On the Beaten Path
by Phil Canalin
The man was a
stranger to the land. Since his wife of
twenty-five years had passed away from illness three years ago, he had taken
many solitary trips from which he derived great pleasure. He arrived that late afternoon and asked for
directions to the small town he longed to visit, a town of simple historical
significance in the backcountry. It was
mid-fall in that part of the world and the rains had not yet begun. He decided to save on expenses, choosing to
walk the small dirt path which would take him directly to the town.
The path ran through
the center of low foothills of an otherwise flat valley, bereft of people and
cottages. Trees were sparse and none of
them very tall. Most of the bushes
scattered about were manzanita and brittle-leafed, a result of the dry summers
he had read about, no doubt. The man’s
plan was to rent a room once he got to the town. He hitched his small travel bag over his left
shoulder, pulled his dark leather hat down firmly and started down the path.
Far off in the
distance the sun had dropped in the sky, just beginning its descent to sunset,
its bright intensity shining in the man’s eyes.
He pulled his hat brim down lower to shield the glare.
After the man had
been walking for quite some time there was still no town in sight. He was not able to recall asking anyone the
actual distance, specifically, and he had mistakenly assumed the walk would be
short. But yet, no fields, no cottages,
no signs of life, only the path he traveled upon. The sun was now setting, final rays of golden
light melting into the horizon. As he
continued on his way the man watched thick fog begin to descend into the
valley. The slithering fog picked up
speed as it rolled across and then down the foothills all around, surrounding
the man in damp, hazy mist. Soon the
swirling fog was so thick the man could see only a few yards in front of him,
but he still felt assured for it was not so dense to cause him to lose sight of
the path he walked upon. The man took a
deep breath, squared his shoulders, and continued forward along the path.
Suddenly the man heard
sounds approaching him. He turned his
head to one side and strained to hear them better. Though the fog muffled the noise a bit, it
sounded like,
“Plop. Shuffle.
Knock.”
“Plop. Shuffle.
Knock.”
And the sounds
were coming towards him slowly along the same path.
“Plop. Shuffle.
Knock.”
The sounds
continued until just ten steps up the path the man could make out a small woman,
trudging all alone towards him. A short
hooded robe was tied about her waist, falling just to her knees. The hood completely covered the woman’s face
but not her long scraggly hair, gray and twisted, which fell well past her
shoulders. As the woman approached the
man ever closer he saw that the dampness of the fog had drenched her robe,
while moisture gathered on the tips of the woman’s long, stringy locks. The woman was hunched over to her left,
leaning over a gnarled spindly cane that she grasped in her left hand,
supporting her weight and helping her walk down the path. She advanced and the man noticed that she
wore a high black boot on her right foot, but her left foot, starting below her
ankle all the way up to mid-shin, was wrapped haphazardly in thick, filthy
gauze, perhaps once clean and white, now dark and gray, the same gray color
that everything else had donned in the fog and gathering dusk. From the hunched woman’s clothing, gray,
unkempt hair and awkward, hobbling gait, the man assumed she was very old.
As the woman continued
to walk ever onward she would step ahead with her booted foot, drag her
bandaged foot forward, then plop her cane forward, ready and steady for the
next step…..and the next. The sounds of
her movement grew louder in the man’s ears the closer the woman came towards
him.
“Plop! Shuffle!
Knock!”
“Plop! Shuffle!
Knock!”
This continued
until the old woman and the man reached each other on the path. The man meant to say something to the woman,
but he hesitated, momentarily taken aback by the old woman’s appearance up
close and the noises she made while walking, so unlike his own long, quiet walk
had been thus far. Then the woman moved
on. And the man moved on.
Shortly, the man
heard new sounds approaching him on the path.
It was a bit darker now and fog still surrounded him, yet in the
stillness the man could hear,
“Klop. Klop.”
“Klop. Klop.”
“Klop. Klop.”
Seven steps ahead
of him along the path the man could now see another woman, once more alone and
coming toward him. After a few steps she
drew near and he observed the woman, quite tall and stately. She wore a high-necked dark dress, with a
stiff, tight-fitting bodice and dark cuffs at the end of each long sleeve. The bottom of the dress had a full circling
hem of dark, frilly lace. The woman’s
hair was bright, flaming red, braided and clipped in tight coils on either side
of her head, although she maintained long straight bangs, so straight and long
they draped down over the woman’s forehead and eyes, covering the top half of
her face. Her hair shimmered in the
final smattering of dusk, the gleaming locks bursting through the twirling,
smoky fog. As she came closer the man saw
that she wore stodgy black clogs on both feet and the clogs had heavy, dark
platform soles. The woman kept a steady,
serious look on her face and held herself stiffly, tall and erect as she neared
the man in quick, formal strides. From
the tall woman’s clothing, styled hair and professional strut, the man assumed
she was of middle age.
As the woman moved
ever forward she stepped loudly and lively in her thick, heavy clogs. Ready, step and step. Ready, step and step.
“Klop! Klop!”
“Klop! Klop!”
The sounds of her
movement forward continued until the stately woman and the man reached each
other on the path. Again, the man was
about to say something to the middle-aged woman, but her stoic countenance and
serious demeanor gave him pause and his voice caught. The moment lapsed. Then the woman tread passed him. And the man tread passed her.
Very soon the man
began to hear different sounds as he continued down the path,
“Slap. Scrape.
Slap.”
“Slap. Scrape.
Slap.”
“Slap. Scrape.
Slap.”
What could that be,
he wondered? And just five short steps
later, in the almost completely faded dusk and swirling dancing fog the man spied
a petite, youthful woman, nubile and athletic, just a few feet from him. She quickly drew closer and the man, perhaps
wistfully recounting his own younger days of physical strength and attractions,
envisioned about the young lass a healthy, shining glow of spritely
exuberance. In the darkening gloom and
damp foggy weather she wore only tight, ragged, cut-off jean shorts and a
simple dark t-shirt, trimmed partially around the waist, exposing her small
dimpled belly-button. As she came even
closer the man saw that the young lady had merely thin, rubber-soled flip-flops
on her feet, as if she were out for a stroll on a warm sandy strip of beach and
not walking down a dark, wet dirt path running through the center of the low
foothills of a flat valley, away from a town….some town….yes, a town that the
man had once longed to visit but seemed to have lost his focus on and couldn’t
recall at that moment why he had ever wanted to in the first place.
As the young woman
continued onward she stepped lightly and girlishly in her flip-flopped feet,
briefly adding a skip between steps in her overt enthusiasm. Flip went her left flip-flop, then a quick
skip, then flop went her right flip-flop.
Flip went her left flip-flop, then a quick skip, then flop went her
right flip-flop. The sound her movements
made were,
“Slap. Scrape.
Slap.”
“Slap.
Scrape. Slap.”
In this manner the
nubile young lady moved quickly ever-so closer to the man in her flip-flops and
too short shorts, her belly button dancing like a cute, enticing firefly in the
night air and her hair swirling, twirling like a dream, the wet fog having no
effect against the wispy, luscious blonde tendrils. Taking the sight of this in, the man found
the young woman very beautiful and assumed her to unwed.
They continued on
until the beautiful, young woman and the older man reached each other on the
path. The man experienced a streaming
rush of hot emotion gush down his body and he was momentarily surprised and
embarrassed by his older body’s reaction, so much so that he could not produce
even a whimper of sound. Then the young
woman stepped passed him. And the man stepped
passed her.
The man made just
two steps further down the dirt path.
The night was full on gloom now, too dark for the fog to be seen, although
the man still felt the moist air eddying and whirling and churning about
him. He knew he was still on the path,
but now he was confused and a little scared in the dark of night, body and
clothes completely soggy, no longer certain he was heading towards a town at
all, out in a backcountry he knew very, very little about, except what he read
about in a book….so long, so long ago, he mused.
In his musing, the
distracted man did not hear, at his feet, soft and uneven light footfalls,
which sounded,
“Step…..crunch…..step-step…..crunch-step.”
“Crunch. Crunch.
Step…..step-step.”
By then night had
certainly fallen. Suddenly the man tripped
and almost toppled on top of a toddler. In
one hand the toddler was grasping the hand of another little girl, slightly
older, but young nevertheless. In
tripping, the man’s body bent low over the two of them and being so close he could
make them out clearly in the dark. He
saw that the toddler had dark raven’s hair cut in short pageboy style, wearing
a simple black onesie and small, teeny black cowboy boots with dark-red
curly-cue design stitching. How cute
this young child is, the man thought.
The young girl clutching the toddler’s hand wore a zipped up, dark
hoodie, the hood thrown back to also reveal short, raven-black curls. The man regained his balance and, gathering
his resolve, stood and turned to continue his journey down the dark path.
He needn’t be so
jittery, he tried to convince himself. In
this strange place on this strange path, all he had to do was place one foot
forward, followed by the other foot.
Then one foot forward, followed by the other foot. Just like that, over and over again, until he
got there…..to the town! Until he got to
the town!
But as the man
moved one step beyond the toddler and young girl, he heard the young girl scoff
rather loudly, “How sad to come upon a man walking on a country path, wet dirt,
no less, in the pitch black of night, in a damp and dank fog, and the poor,
worthless stranger, whoever he thinks he is, can’t even take a moment to say
hello, or bother to wave a greeting, or even lend a hand to help a little baby
toddler and her sister, wandering out together on that same muddy road, in the darkness
of night and thick cruel fog. My baby sis
and me, we say: ‘Go piss yourself, old man!’”
Upon hearing the
rude comment the man stopped.
He tried so hard,
but he couldn’t say hello or anything else for that matter. The hobbled, old woman had slit his throat as
she passed.
He attempted with
all his might, but he couldn’t wave hello or any other kind of greeting. The stately, serious middle-aged woman had
chopped off his right arm as she had tread by him.
And, even if he
wanted to, he couldn’t lend a hand to the baby toddler and her sister. The nubile, beautiful young woman had neatly
and completely sliced off his left hand.
The man thought he
might actually piss himself..…but he discovered he couldn’t even do that.
Instead, the man,
a visitor to that land, a stranger in that backcountry, hiking through the dark
night and dank fog, on a dirt path that ran through the center of low foothills
of an otherwise flat valley, which would have taken him directly to a town,
keeled and pitched forward, dead as dead.
“Come, baby sis,”
the young girl said, pulling strongly to move her young toddling sister along. “And do please throw those disgusting castrations
away. We’ve got to get moving…..you know
how curmudgeonly damn witches can get when they are late for supper!”
“Step…..crunch…..step-step…..crunch-step.”
“Crunch. Crunch.
Step…..step-step.”
