The Ghost Road

I have no idea where I am heading. Right turn, then down a street until my gaze snags left, a plum tree in full, audacious bloom. An instruction: go there. I veer off the asphalt, onto a narrow path snaking between cultivated fields.

The landscape swallows me whole, colors blurring, seamless. Farmers on their tractors become distant, mechanical hums. Left. Right. A sheep shed. The sheep herd. Then, on its roof, a cat, a feline sentinel, a Garfield grin splitting its face, cheering me on as it paces the ridge. It knows. All the animals I meet on this path, they see something in me I cannot see in myself. I let the sheep guide me, their collective movement a silent nudge to turn, to carry on.

Suddenly, a grit under my right eyelid. A tearing. The same sensation that has plagued me on the couch, waiting for the signal. The rice milk. Something wrong with it. My body knows before my mind catches up. The plant, 2's plant. My hands move without thinking. I sink to the ground, rip open the baby aloe, swallow the bitter pulp. Wait. My body temperature spikes, sweat prickling; the drug is a slow, creeping burn. I strip off my sweater. The aloe will not be enough, not against a slow-release poison. I need more. A frantic impulse: evacuate. Yes, that works last time. I stumble towards a lone tree, collapse beneath its shade. Already, a subtle shift. This is an olive tree. Bitter. The perfect counterpoint. I fill my pockets, the rough fruit, a promise.

I walk again, a ghost among olive trees. The field ends at a ditch. I let myself slide down, following the murmuring stream. It widens, deepens into a pond, and there I stop. Helicopters. They razor the sky, a constant, low thrum, sometimes close enough to feel the pressure. Hunting me. I try to scale the pond's retaining wall, claw at it, slip, my ankle screaming with each failed attempt. Give up. Retrace my steps until the hill softens, offering an easier ascent.

I need rest. The helicopters are a phantom limb now, a constant ache. The shoes. Something in them that does not belong. The helicopters have been following these, not me. I tear them off, let the earth bite my bare feet. My feet will have to learn the language of the earth, will have to burn every image, every sound into my brain. The growl of heavy machinery. A quarry, nearby. No more helicopters. I am right about the shoes.

The hill crests into a derelict shooting range, littered with shell casings. I have to explore its every boundary. Something about this place feels wrong. Used. The shell casings tell stories I do not want to understand. Voices drift from afar, low and indistinct. I dive behind a bush, vanishing until the whispers fade. A spider, impossibly close to my face, whispers to leave. Its legs vibrate with urgency.

I move, traverse a field of mud towards a sprawling mansion. I pause under an olive tree, leave a piece of my hospital discharge papers, a trace for others. Children have walked this path. Small feet. Bare feet like mine. At night, when no one can see them disappear.

I crawl under the brambles, inch towards a main road. Trucks rumble past at unnerving intervals. I count the seconds between each passage, a mental rhythm, calculating my crossing.

Done. The other side. Another stream, cool gold against my burned bare feet. Then more brambles. Odd, these seem like sniper's nests, strategically placed, pointing towards a massive mansion visible above.

I cross the fence. A potager garden, vineyards, soft green grass. Deep in the wood, a colossal rock. Carefully. A noise trap, wires snaking from the rock up the steep hill to the mansion. I kneel, examine the rock. A faint glimmer. An underground cave, child-sized. Something moves in the darkness, or maybe it is just my shadow. 'We're coming' I whisper to whoever might be listening. I linger, letting my presence be a reassurance. I scatter olives like breadcrumbs for the others. Our rule: no faces. No names. Only telepathy, a diffuse murmur in the mind's static. Time to go.

Where am I? A road. Yes, I recognize it. Fifteen kilometers, easily. I am dead tired. Finding my way back is impossible. Better to stay off the road, hidden from the gaze of strangers and their judgment of my bare feet. A riding path. I walk further into the wood, feeling the familiar tendrils of being lost. Then, the birds, aware of me, they circle, chirp, a language I almost understand. They guide me towards shelter. And there it is: the tunnel, dark as a throat.