The road winds and forks parallel to a three-foot fence line made of heavy stones, one path stopping directly at the stone, the other peeling off beyond. The treeline begins mere yards within, congested to the point of bursting; the things that reside there fear little, but the story changes when setting foot into the open. Only the foolish and desperate do that.
Men use the road forking away from the fence to continue southwest to the next farm town. No one uses the path into the trees. There are things in there barely known and hardly named, and everyone knows that the unknown is dangerous. Safety stops at the edge of the fence, and crossing takes all that away. Only the foolish and desperate do that.
The fruit trees are ripe and in season. Birds call aloud busily. Something rustles the undergrowth. Faraway cattle cries echo off the low plain. All smells of grass and trees and a humid breeze. Clouds are scarce and the sun is high; it is summer. |
