From Night On: Pathways

Chapters 25-26

Chapter 25:

Out of the Brush and Into the Frying Pan

(Les)

We wandered over what felt like rolling hills until I felt the soft give of sand under my feet. The sounds of the roaring waves were soft and faint until we made it over the first dune, which separated us from the sea. The hot, salty breeze instantly clung to my skin and hair. "Over there," John said, "I see a boat and some," he paused for a moment to think of how to describe what he was seeing, "fish-men."

"Fish-men?" I was confused. "Why would fish-men need a boat?"

"I don't know," John answered. "Let's hold back and return to the bush, for now."

"But what if they're supposed to help us?" I asked.

"Not likely, mate," John said. "Can't you smell that?"

I lifted my nose to the air. "Are they having a...," my own words were interrupted by my realization. "They're cooking someone, aren't they?" is said, a mixture of ironic disappointment in my voice.

"Yeah," John said, "big and fat fella."

"Okay, let's fall back," I said as I crouched and turned to retreat.

Among the trees, John made sure we were a safe distance before he made camp to let me rest.

Although a potential enemy was barring our path forward, I felt calmer than before, more at ease. Calm enough, actually, to attempt meditations. John was, I assumed, blissfully doing either the same thing or listening to the world. I could feel the warmth of the fire on my face and ate the scraps of hot food John handed me. For at least an hour we enjoyed the crackle of the fire and the sounds of the brush as I let my inner dialogue quiet. The world around me came into focus: the sounds clearer, the smells sharper, and the winds caressed my face like gentle fingers running along my cheeks and jawline.

"Alright," John said, breaking the moment's peace, "there's nothing I can do from here for you. There's nothing anyone can do for you, 'cept for Anjea."

"Who is Anjea?" I asked.

"She's the mother," he answered. "It's through her womb that we get reborn."

"Through her womb?" I was puzzled. "Why weren't you reborn?"

"She comes to you in your resting place," he answered. "Because I died with my soul far away, I wasn't there for her to gather."

"What does that mean for me?" I asked. "I'm still alive."

"Don't know, mate," he answered. "That's the only way I know she come saround."

We both sat in silence, mulling over this information and what we might do with it. At least, I was. I still have no idea what John was thinking about. In any case, it didn't seem like the right time to take any action. We were near a boat to continue our journey, but the fish-men were a more immediate concern.

"What kind of fish-men were they?" I asked, my mind getting back around to the more pressing issue.

"Kind?" John scoffed. "There are different kinds?"

"What I meant was: what do they look like?" I clarified.

"What part of 'fish-men' is unclear?" he asked.

"The part that's fish and the part that's man," I answered with a chuckle. "They could be man-fish, for all I know, so what do they look like? Is the upper half a fish? Are they men, flopping around with fish tails? Are they a 90's ska band singing Sell Out?"