Part I
Because you’ve been with the woman for a while now.
Grown used to her.
And her, you.
You two know each other’s habits. And foibles. Sojourners.
And out on the Scablands, the two of you cross the barren ground to the lost horizon
The Scablands; desolate, devoid of life.
Except everpresent rock.
As if a lesser god of stone scraped all clean, save the rock.
To start over.
To rid the land of the sin of what had been done.
You and the woman only travel at night.
To avoid the blistering heat of the day.
More importantly, to avoid detection.
At night under the light of a waxing gibbus moon, you both slowly but steadily progress over and through the Scablands.
The Mule carries provisions for the trip.
Unseen.
Underappreciated.
Never complaining.
Although at times you wonder if the Mule has designs on the Universe beyond.
The two of you (and the Mule) follow the upstream course of the narrow river.
The river seated in a deep ravine. A ravine that cuts hard across the Scablands, wounding the rock. A serpentine devil rampaging the flat plateau. Until finally merging with the horizon of the distant oblivion that is the Wild Country.
The ravine that bifurcates reality, but not Bivalvia.
And now, the moribund sun has crawled down the sky to twilight.
And you and the woman resume your trek, your quest, under a canopy of a million stars that shower down judgement on you both.
And the Mule.
As the east grows light with the coming day, you and the woman settle under a grove of trees adjacent to the river.
You spread a sheltering tarp under an almost sheltering sky. Affix with strong ropes the corners of the tarp to the knotted river trees.
The two of you chew on dried meat. Drink the cold water from the river.
And the Mule?
Eased from the weight of the provisions, the Mule wanders off.
And later when the not-so-moribund and resurrected sun climbs up from behind the sawtooth mountains, she asks: Are we getting close?
You spread the ancient map. Consult the crystal compass.
Yes.
And both of you hold fast to this.
The Mule offers no comment.
You are under the tree of your childhood.
Above you, hard and green unripe apples hang on branches.
Golden sunshine rains down through the tangle of branches and verdant leaves.
You are supine.
The cool ground accepts your body.
Above you, the sun plays in the tree, caresses the fruit.
You are at peace.
You hear a voice, calling your name.
A branch snaps…
The dream leaves you.
Late afternoon.
You sit up.
The woman on her side, beside you and asleep.
One of the tarp’s corners has broken free from its secure-ments.
That’s what awoke you.
Pulled you out from under the apple tree.
Pulled you from Eden.
Or something approaching it.
But what do I know?
You’d told her you could get her into Wild Country. Up into those distant high mountains that beckon with each new day.
How much further? (Or is it “farther”? I never remember, but you know me.)
And what of the woman?
When you witnessed her nude, bathing in the river. Her bare back tanned bronze. Bronze like the miles of late-summer prairie grass you’d walk through once upon a time when you were young.
But what do I know?
And all the while the Mule wades near in the shallows of the river.
She’s awake.
You look at her, the late-afternoon sun on her face. Her eyes. The sun casting shadows on her face.
We need to climb out of the ravine. Need a look. For bearings.
She nods. I’m coming with you.
You look down. Nod. Okay.
You both climb up the ravine and away from the river. The river that has kept you both alive for a week.
The Mule protests the steepness of the ravine.
On the edge of the ravine, you look: out ahead, a green band. Snow capped mountains in the not so far away.
We’re close. You pause. And the airship?
She smiles. You’re doubting me? The airship will be there.
Perhaps you should doubt her.
The Mule looks away.
Time passes.
You decide to travel by day. Over the Mule’s protestations.
Until, as if surmounting a Dostoevsky Dream-Wall, the two of you exit the Scablands.
Just like that.
You now follow the rise of the land into the Wild Country’s foothills.
Leave the rock and the lesser god behind.
The Mule in tow.
Uncomplaining.
You enter a verdant forest. Running water nearby.
Finally, you make camp under the afternoon shadow of the tall mountains. A cool fresh breeze washes over the camp. Over the two of you. Over the Mule.
The afternoon is growing late.
The Mule is growing impatient.
You relieve the Mule’s burden.
You and the woman fish in the cold mountain river that flows by the camp site.
Grill the fillets over the coals on green sticks of pine.
Dine on them.
The Mule grazes.
And the world is right again, until…
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