsequential by his engrossing commitment to ushering the young souls across the river, one by one. Grasping their hands with unyielding surety, he navigated the river's superficial expanse, occasionally feeling the sediment beneath him displace due to its potent undertow.
Upon successfully shepherding all the children across the aqueous boundary, a sense of elation enveloped him. He discerned the luminous smiles within their souls and the emotional mist in their eyes before they dissipated into a realm of untrammeled liberty—a world unmarred by apprehension. His satisfaction was immeasurable; he had irrevocably altered their destinies.
The cross's weight, somewhat obfuscated by his altruistic preoccupations, now asserted itself with an unprecedented gravity. Merely a mile separated him from his end goal—a mile punctuated by the persistent mass of the wooden crucifix. The morning mist lingered, resembling a demure Indian bride. A melodious serenade permeated the air from a nightingale perched momentarily upon his burdensome crucifix. The bird then alighted upon a fractured signpost that proclaimed, "Worship or possession of wooden crosses prohibited in this jurisdiction."
Undeterred, he pressed on. The path to the well was laborious and fraught with pain. As he approached, he discerned the well's stonework, sensing the aqueous promise it contained. Yet, did he truly experience thirst? A distant avian melody accompanied the subtle but growing clamor of what sounded like drumbeats or perhaps hooves rapidly closing the distance. He glanced backward, enumerating four mounted figures in pursuit, then shifted his focus to the well—a mere stone's throw away. Imminently, all would be concluded: his thirst, the onerous crucifix, and suffering.
An impending realization coalesced within him: Should these horsemen intercept him before he arrived at the well, his destiny would be recalibrated anew. A deeper, instinctual recognition dawned: fear was the progenitor of monstrous apparitions, replete with elongated wings, sanguine eyes, and fearsome horns. Another survey over his shoulder revealed the horsemen gaining ground while the well appeared dishearteningly distant. His ears then registered the ominous hiss of a black cobra—albeit not in his direct path but alarmingly closer than the well. He also perceived other visages, figures intricately woven into the fabric of his life, soul, and physical being, all expectantly awaiting his return.
Illuminated by the sun's incandescent glow, the shadows rendered were diminutive. The equine sentinels completed their encirclement of him, their gaze settling upon a pair of distinct markings adorning his feet.

2 comments:

adityakarsh.com said...

I like his discription.The story is wonderful and sad.

inspiration said...

The story is nicely described, and very painful too; also it creates the curiosity of what will happen to that person?