The flat, dusty, brown serpent stretched out in front of him. Paris raised his eyes from his boots and gazed at a point on the horizon. At this juncture, the road was swallowed by a slowly descending, molten red-orange, half-circle that bravely fought off the impending darkness. The sky was swept with vivid hues of lavender, pink tulip, deep red rose, rich blue iris, orange tiger lily, and bright yellow marigold.
Paris had put many miles at his heels, and with the road being the only visible landmark in sight, he knew that he had many more to travel. As he continued his walk, the daylight slowly diminished as the heavy hand of darkness pressed upon the sun. When barely a flicker of sunlight singed the back of the serpent before him, Paris slowed his pace to a stroll, and set to gathering kindling from the brush on the sides of the road.
Paris was weary. His supplies were dwindling and his water-skin was dangerously close to becoming a leathery, purposeless, vessel. But he would press on the next day, and the one after that. Until then, he needed rest. When he felt his supply of kindling sufficient, he delicately placed the gathered bundle on a flat piece of ground a short distance from the road. He canvassed the surrounding area in a spiral fashion, gathering up suitable rocks which he arranged in a ring around the bundle of twigs and branches. After several failed attempts, the sparks from the flint set successfully started the weak flames that would consume the bundle of kindling Paris had collected. The beacon popped and crackled before him, warmed his skin, and projected a small dome of yellow and orange light in the night. Lulled by the darkness and warmth of the fire, his weariness intensified. Paris unrolled his thin blanket and laid it out near the fire. Paris bunched up his pack, and upon it, laid his tired head. He listened to the sporadic sounds of the crackling fire, and the strange hoots and chirps of creatures somewhere in the darkness. He felt the occasional light draft on his cheeks. He ruminated on what the next day might bring, and fretted over his meager supplies. And after some time, Paris drifted off to sleep.
His dreams were fraught with distress, and the nightmares gnawed at restfulness. Though upon waking, he couldn’t pinpoint what they were, nor recall a single frame or word from any of his subconscious explorations. He simply felt unsettled. What should have given him energy for his journey instead left him irritable, disturbed, and curiously hungry. Instead of waking by slowly opening his eyes into the cool, blue and purple shades of pre-dawn serenity, Paris found himself shaken jarringly into wakefulness by his troublesome dreams,and staring over a burnt out fire into a blazing sun.
He slowly gathered up his meager collection of possessions, peeking hopelessly into his pack for scraps of something he could consume for breakfast, but rations were thin, so he quickly abandoned his search. He stood and took a long stretch, joints and muscles aching from his night on the hard ground. He stretched his mouth wide in an excessively long yawn, slung his pack over his shoulder, and began his march down the road.
His travels this day, like so many of those since he left the city, were decidedly uneventful. The road continued towards that same point on the horizon, and the scenery was a precise copy of what he had seen for weeks. Still, he continued his walk. His thoughts wandered back to the city, and he started to question his journey. He thought about the shelter, and the comfortable bed, that he had left behind. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and missed the cool shade of the buildings in the late afternoon. He breathed deeply and absorbed the musky effects of a very long spell on the road, his thoughts going to regular baths and clean clothes. He heard the gurgling and rumbling from his innards, and thought of the market near his abode, that which he visited daily to sate his appetite with fresh produce. His missed conversation, even those short chats with a random passerby or merchant, as he now had none to converse with but the intermittent insect that crossed the road or the bird that disregarded him while passing overhead. He thought about those closer that he had to leave behind, and his heart quivered at the emotional recall. But he knew he had to forge ahead on this journey.
Long, dry, and dusty days passed beneath his feet as Paris continued down the road. His once bold and energetic pace had slowed considerably, and he found himself dragging his worn shoes along the spine of the serpent. His food supplies dwindled to the point of scraps and crumbs. His once soggy, full, leather, water skin was now dry, and cracked, as he squeezed the last drops into his mouth. He shuffled along through the dirt, and began estimating how many days the remnants of his food would allow him to continue to survive. Dangerous thoughts began to swirl around in his head. Strange shadows began to wink into existence at the corners of his vision, and then promptly vanish. Paris began to sense a hovering presence floating behind him on the road, one that was sure had a hood over his face, an oversized agricultural tool in one hand, and an outstretched arm with bony fingers, extended from a dark tattered sleeve.
He continued his heavy, plodding pace, staring weakly into the distance. He stumbled, and went down on his knees, tripped up by the unseen impediment of fatigue. He drug himself to his feet and stared downward, cursing under his breath at the tear in his pants, and momentarily forgetting about his inevitable starvation.
A few more lead-footed miles passed, and Paris saw a strange flickering in the distance. There was no way to properly discern what it was, but he knew that it hadn’t been visible a day ago. He wondered if the cumulative result of hunger, thirst, and weariness was starting to affect his wellbeing, with the first impact being upon his vision. He blinked quickly several times, and the sparking point was still there. He shut his eyes, shook his head back and forth, ignored the red sun flare, and focused on the peculiarity. It hadn’t disappeared.
With a slightly renewed vigor, Paris pushed towards the anomaly. But at the end of the day, he didn’t seem to much closer, and he found himself having to make camp once more, again resting his head on an increasingly uncomfortable pillow.
The next day, he found himself making decent progress, and what was once a shimmering incongruity in the distance began to take shape. What he was seeing was off to the west quite a distance, and looked to be a moderately large grove. The trees looked lush, green, and healthy, causing Paris to wonder how they were so well nourished in such a barren land. Paris knew taking a chance on this oasis, if it had no food or water to offer, would be the death of him. But, he considered what was ahead of him on the road, and realized bypassing this chance would yield the same result. He adjusted his course by stepping off the road, and headed towards the trees.
A half-days walk later, and he approached the grove. As he walked towards the center, he saw several large, grey stones protruding from the soft earth. He looked up at the branches and leaves spread out above him and sighed as he appreciated the blissful relief they provided from the oppressive, persistent, rays of the sun. He sat on one of the boulders for a moment, and rested his aching legs. After this brief respite, he rose and casually wandered around, exploring the area. It didn’t take him long to canvas, as the grove wasn’t as broad as it seemed from a distance. In the rear of the grove, he found what he was so desperately needed.
The placid pool of water was occluded by several large rocks, but as Paris approached, his view over the stones filled him with hope. The shallow pool was filled with crystal clear water that was fed by a slow trickle emanating from a crack in one of the surrounding boulders. Simply laying eyes on the water soothed Paris to the core. When he dipped his hands in, and rinsed the grime from his fingertips, he felt rejuvenated. He cupped his cleansed hand, submersed it in the water, and brought a mouthful to his lips. That one full sip gave life to his cracked lips and dry, pasty tongue. He went back for more. Subsequent sips quenched his throat, sharpened his mind, and improved his faculties. The more he drank, the more he was rehydrated and renewed. When his almost insatiable thirst was slaked, Paris knew his next step was to seek sustenance.
The water alone wouldn’t be enough to propel him forward on his journey. His remaining scraps wouldn’t give him the nourishment to continue for more than a few days, despite finding a water source. He need the energy from food to continue on his journey. Paris wandered around the grove, hoping to find a fruit-bearing tree or edible plant.
Not long into his search, he again, found what he needed.
He wasn’t sure how he had missed it, he attributed the oversight to malnourishment and thirst, resulting in his delirium. Beneath one of the trees he located a cache of worn, but fairly full, travel bags. Admittedly, the coloration of the packs did blend in with the tone of the bark of the tree. But Paris chided himself for not seeing them as he circled the area.
Nonetheless, there they were, and they were stocked, or appeared so. He cautiously approached the collection, taking a furtive glance to the left, and then the right, before kneeling down at the base of the tree, and taking a bag in his hand. To his surprise, it was actually quite heavy. When he opened it, all manner of victuals spilled out. He dug furiously, and hungrily through the pack, liberating some food supplies, and finding several tools and helpful implements that he could use on his journey.
He silently willed the other packs to be as useful, and proceeded to search through the pile. Each pack varied in its contents, but by the time Paris had searched through the collection, he had a very formidable accrual of food and supplies at his disposal. He surveyed his newfound inventory and knew he had plenty to continue his journey. In fact, he had entirely too much to carry with him.
Now, unexpectedly well stocked, and with a pool of clean, drinkable water close by, Paris decided to stay, and rest, for a while.
The first few days he spent in contended languor. He consumed of the food to nourish his body, and to replenish the deficiencies incurred on his travels. He drank often from the pristine pool, and doused himself with the water to cleanse himself of the dust of his travels. He slept often, and restfully, as his body and soul healed from the rigorousness of the road.
In the middle of the day, after an uncounted number of days of rest, Paris knew, he was ready to leave. The road called to him, his journey beckoned, and his body was fresh, primed, and prepared to continue his journey. He filled his water-skin, and an additional one he found in his scavenging. He stocked his pack completely, and loaded himself with extras, courtesy of a well stitched pack that he found amongst the pile. He snacked on his fortuitously found supply for the remainder of the day, and in the evening, curled up close to a boulder, for his final night of sleep in the oasis.
Paris’s glided along the path through the trees. His pace wasn’t rushed or hurried, nor was it slowed to a stroll. It was the pace of a man whose feet were taking him to a destination, but not too quickly that his senses couldn’t adequately assimilate the pleasing, earthy, sugar-sweet, sap-tinged air that filled the gaps betwixt the roots, trunk, leaves, and eaves. His feet alighted surely but delicately upon the coffee, nut-brown earth. The recently rain softened dirt gave way ever so slightly like a tightly woven plush carpet. He swerved back and forth along the path, each step full of vigor and life, as well as confidence and determination. The sunlight penetrated the great canopy of the expansive forest with its beams shooting down at irregular angles and seemingly unpredictable intervals into the uneven, fuscous, floor of the woods. The serpentine path that Paris navigated, having been liberated of overhanging solar occlusion, was lit by a somewhat hazy, canary-hued, occasionally cloud affected light.
As Paris continued along the trail he kept his eyes forward, scanning for potential dangers, and glanced occasionally at the pathway beneath his soles. His feet had a mind almost of their own, and picked out appropriate locations to touch down, with minimal reassurance from his optics. The occasional rock or elevated root caused minor staggers, but Paris maintained his steady carriage.
The density of the trees that he passed through and by, began to lessen. As he made progress along the trail, like the thinning stands upon an aging mans crown, the thick, close, forestation gave way, step by step, to bright, intense light, shining through the once dark, perpetual woodland. As the gaps between the trees widened, Paris caught glimpses of open space at the fringe of a tree line. Further down the trail, and to the point of a few lonely, frail wisps of trees later, Paris saw a carpeting of green grass, and the intermittent sprout of wildflower.
As his feet drew him to the trails terminus, he slowed, and dragged his feet across the dirt as he soaked in the relief awaiting him where the trees broke. He deeply absorbed the smells of the clean, crisp, fresh spring water, the dew soaked grass, and the hints of clover flowers. His eyes danced with joy at the carpet of soft, verdant, turf, that lead to the gurgling stream at his emergence from the forest. His feet were cushioned by the thin emerald stalks as he removed his travel worn boots and let the cool grass cradle, tickle, and sooth his weary heels.
He sauntered towards the stream, shin-high green grasses folding, bowing, and prostrating before the weight of his anticipatory steps. He reached the stream, a trail of Paris’s foot imprints sprouting strands of grass refocusing on their orientation towards the sun. His feet guided his body down the moderately sloped, wheat colored, grainy-sand bank, where he stopped, and placed his toes in the clean, flowing water.
Paris squatted, and cupped his hands, placing his right hand over his left. He sunk his hand into the stream and filled his tiny hand basin with cool water. Paris brought it to his lips and drank fervently. Repeating the process, over and over, he slaked his thirst from the trek through the forest.
Thoroughly hydrated from satiating the needs of his intensely parched throat, Paris staggered up the short bank , and threw himself into the pliant, viridescent swath. He lay upon his back and soaked in the warming sun rays on his face, and the dewdrops on his back. Paris basked in his bastion of bliss, affording himself the briefest moment of recklessness, by relaxing, and relieving himself of his guards.
Paris closed his eyes and rested.
What caught his senses first, was the smell that swirled into his nostrils, tickled the back of his eyes, and laid their impressions in his mind. He smelled the sweet notes of honeysuckle, vanilla, brown sugar, and dewed nectar. Then, with his eyes still closed, Paris licked his lips and tasted hints of sugared lavender, candied cinnamon, and saffron. These stimuli warmed his senses, and despite the cool bed of grass, beads of perspiration formed at his temples, trickled slowly down his cheeks, and disappeared past his jaw line.
Excited by these spontaneously emergent smells and tastes, Paris willed his eyes open, inclined his upper body, and propped his elbows behind his back for support.
He looked left, and found no source for the delectable scents and tastes. He frowned slightly, and wrinkled his nose, then slowly turned his head to the right. In the distance, across a considerable expanse of shimmering, light seaweed colored grass, a figure slowly glided towards him.
Paris drew his right arm from beneath him, and brought a fist to each eye, rubbing each briefly. He blinked several times, and when the flickering spots of light ceased, he refocused on the figure. It was moving closer, not in a hurried fashion, nor with dilatoriness.
The smells intensified as the figure closed the distance to fifty yards, and Paris began to make out the particulars of the being. It was an incredibly thin, young woman, who moved with the delicate grace of a dancer. The way she swung her arms back and forth, and the way she eased her feet forward, reminded Paris of a small white bird, crossing a pond, wings touching the water ever so slightly with each beat, as its buoyant, light, form glided along effortlessly.
She wore a brilliantly white, short-sleeved, summer appropriate dress. The dress had a conservative v-shaped neck, with ornate lacing. The short sleeves, also fringed with the elaborate lace, barely covered her delicate and slightly bony shoulders. The dress came down beyond her knees and disappeared into the grass that she continued to move through during her approach. The dress did not hide, nor did it accent, the lithe, ballerina body beneath it. Her neckline was like that of a swan, long, thin, delicate, and beautiful. Her oval facial structure was topped by a golden-white head of thick hair, cut in a slightly angular fashion, and whose length ended at her jaw line. Her pale pink lips formed a coin-sized O as she drew within ten yards of Paris, and he took note also, of her small button nose, and slightly sunken cheeks.
Paris didn’t dare move, as she came drew to his side. She stopped several steps from him and Paris glanced down, noticing her bare, alabaster feet. Then, he looked at her face and stared at her eyes. His breath caught in his lungs when he took in their color. They were a shiny, luxuriant, gold. Not a darkened, almost coppery-bronze gold, but a bright sunbeam shade, like that of treasure. Her pupils were wide pools of darkened infinity, and she gazed back at him intensely, neither of them averting for what seemed an eternity.
Then, the unexpected happened, the ivory woman took two more steps, and then stepped over Paris.
The lacing at the bottom of her dress brushed against his face and arms. Paris felt a strange, warming, tingling sensation as this happened and then felt the touched areas chill and become slightly numb. Confused, Paris sat fully up, crossed his arms, and rubbed his arms with his hands.
The woman continued to walk away, and was now ten yards past him.
“Wait!” Paris shouted.
“Please come back.”
At hearing his voice, the figure stopped, and turned her head back over her left shoulder, once again staring deep into Paris’s, with her penetrating, golden eyes.
“Who are you? Why are you walking away? Why won’t you say something?” Paris implored.
The woman turned completely around, opened her left hand in a halting gesture towards him, then turned her hand around and brought her fingertips to her mouth.
She leisurely strolled back towards Paris, and knelt next to him. Paris recoiled slightly as she reached a hand towards him, but allowed her to place her hand in the middle of his chest. Paris acquiesced to the surprising strength of the woman as she pressed his torso back into the grass and to a resting position.
Maintaining her eerie silence, the woman moved her hand from his chest to his shoulder, then down his arm, stopping at his forearm. She turned it so that the inside of his forearm faced the sky, then bent completely down and placed her lips halfway between his elbow and wrist, and kissed his arm.
Paris felt the warmth of her lips upon his skin, and when she pulled back from the strangely placed display of affection, the spot on his forearm pulsed with molten heat. His vision swam momentarily, and he felt drunkenly euphoric. He reset his vision on the precious metal rings in her eyes, as her hand moved down his arm into his hand, where she held tight with a lovers clasp.
With his hand in hers, she gently rose to her feet, and pulled Paris’s arm while she straightened herself. In his mind, Paris knew that he needed to employ his muscles to rise with this woman, but his body seemed to react automatically. As she stood, his body rose with the grip she had on his hand. She held fast, and his entire body began levitating out of his emerald cot.
Suddenly, he had no control of his body. He couldn’t bend his legs, he couldn’t move his arms, he rose vertically, but not of his own power, he was paralyzed. She pulled him out of the grass, into empty air, closer and closer to her gold eyes, those with pools of oblivion at their center.
Paris snapped back to the grove with a muscle twitch and spasm that nearly wrenched his head from his neck. He was suspended several feet in the air by diaphanous webbing that felt as tough as wire. His legs were already completely secured by this restraint, though fortunately, he had some movement of his upper body. All around him, crawling, and constructing, weaving and cinching, were palm sized creatures.
They mostly resembled spiders, but if so, they were a curious type of arachnid. These creatures had four spindly legs, instead of six or eight. The legs connected to an oblong body that was a shifting blend of milky white, and pale yellow. At one end of the body was a small circular head, a sinister looking mouth featuring two glinting fangs, and four bright gold eyes.
Paris panicked.
His thoughts went back to the pile of supplies that he had found. He had thought it curious that so many packs were left in the grove, now he knew what had happened. His fortune wasn’t the result of generous passers-through, it was because of the misfortune of unwary travelers. His recently stocked bags might soon be returned to that pile.
Paris swung his arms towards the creatures that crawled on him, knocking several to the ground and sending others flying. He grabbed at the webbing that was wrapped around his legs and tore chunks out of the covering. He pulled, and ripped, and parted the almost completed prison. Paris raged against his imminent doom. He twisted, and flung himself around his suspended coffin. Finally, he managed to break free, and with a resounding thud, Paris crashed to the ground.
Several of the odd, gold-eyed creatures twitched and jolted spasmodically on, and near the spot that he crashed. Paris rolled away from the remains of his airborne gaol, eyeing the wounded things warily. Though curiosity burned in his mind, he kept a distance from the creepy monstrosities. When he regained his feet, he saw a ring of shimmering, crystalline arachnids fanning out before him. They waited motionlessly, eyeing him ravenously with their golden optics. Paris knew without looking, that there were even more behind him.
He gathered up the fully loaded bags, in which the creatures had taken no interest. Paris knew that he had to flee. Though groggy from his recent abrupt recall from slumber, the adrenaline spike more than overcame any mental of physical faltering.
He quickly scanned for the exit to the oasis, and upon finding it, propelled himself forward. He ignored the gold-flecked stares and focused on his footing, ensuring that no random rock or root would cause a catastrophic fall, dooming him to the hungry, treasure-eyed, tarantulas that he had so narrowly just escaped.
Paris crossed the grove, and reached the pathway towards the lazy brown serpent. He breathed a deep sigh of relief at his fortune, both for finding food and supplies which would allow him to continue his journey, and averting that which would end his journey forever. He took one last look over his shoulder at the seemingly peaceful respite that housed those dangerous horrors, and marched out of the oasis, oblivious to the crimson and purple mark upon his forearm.