We sit with our backs to the trunk of the broad oak and breakfast
quickly in the twilight, before night falls and we must move again. “The Fog
Has a White Tongue” (side A) and we feel it begin to obscure us from prying
eyes in the near distance. We two are alone, and we have been for almost a
month now. It’s difficult to tell – determining time has become a dismal art at
best, and the sun and moon start and stop in the sky seemingly at random. We
don’t know why the world has started to shift its relationship to us; we only
know that we may be the only ones of our kind left, and as such may be the only
ones that can stop it.
And we’re being followed. We don’t know by what.
The forests hide us in the day, and we sleep when we can. As soon as it
is dark, the path beckons, and we douse our small fire and remove any sign of
our passing. The combination of the fog and the gathering dusk allows us
greater freedom of travel, but we must take care not to veer from the path. We numbered
three once, but we no longer do – we lost a companion on the wild steppe before
we came to the forest; he simply disappeared in the night without a sound. We
dare not stray now – we have come too far. The path continues on.
And then the river meets us. It is wide – we can’t see the other side,
but the fog obscures anything more than ten feet in front of us. A dinghy is
moored to a small dock, and we must risk it – we don’t know how wide the river
is, and we may not be able to ford it or cross it in any other way. An oil
lantern hangs next to it, and surprisingly ignites on the first try. We throw
our packs in the boat and cast off, rowing slowly and carefully in the evening
silence. “The Water Is Black That Licks the Boat” (side B). Perhaps this
crossing will throw our pursuer off our scent. Likely not, though – it has
followed us across greater obstacles than this.
As my companion rows, I drift into uneasy sleep. I do not dream, my
rest will be short. Indeed, I’m awakened by thunder in the distance – it’s
miles away, perhaps behind a mountain. But we still can’t see, and the night
has deepened. The fog persists. The river is wide. We cannot know when the
shore will approach. We must be watchful.
(Pro-dubbed cassettes come in clear cases with full-color 3-panel
J-cards. Orra is Jennifer Williams and Sean Conrad. “The long untold night
between scenes of folklore, and the breath and ridged back of elements
unseen.”)
--Ryan Masteller
