The Path

The Blue Knight was absent, whereas the Sphinx was not there, the fire burnt low between the dogs. The leaves were reaching out from the tree in every direction, pointing out things of interest.

They had departed the warmth of the fireside to discover what had been lost by the path. Will it ever be found again, is it a small bag or a box? Carved all about, holding a reliquary, with some bony part peeping from the moulded silver, just so. Some elbow tip of an heroic character from ancient tales.

I’ll pick it up, there in the broken city, at the edge of a path, amidst the concrete and rubble. Not cast away, but fallen from a loose string or travel pocket at the side of a backpack. The velvet cloth of the embroidered purse is lying on its side. It was sewn by hand, candle lit by firelight and electrician’s head torch. The threads woven slowly, having steeped in various dye pits with the hides.

The path, there is only one when you’re on it, splits of course, and then they are two. One path may be more defined than the other, slightly wider and worn deeper, more feet chose to go that way. The other path is not as popular, passing as it does through the Land of the Giants, the Slough of Brown Mud and just passed that, beyond the abandoned factory, Bandit Country. Here, the King Bandit strips the unwary traveler of all he or she possesses, except their underwear and therefore their dignity, he is not a monster.

There should be a sign at the junction of the paths, written, Don’t go down this path, you may be crushed by a Giant, by design or in error. You may disappear in the Slough of Mud, which is exactly what it says on the tin. But you will definitely be robbed by the Bandits, except for your underwear.

That is why this path is only used by people who can’t read, mud surfers, giant dodgers, bandits or people who only own underwear.

The Giants, gentle folk, barring a few notable exceptions, try not to step on passing humans. But it is not so very easy when they are so small.

Of course, as you know, Mud Surfing has become quite popular since the invention of the electric mud skiff. It has two levels. The top is an elegant ski shaped board, fashioned in carbon threads, with go faster stripes of your choosing. Whilst below the surface an au pair of leglike structures, modelled loosely on those of a duck, with special mud flipper attachments, waggle like crazy, propelling the structure over the mud at a dizzying speed. So, the frequency of travellers travelling that path is on the rise.

As for the King Bandit, well, we all know him.

Should you choose the more popular path, you may find a loose coin or treasured piece, maybe a star tied to the bough of a tree above. A sign might spell the distance to Buenos Aires or Wellington, New Zealand. Not that you are expected to travel to these destinations, more in context than expectation. Under the wooden banner of a local hostelry, the head of a queen emblazoned, the welcoming open door. Later, in the public bar you may be given crisps and ale, laying on trenchers of bread, as it is the local dignitaries birthday. The tables are set out on the lawns, cloths cleaned and piled apples of cake, dishes of crumbly cheese corn and spiced bread sticks in syrup. In tumblers of ice, cocktails submit to the tempest of your lips, mighty ships crushed by the frozen pack of eau de vie. In baskets, woven backwards, with blindfolds, are positioned the exotic fruits which are cooled by the breeze.

There is a silver castle, regal upon a hill in the distance, and the right path leads to its promise. But first the path must meander in a pointless way through many varied landscapes in which the intrepid traveller might adventure, if that be the intent or desire.