Stuck on the Road

Black pitch was melting in the heat - this was an experimental roadwork that had failed and the main arteries connecting the south to the sea had become tacky and unmanageable. Jon stopped to inspect his horse’s left front shoe to pry out the small balls of tar lodged within them.

He would have to cross the country and leave this impossible path. Abandoned carriages, lying sideways with missing wheels lay hunchback at the side of the sweating roadway. It simply would not do well to continue on like this. He was however loath to leave the sticky highway for the woods: it seemed an impossible choice. Recently there had been talk of scrubbers hiding out there (which they were called, as they lived and hid in the thorny scrub).

Jon paused to contemplate returning home - but he could not bring himself to forsake Zithia - who he felt almost sure would never have left him obligingly - and now, it was his task alone to save her.

He turned his horse sideways and pulled Chester from the tacky track into the mildewy forest that was dank with mouldy slime and cloistered in weeds.

* * *

Several tedious hours later he dismounted in a clearing by a brook. His mottled horse was drinking plentifully. Jon unravelled a knob of cooked meat from a linen pocket.

“Care to share?” came a voice from nowhere. Jon looked around yet could not see where the voice was coming from. Perfectly camouflaged, a very small but portly Friar stepped out of the brush towards him.

“Are ye a Chrystian man?” asked the small Monk to Jon, whose mouth was dry and still managing the salty meat.

Usually if no one is trying to talk with you a slow consumption is satisfying, making the meal more adequate. He grunted and nodded and turned his back to pull on a saddle bag, hoping the midget would go away. But the small Monk took hold of the Chester’s rope and tugged him back from the river.

“You canna take my ride! Get away with you now and leave us, by peace!” he blurted. The day was getting worse, and as it was, Chester was all he had left right now.

“I’m not taking your ride from you,” said the rotund man appearing to be quite offended, and with that he flung the saddle blanket from the horse over Jon’s head and three woodsmen stepped out from the trees to wrap the rope around him and bundle him back over Chester like a sack of turnips.

Through the coarse wool he could still hear voices - a deep callous one said: “Is this the one?”

Jon thought quickly … they had not found his purse as yet … nor had they beaten him. There was still yet a possibility in all of this, he surmised hopefully.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Finding Self - Second Guesses- Azlander Series