An itch traversed the ankle wound, and the voice grew in volume. Jonathan paused at this, but did not allow himself to stop for long. The sudden strain on his faculties might work like quicksand, intensifying its hold with any loss of composure. He stepped forward again, and once more reopened his canteen. When no voice sounded, Jon quickened his pace, until the wound spoke even more loudly than before. He raised his foot, as if to shake the sounds away, and fell sideways into the sage scrub. He grazed his palms, drawing blood.
North now, to the ground beneath the peak, the wound urged him, and as he raised his red palms to examine them the skin began to ripple and hiss.
Beneath the peak, the hands said, beneath the peak, their twinned voices thinner than his ankle’s.
Jon put the hands at his sides, feeling both faint and unsure about heading farther south. If steps to the north might quiet the voices then he could resolve at least one problem.
It was mid-afternoon, if his sense of time had maintained itself. Beyond the tops of the oak trees the sun shone widely, but gently. He began to calculate the hours until nightfall. What this would determine, Jon didn’t know — he was far off the park paths in any case. His hands hissed the peak, the peak, and he started to walk north again, erasing any southward progress. If he could quiet them then he could think, really think, and outline his best plan of action.
The ground beneath the peak would be three, maybe four miles away. He had not conceded that the voices would direct him, but this was a consideration in silencing them for a while. It did seem to keep them quiet. Once northbound the voices relented for a few minutes, while Jon stepped over bushes and between tree trunks. After a few minutes more he allowed himself to again consider the likelihood of delirium, of hunger or heatstroke — explanations incompatible with his gear and keen meal planning, but among the few plausible ones. He would not turn to face the south, but perhaps that was its own sign he had nothing to fear. He’d walk north of his own volition.
More water was wise in any case, and he reached toward his backpack’s side pocket for the canteen, squeezing it against his ribs with one wrist and nudging it out of place. He gripped the canteen between both wrists next, keeping his grazed hands off of the metal. Beneath the peak, they said, and his ankle followed, more loudly: North now, to the ground beneath the peak.
Jon knelt among the scrub and vomited. Mostly water, with only the faintest sting. He considered certain things, such as if the wound scabbing over would end the talk or only muffle it. How long would that take, and would a scab trap something under his skin? If the only step was to let something out, to widen the wounds, then he could do it. He’d packed a multi-tool. But then the ankle broke his concentration, commanding him to move.
By the time the sky began to iterate, to reveal shades of gold and purple, Jon had walked far longer than he’d planned to that morning. His boots were new to the spring camping season, and his feet hadn’t fully made a home in them. They felt weighted and swollen now. When he came upon a stream, he stopped and untied the laces, not worried about being scolded. He peeled off his socks next, examining the imminent blisters. He listened for a hum, or something like one, but he couldn’t be sure they’d speak. Not until they burst, then he’d know.
Putting the socks back on was more difficult than taking them off, the fabric soaked with sweat and bundled up into itself. He stretched the breathable wool micro-knit as he eased them along his feet again, warping them beyond future use but cautious about troubling his blisters. When he was finished he felt soreness in his fingertips too, having used only the very ends of his hands. Then the ankle urged him north again, his grated palms echoing the ankle.
They — he — would reach the ground beneath the peak by mid-evening, Jonathan figured. Perhaps the day’s fading light would still be there to illuminate whatever he — he — would find, for better or for worse. He uncapped his canteen and found it empty, remembering he’d drained it an hour earlier. Ahead of him the sage scrub grew thicker, no obvious footpath anywhere before his destination and few traces of people trying to get through.
He had not asked them why this place, or what to expect. For much of the walk, refusing the speakers any replies had helped preserve the possibility that his day had largely been imagined, a bulwark against certain frightening conclusions. You did not talk to things that weren’t real — and if you weren’t talking, they weren’t real.
This stance had benefits even beyond Jon’s awareness. He decided at last to ask something, to be better prepared for whatever they’d eventually see. It was best to be direct — what will we find? But after settling on a question, he could not ask it, could not speak.
There was no portent, no tightening or burning at the back of his throat. There was just the non-response of some station between mind and speech, something slack, diminished, or occupied. With this he panicked, really panicked, more than before. Jon’s breathing hastened and he turned around, desperate
