walking in the wilderness

Above me space is a dark burgundy bruise, framed by even darker dripping leaves. The leaves are attached to trees that are darker still: darker, even, than space. They are great shadows that line my path.

            Ahead of me there is a glow. It is turgid and fluid. I have been walking for a very long time down this dark path just to see what is at the end. I feel very old. Each step I take leads me closer, I am so very tired. I hope this is the end.

            Out I step. Out of this dripping forest path and into a clearing. That ephemeral glow came from a gurgling fountain seemingly illuminated from within. Above me is a great big silver moon. I do not remember seeing the moon in a very long time. I stare at it for many moments, lost in reverie.

            “Rest and drink,” his voice, coming from the other side of the fountain, startles me out of my moonlit dream. A man shuffles into view. The fountain’s light illuminates his face. I must describe him now, but I am at a loss, his face has no features to identify him by. No scars that show him as a fighter. His eyes are neither playful, nor wise, nor sad. He is neither tall nor short, nor fat nor thin. He is wrapped in a blanket, but I suspect he is neither lithe, nor strong, nor crippled. But I must describe him, and all that I can call him is: Old.  

            “What is this place?” I ask. “Is this the end?”

            “Ha!” he exclaims “is this the end? No. this is Freedom.”

            “This is freedom? But I have travelled so long, and this is the end? My journey was only a waste!”

            “Ha!” the old man laughs at me again, like he knows something I don’t. As if, somehow, he is better than me. I do not like this old man. “Look around you!” he continues, as if I could be so ignorant. “This Place is Freedom. Ha Ha.”

            I look around at the perimeter of the clearing. There are hundreds of gates, each with a path leading somewhere beyond the thresholds. “what is this place?” I ask again.

            “I told you, this place is Freedom.” He openly sneers at me now. I do not like this Old man. “Look into the pool, look at yourself, tell me: what do you see?”

            I stand over the pool looking into the glowing water, I see myself and I must describe myself now. Out loud: “my face has no features. No scars that show me as a fighter. My eyes are neither playful, nor wise, nor sad. I am neither tall nor short, nor fat nor thin. I am not beautiful or ugly or unique. I am nothing in particular. Save maybe… young?”

            “Ha! And you thought your journey was long. Perhaps you even thought yourself Old and Wise. Ha. That dark sky above you, it is not your Dusk, it is your Dawn! And this place is Freedom. You have only Just begun.” And the old man breaks out in a spurt of laughter.

            “Where do these paths lead?” I ask. I feel silly, ignorant, for asking this Old man so many questions.

            His laughs have turned to sputtering coughs now, and I wait, unsympathetically, until he recovers.

            “Where do these paths lead?” I ask again.

            “Here and there.”

            “What kind of answer is that?”

            “Here and there. It is as good an answer as any. Some lead to happiness, some lead to glory, some, most, lead to nothing much at all.”

            “So you have walked these paths?” I ask, but I receive no reply. I see that I am not likely to get a reply from this silly old man so I walk the perimeter of the clearing, examining the gates.

One gate is cut from stone. It is solid and stately. Script is etched into the top. And the path beyond it is wide and smooth.

One gate is narrow but masterly built. There is beauty in its construction. The path beyond appears narrow, and it slopes ever upward.

One gate is made of lumber. It is not beautiful, or unique, or strange, like some of the others. But it seems solid enough and the path beyond it seems a wide as any other.

One gate is all twisted weeds with star shaped leaves and peppery smoke drifts from the top of the threshold.

There are many gates, some pretty, some ugly, some intricate and some simple. I have walked edge of the clearing entire, before I see it: A gate tucked in the shadows, black, hidden and sinister.

I push aside a branch or two to examine this gate closer. The gate is unlike another, rich, yet brutal in design, black metal with burnished gold filigree along its edge. This gate, unlike the others, has a door, a door of thick black wood, wrapped in black iron. A complicated mechanism snakes all over the door, like so many perfect spider webs. It seems that this gate is the richest of all gates. But it is a subtle richness, not gaudy, or obvious. It is a richness tainted by darkness. I reach for the lock.

“No Stop, you mustn’t”

“What?”

“Do not go down that path, once you enter you can never return. That gate leads to only hatred and misery.”

“So you have been down these trails.” I say, exulted. But the old man sighs, suddenly he appears very tired, like he has just succumbed to a great weigh that has been on his shoulders for a very long time.

“I have been down many, yes.”

“Then where do they all lead?” I demand

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?”

“I don’t know. I have never been to the end of any of them.”

“How far have you gone?”

“Only a few steps down some. Down others, a few more. But never far enough.”

“Why not? Why have you not chosen a path?”

“Because I keep coming back to Freedom. When I am here I could be anything. I could be anyone!”

At that moment a giant horse burst through one of the gates. Atop this charger is a tiny woman. Yet somehow she oozes authority in waves. “I see you are still here, Nobody!” she exclaims. Her voice is, clear like a trumpet in the morning. “And who is this?”

“A new traveler just graduated from the first path.” The old man, Nobody, replies.

She addresses me now: “Do not listen to this old codger, he knows nothing. He is nothing.”

“Where do these trails lead?” I ask.

“Here and there. The important thing is to choose one and go as far as you can. But don’t think too long, or you will end up like Nobody here: trapped by Freedom and therefore… irrelevant” And with that she was on her way, magnificent in her certainty, charging her horse up a gate gilded in gold and emeralds.

A part of me wanted to ask more questions, ask for advice. But, deep down I knew that was futile. I had to act.

“She is wrong you know.” Says Nobody. “I am something, I could be anything.”

“You are nothing, you have done nothing!”

“I could be anything, I could be anyone!”

But I was gone, through the black gate. The last thing I heard Nobody say was “No, you mustn’t, you mustn’t choose that path.” He was crying now, and I thought to myself: Better to do something that leads to hate and misery, than to nothing at all.