THE WINDING PATH

They walked through the forest. They followed the path unerringly, though sometimes it seemed to vanish
completely behind trees, blocked by the verdant green undergrowth. They didn’t talk much, but even their
silence was companionable. In the places where the path branched, they took one branch or the other,
without pausing. You would think that they knew exactly where they were going, when in fact, they didn’t
have a clue.

They were an odd couple.

A young tall man, his long dark hair dappled with white despite his years, carrying a cane carved with
strange images, odd faces peeping out the woodgrain. He wore a dapper long coat, more suited for a fancy
outing in the city than a stroll in the woods. When he moved, the chains of his many pocket watches jingled
and glittered in the sunlight sieving through the foliage.

His companion was in many ways his polar opposite. Her purple hair was short and tousled, with leaves
stuck on it. She wore a comfortable (although hardly presentable) hooded coat of the same purple, stained
with mud and blueberries. Small army of butterflies followed in her wake, their wings making the dry
rustling sound of old paper.

Finally, they reached the edge of the forest and halted. The path continued over a clearing, to a small
bridge crossing a river hardly worth the name. It climbed over small hills, widening and connecting to other
paths, until it could truly be called a road. In the distance, they could see the walls of a small town. The
melancholy sound of a cow bell was carried by the wind.

“Do you think we’re there yet?” he asked, looking at the village.

“We’re definitely somewhere,” she answered, “But I don’t think this is ‘there’ yet, no.”

He sighed, “I think you’re right. It just looks so… so normal here. We’d never fit in.”

“And look at the path! It’s all straight and maintained. I bet everyone comes through here,” she said with
resignation.

They stood there for a while, the girl frowning and looking at the path, the man absent mindedly poking
holes into the dirt with his cane. Finally, the man lit his pipe, and stared at the village through the puffs of
smoke.

“Well, we can’t stay here. We have to decide which way to go,” he said.

“How? There is only one way, unless we want to turn back,” she said, though she knew they’d never do
that.

The silence fell again, as they both thought of the road that had brought them here. The horrible, hard,
dead-end riddled road they had travelled for ten years. Going back was unthinkable. Only in the past few
years, they had gotten out of the wildlands, to the temperate forests of South, where even the bad storms
could be weathered without much trouble.
….

They had made a deal you see, long time before they even began their journey. They had met in a waking
dream, in the most unlikely of places, in the flying cities of Fable and Mystery. They had seen each other as
they truly were, not how the world wanted them to look, and it had been like looking into a mirror, the
reflection more beautiful than the truth.

They had shared that dream, and their souls. They had offered what was most valuable to them, to the
other, without a price. They had asked the other to come with them, to follow that bright glimpse of
dreamlight, until they found it in reality.

And perhaps through chance, perhaps through machinations of the fate, on that moment, the universe
took notice. They hadn’t meant to do it, but they felt their fates align as the deal was struck, and their boon
granted. For as long as they shared the same dream, and followed it without ever questioning, ever giving
up, they could do so together. Should they falter, should they settle for less than their hearts desire, should
they ever stray from the winding path, they would lose it all. Their dream, each other, their love.

But now it seemed that they were on the end of their journey, for there was nothing left to follow. Yet they
had not found what they had set out for.

….

The pipe had long since burned out, when they spoke again, only its slight smell of pine and cinnamon
lingered in the air. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the clearing.

“Perhaps we could go to the village and ask if they have heard of the flying citadels?” she asked.

He shook his head “They’d either think we’re crazy, like everyone we’ve asked from before. Or they’d give
us wrong directions, for their dreamlight is different from ours.”

“What else can we try though?”

“How should I know? If we stay, we lose, if we go, we lose!” he snapped, scaring the butterflies to dash out
of his reach.

She bit her lip thoughtfully, “No. No, that can’t be it. There’s always a way, there’s always been a way.”

She marched determinedly to the bridge. He followed her, and looked at the unstable contraption. The
small brook bubbled and splattered under it, spraying the moss covered planks wet and slick. It had looked
sturdier and more inviting from the distance.

“This is a test. It has to be,” she said and pointed at the village, “First it tried our resolve by all that is hard,
yet we did not break. Now it is trying to offer us an easy ending. What it couldn’t get by force, it is now
trying by cunning!”

He squinted his eyes, and nodded thoughtfully, “I think you’re right. It is trying to give us what most people
want, a happy ending where nothing ever changes. Of course, we both know that that is nothing but a slow
death.”
He took his coat off, and folded it neatly on the ground, placing his cane over it. “Gimme a hand with this,”
he said, and grabbed the left handrail of the rickety bridge. She took hold of the other one, and together
they pushed sideways. The bridge wobbled, but didn’t give way. They pushed again, their boots digging into
the soft earth. With an audible plop, the support beams pulled out, and the bridge tilted down, towards the
current.

As they watched, the bridge – now supported only on the far side – slowly came loose and fell into the
river. It turned sideways with an odd sense of purpose, and began to float downstream.

Behind the stream, the hillsides shimmered as through a heat haze. When the view settled again, it was the
same as before, yet subtly different. The colors were more muted, the grass on the fields an unhealthy
shade of brown. The walls of the town were crumbled in places, and the roofs peeking over the walls were
on odd angles. They realized that other than the cow bell, now ringing suspiciously often and in even
tempo, there were no sounds coming from the town or the fields.

“You gotta try harder next time, jackass!” she shouted over the river, while he calmly donned his coat
again.

He looked at her and smiled. “Any idea where to go next?”

She grinned back at him, “Not the slightest!”

He held out his hand, which she took eagerly. They stepped without hesitation over the edge of the river.
Under them the air wavered and shimmered, and solidified. They walked on the trail made of air and
moonlight and wishful thinking, rising higher and higher as they went.

Up ahead, in the clouds, strange and haunting shapes took form, banners flying on the spires of cities called
Fable and Mystery.