Walking the Ruins

Horses, and a look into water

In the morning, I step out of the building where I spent the night. The sun is already high in the eastern sky. I am usually an early riser, and I wonder if Kevin's firewater has left permanent damage in my sleep pattern.

The column of smoke is where it was yesterday, still visible. Today I will learn what it is. No bear will be able to stop me, nor the dark clouds approaching from the west.

I quickly pack my things and descend the slope into the valley. Having reached its flat bottom, I set out due southeast.

The forest is dense until I reach a strangely elongated clearing that cuts through the woods. Overgrown crash barriers along its edges show that this must have been a highway once. Its surface is overgrown by grass and small shrubs.

At an arrow-shot's distance, a group of animals are grazing. I first think they are deer, but then I recognize them: they are horses, a herd of at least ten. They are compact, light brown animals, their manes and tails a dark brown, almost black. One of them neighs and looks at me, and then the herd starts to move and disappears into the forest.

For a moment, I am tempted to follow them. I love horses. It would be wonderful to catch one, break it in, and ride it.

But I'm not here for that. And anyway, how do you break in a horse?

Reluctantly, I continue my southeasterly path, promising myself to come back here some other day.

It is not long until I reach the river. I have to cross it, the source of the smoke is on the other side. It may be twenty meters wide, its wild waves bluish-green, the color of fresh meltwater from the ice and snow in the mountains. The thunder of its waves fills my ears, and cold spray hits my face. Swimming or wading is out of the question.

Things would be easier with the boat. If Steve and Jenny have continued their trip, they have landed on the lake's shore at the other side of the river and don't have to cross it.

For lack of a better idea, I start walking along the riverbank, upstream.

Following a bend of the river, I reach the ruins of a bridge. Its two ends are still standing, on both sides of the water. The part between them is missing. There's no way to pass here.

I walk on.

The dark clouds from the west have swallowed the sun when I reach the next bridge. What's left of it is a rusty arch spanning the water like the bow of a giant goddess. There used to be a second arch, running parallel to the first one, but its central section has collapsed. The actual road that must have been suspended between them has disappeared as well.

I approach the end of the arch on this side of the river. My eyes follow its slim curve up to its highest point, many meters over the wild waters. It is about one foot wide.

Don't even think of crossing it, I tell myself. That's a bad idea.

I rest my weight on my spear, tired from hiking the valley. I look upriver, in the vain hope to see a miraculously intact, stable and safe bridge welcoming the exhausted traveler. But I only see the remains of some buildings at the riverside. The closest one, a gas station, carries a heron's nest on its roof. One of the animals stands in it, looking out at the river in a silent vigil. A guardian of this kingdom of nature.

I shiver. It is much cooler now that the clouds have covered the sun.

Involuntarily, my eyes return to the arch before me. It's teasing me, challenging me to dare it.

The upper surface of the arch is flat. Carefully, I place one, then both of my feet on the rusty metal, testing its strength. It seems perfectly solid, its rough, corroded surface providing good traction.

Slowly, I start walking along it, step by step, ascending its slope. I use my spear for balance, holding it horizontally, like a tightrope artist.

Soon, I find myself over water. I quickly gain height. I did not expect the water to be so far below me. I look down at the waves, which chase each other on their way under the bridge, from the left to the right. My eyes follow their quick movement.

I lose my balance.

I fall to my knees and grip the edges of the arch with both hands. My spear tumbles down, and I helplessly watch it disappear in the bluish-green water.

I remain motionless, my hands gripping the metal like a pair of vices. Suddenly, I remember an image of my father, waving his arm at me from the waves of the sea, centuries ago. The waving was a desperate one.

Blood oozes between the fingers of my right hand. The metal I am gripping has cut my skin.

A cold gust of wind descends from the mountains, and the arch starts to vibrate below me. The metal makes a strangely human, groaning noise, like a sound of utter exhaustion. Suddenly, I feel as if I were standing beside me, floating in midair, watching my body, as it holds tight to the arch, like a strangely thin ladybug climbing a blade of grass. And I wonder if the arch has waited all those decades, obdurately, only to give in to the call of gravity today. Will it now finally yield, letting itself fall into the impatiently waiting waters below it, taking the ladybug with it?

"No!" I think I just said this aloud. I find myself back in my body, my gaze directed at the metal in front of me. Consciously, meticulously and systematically, I loosen my right hand, releasing the edge. I move it forward to grip the arch again, feeling the pain from the cuts in my fingers. Then I move my right knee, my left hand, and my left knee.

Thus, I am inching my way forward, following the arch.

After some time, I realize that I have crossed its highest point and that the other side is slowly coming closer.

Later, I reach the end of the arch. I let it go. My hands and knees are shaking as I sit down in the grass beside it.

I have reached the other side of the river, the side of the smoke.