Never

A very short story

Photo by mali maeder from Pexels

The stream beside him was still little more than a break in the dense tall grass and though the trickle of the mountain run-off was a counterpoint to the rhythm of his boots trudging the muddy path, its lack of visibility denied him any sense of progress. The incline was now very slight as he made his way towards the mouth of the glacial valley and though progress was safe and easy it was much less entertaining than the scramble down the scree and traverse of the thin ledge that was the only plausible way of dropping into the valley without being irrationally foolhardy.

The ridge had a scree on each side as if the mountain were guarding the path between its peaks so that only those who followed the permitted route would be allowed to enter and exit in safety. The punishment for deviation was either danger or exile. As dangerous and unwelcoming as the ridge felt with its narrow path and steep sides, the hazards were plain and obvious. If there were a message it would have been that those who feared walking the ridge had no right to be on the mountain.

He was reminded of a dream he’d had as a child where he was on a winding country road with his sister. As dreams do, the scenario suddenly changed, and he found himself alone, crying out for the sister who had apparently deserted him. The road that was incidental to his journey now became a prison without bars but instead, held him captive to a never ending journey, a world in which he was at the centre and would never reach the periphery. The journey he was now on had a fixed end point but as he walked it became apparent its end was further than he was comfortable with.

He would eventually arrive at his destination, but not on that day.