Aeolia

22: Canvas Valley

The way back from a place always felt quicker—and the journey back across the Bridge to Infinity was no exception. The woman and songbird had reached the opposite end within what seemed like a single day.

     Their trek through the Shrouded Lands, among the quaking aspens and red leaves dewed in mist, took a couple days. After hours of unchanging forest, Ravine and Spire began to become weary of this same path. One morning, the bird was struck by an idea, and he chirped a sweet inquiry of sun rays.

     "Yes, let's dip south," the woman agreed.

     So down they traveled, through a forest that slowly morphed into grass. Another meadow was up ahead, they noted. The land soon began to stoop drastically, and before long they had entered a valley shuttered in by tall peaks blooming with wildflowers.

     As nightfall crept in, the pair's eyesight dimmed, and the landscape began to grow pale. Ravine blinked through saturated lashes. "I'm exhausted."

     Spire sung a tune of acquiescence, and they settled into a colorless sleep. The night's shades deepened.

     The next sunrise brought reinvigorated gazes, but the terrain didn't appear any rosier than it had the previous evening.

     The bird figured they must be reaching the end of the world, where colors ceased to exist. Upon thinking this, he felt something stir through his feathers.

     By mid-afternoon, when the sunlight was waning, just a little—flicking deep gold flecks across the whitened grass—the woman stared at the horizon, wondering how far east they must move until they found their haven. The land offered no answer.

     They continued for a day more, tirelessly moving forward. When the sun had begun to yawn again, the woman realized with a start that nothing stretched before them. Nothing. Pristine untouched ivory. The grass had thinned so much without them noticing, that now there was none. Under their feet was a clean soft canvas, glowing faintly under the coming night.

     "Look," Ravine whispered.

     The bird twittered.

     "Yes, it's absolutely lovely," the woman agreed.

     Spire flapped in circles, then screed without warning. A string of notes pointed to the west, and the woman gasped. Dotting the ground behind them was an array of multicolored footprints, pattering back as far as they could see—human and bird tracks, beginning as black and shifting to red, green, blue, and all other tones of the rainbow.

     The songbird whistled with joy and swooped to the ground, his wings brushing strikes of turquoise on the white. He nodded his head to the most recent prints—vibrant light purple. The woman gasped. "Amethyst!"

     Suddenly the valley was flooded in purple light, yawning over their heads. A lavender glow emanated from the sun as its last rays dispersed. Wreathes of violet and plum scarfed the sky in fleets of rolling clouds. And from somewhere—somewhere—from the heart of color itself, Ravine imagined—a song trilled forth, the poignant tune of a searching slate-gray songbird.

     Amethyst and birdsong.

    "We're on the Aeolian train tracks," Ravine said.