Two Rivers of Polar Flows
The scenery did not change at all, it only appeared to repeat itself. A patch of rocks here, a boulder for him to climb, a fallen log sporting innumerable broken branches like the head of a mace but long like a club of spikes. No trees had fallen over the river, of course, there was no passage across except to forge through, which Albey knew better than to attempt. He would be taken by the current and dragged back past the rockstack, if he did not drown before coming to it. No, for now he would only walk, he would maneuver only through this wood of needled trees and many rocks, and his walk only stopped when he reached the waterfall.
It was a mighty waterfall, a majestic torrent if ever the Mad Poet had seen one. A large boulder at the top divided the source river – he presumed it was a river, at least, thought it may have been a spring or a lake; to find out he would have to climb the crag, and such was not an option at the moment – into two misty flows which cascaded down and spun rainbows in the sun’s light. The water splashed into a pool Albey could not discern the depth of, for the water was cloudy with silt. Rivers flowed outward from both sides of this pool; the falls provided the current upon which the waters were carried. He stood then at the head of two rivers of polar flows, and a terrible certainty plagued his mind.
Yet still Albey pressed on, moving forever forward, his moccasins leaving shallow divots in the loamy soil behind him.
A great deal of time passed before Albey stopped again. The sun was getting low in the sky, the deep blue of infinity lightening to an almost violet hue, a purple of the wealthy and powerful, but still he pressed on. There were five days left until the Calla, and he would be able to detect if a normal predator of the wood was stalking him. He knew not if he would be able to escape it – fighting it would surely be out of the question, as he was fighting to keep standing at this point – but he would be able to detect it, and he would be able to prepare for his Death. The black wolves of the Calla move swiftly and silently, invisible in the darkness but for their solid white eyes which would not be seen until it was far, far too late. But perhaps it wouldn’t come to that. If Albey’s hunch was correct, he would soon be returning to the cabin, mayhap even before nightfall.
Before him two rivers of polar flows, each flowing into the other, joined as one and branched off in the shape of an inverted letter T. This fleeing branch flowed unbounded into the wood on the opposite shore towards the divine ones knew where.
Albey decided he would be finding out. Not today; perhaps after the sun rose on Monday, a day of Chaos, he would leave the locked cabin behind in search of a new homestead, but not until then. The sky darkened a deep indigo velvet, the stars winked at the Mad Poet from above, and so he had to keep moving. Keeping the river to his right, the current flowing against him once more, Albey marched on ahead.
This has been the fifth subchapter of the first chapter of The Face of Fear, a novel about bigfoot written by the writer in Untitled Bigfoot Project. Here is everything you need to know about it:
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page. Here’s that.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~