Winter Solstice north of forty-five degrees, and I’m cold under the canopy of a solitary tree on the, it seems, plain of misery. The rain is cold and falls mercilessly, all but halting my march into the foothills of the Untrodden.
It’s been three weeks since I left the warmth of her bed. The warmth of her. The warmth of her smile.
Its been three weeks since I’ve passed the last remnants of Civilization: the Seely Canal crossing over those slow-moving frigid waters, the keeper of our Trespasses so I was as told long ago. Those waters that straightline to the confluence of the River where the canal’s waters are subsumed into Oblivion.
But for now, I’m on the Old Path. Hints of wood smoke from a distant pours over the basin, and me. Perhaps my talisman?
Up ahead of me in the distance is a place near the edge of the Forest where cloud whispers stream from the treetops.
And then Home.
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