Travelling Man

More time passed as happens when travelling; the man’s legs began to ache and still he went on. His brow was creased and sweaty, his sack of foodstuffs heavy on both shoulders. The dirt road eventually changed to a wide path, and the wide path to the narrow one. Still no crossroads had arisen, and foliage rose up out of the sides of the path, blocking the poor traveller in. They sheilded the cold light from him and their gray, wet leaves were warm with dew, yet they taunted him with his own claustrophobia.

The old man didn’t dare pulling out his pack in a place such as this; the plants might eat him. He would not sit on the ground here, for fear that the warmth would tempt him to sleep and he might never wake up. So on he went. Once he looked behind him and saw the trail he’d been walking had branched into many, and knew that there would be no finding his way back to the simple brick house he’d called home for so long. The idea sort of saddened him, and sort of didn’t. It wasn’t his home any longer, just a cold place that brought back false memories. Anyway, the old man kept walking, one foot in front of the other and vice versa and all that. He wouldn’t stop until he reached his destination, and not just because he was afraid of the deadly dreams he might have.

The real reason, the secret reason, was this: though exhausted to the bone, and hungry to boot, he felt great. He felt the best he’d felt in years, not counting the time he’d last made love to his wife (what are you thinking about? there was no wife) and his legs were filled with strength. As much as he’d like to deny it, he was enjoying this little trek; enraptured with the strength of his body this close the grave.

Excerpted from the 2004 novel "Endless"