No matter how far I walked along the beach, the sun did not move from its place in the sky. It remained just light enough to see. The temperature did not change, no wind blew, and no rain fell from the sky. The clouds shifting and the waves crashing were the only way I had to tell that time was actually moving at all.
I had long ago left the palm tree in the distance, but I had come across nothing else during my walk. I did not know if falling asleep now would send me back where I came from. I didn't want to try, and anyway, I wasn't tired. No matter how far I walked, I felt no exhaustion or any exertion at all. The only reason I wasn't running was because I felt no need to. I felt no boredom or agitation from finding nothing along the beach, only a slight pressure to return to the palm tree, which I resisted. I wasn't sure how much longer I could resist it, though.
There were no seashells, I realized. Nothing that was even vaguely associated with a living thing, except the palm tree and myself.
I wondered if I would become hungry, if I would need to return to the palm tree and attempt to eat a coconut, if there was one. I couldn't remember seeing any. I brushed the idea away -- if walking for hours produced no exhaustion, I doubted I could feel hunger or thirst either.
I kept walking.
I lost track of time as I walked. For a while I tried to count alligators, but soon realized I needed all my concentration to just continue walking. What had begun as a great swath of determination had now shrunk to a single spark, and it continued to fade. I focused on feeding that spark, keeping it alive. It wasn't easy. My mind could tire, unlike my muscles.
The farther I walked, the further away the memory of the fear went. I began wondering if, maybe, whatever I was afraid of wasn't really so bad. Maybe I should go back. I shook my head. No. If it wasn't that bad, I wouldn't have started walking in the first place. I had to trust myself. I had to keep walking.
Why, though? What was walking going to accomplish, really? I had been walking for . . . well, a long time at least, even if I didn't know how long. If I'd seen nothing during that time, why should I expect that would change now? This place was so odd that I half-expected to come across the palm tree again.
But whatever this place it was, it was real. I had to believe that something would happen eventually. I had to, because I had no other option but to return to the palm tree, and I refused to do that. I had to keep moving.
I'm not going back, I told myself firmly. And to cement it, I spoke it aloud.
"I'm not going back," I said.
They were the first words I'd spoken in this place, I realized. The sound of my own voice comforted me. My voice was something I could hold on to, the only sound I'd heard besides lapping waves and stepping feet this whole time. It made me feel real, and it made walking easier. I had made a binding promise to myself, and I was not going to let myself down. For the first time since the palm tree, my determination increased.
"I'm not going back," I said, louder this time. "I will not go back. I'm going to keep moving."
And that's when I saw the building in the distance.
It was made of metal. That's all I saw at first -- a gray metal blob in the distance. For the first time, I started jogging, and the blob grew until I was standing before a great iron fortress. The walls didn't stretch very high -- if I jumped, I could almost reach the top with my outstretched fingers. It wasn't very wide, either, I realized as I circled around it. It seemed maybe the width of a small house. But the walls were made of thick, hammered steel. When I banged my fist on the wall, a low tone reverberated throughout the entire building. It felt menacing, unlike the peaceful, beckoning palm tree.
The fortress felt ominous, but there was no way I was going to leave it behind. The likelihood that I'd find another structure on this beach seemed extremely low.
On one corner of the building, a rectangle stuck out, like an iron doorframe, except that there was no door. No knob, no hinges, just the frame of a door on the wall. I tried pulling at the edges, but the iron held fast. I dug at the sand, but the iron continued unknowably deep into the ground. Finally, I strode right up to the door, drew back my fist, and knocked.
The rectangle of iron slid cooly aside.
YOU ARE READING
Wintersweet
Short StoryA story about a girl, a beach, and a dragon. Haven't updated this since 2016. Don't know if I'll keep working on it or not.