His compass fell into the river and was swallowed by a carp.
"Oh dear Lord, I am lost,” Emin despaired. He looked at the dense forest. With luck he could retrace his steps and return to the village.
Broken twigs and flattened earth led the way until dark, when he stopped to rest. He slept soundly but was awakened by the fierce roar of a storm. The great trunk of a banyan tree held firm as he clung to it, but his camp gear was blown away. He was left with the clothes on his back. Worse yet, all signs of the trail had been destroyed. He might never find his way home.
He looked toward the sky, but could see not a slice of blue. The tall trees allowed no trace of sun, moon or stars.
"Am I to perish here? Will my family never know of my fate? I must struggle, until there is no life left in me, to see them again."
So Emin walked. He ate berries and rested on beds of grass. The time came when it seemed he could go no farther. Just as he was about to give up, he spied a bit of light glinting in the distant brush.
Am I saved?
He stumbled toward the light and found a clearing. Lo and behold, there were homes. And people. A windmill. Carts, with speckled horses pulling them.
He called out in his weak voice, "Hello…."
Instantly, the carts stopped and people turned in his direction. Soon a man and woman, both slender and tall, walked toward him. The woman spoke.
"Welcome, traveler. You may rest here, until you can go on your way, if that is what you wish."
The woman’s companion fetched a carriage and helped Emin onto it. Light-headed with exhaustion he slumped back and fell unconscious.
When he woke the carriage was still traveling. He saw around him rows of huts. In front of each, a pile of coal. Some of the piles were quite large and some quite small.
His carriage stopped at a plain hut with small windows and slat door. The tall man spoke.
"We retain this cottage for the rare guest who comes to our village. All are welcome to stay if they can live by the rules of the community."
With that, Emin’s hosts drove off and Emin entered the hut. Inside was no light, except for the bit that streamed through closed shutters. Emin threw the shutters open and observed the provisions of his accommodations.
On the plank table was a tray with cheese and bread. Next to that, a tankard of dark ale. Across the room by the fireplace were four items: a poker, an open tin with several matches, a tiny box of coal, and a receptacle stuffed with kindling and shredded paper.
He started the fire, took a slice of cheese and drank from the tankard. As soon as he lay on the straw mattress the cabin offered, he fell fast asleep.
In the morning he awoke to a sharp rapping on the door. His hosts were there.
"Good morning. We hope you are refreshed. While we give comfort to strangers, we expect them to move on quickly unless they choose to remain as residents. Resources are scarce in this community and we must preserve them for those who live here. Please, come on a tour so you might consider your choice carefully."
"If I leave, would you give me a guide, or directions so that I might find my way back home? I will never make it home without that."
"I am sorry. We never go into the forest. We have no knowledge of its ways. If you choose to leave, we wish you good fortune."
"You mean I’m stuck here? What of my family? My life?"
"Sir. We had no hand in your decision to travel the forest. We have given you refuge. That must be the limit of our generosity. We simply do not have the resources to support strangers. Let us show you around and you can make your decision."
The host spoke in a tone that did not suggest compromise. His face was hard.
The two hosts and Emin climbed into the carriage and the group traveled down a dirt road.
“The coal in front of each house is the currency of this community. Each person, at the age of 18, is given a set amount of coal. Everyone starts with the same size pile. Coal is used for cooking, and heating. It is used to barter and to arrange marriage contracts. It is used as currency in every aspect of our lives.
“But coal is more than currency. It represents the days of our lives. When a person’s store of coal is gone, so are the days of that life. We don’t know why, but this is the way of life here and has been for as far back as anyone knows.
We are the coal people.”
Emin was stunned.
“Where does the coal come from?”
“We don’t know. We only know that when a person reaches 18, a pile of coal appears in the yard. That is their coal for a lifetime. Every day when they go outside they are able to measure the remaining days of life by the size of the coal pile in their yard.
“Look there, for example. That house.”
A small pile of coal barely reached past the top of the first porch step.
“We all know that person is nearing the end of life.”
“Can’t you do something? Give them coal? Help them?”
“Anyone can give them coal, but that means a shortened life for whoever donates. We all know the rules.”
Emin sought to soften the tone of judgment in his response. “It seems so brutal, so cruel, to have the certainty of death facing one that way.”
“Is it not so in your world? Do you not know that your time on earth is limited? You live in the shadow of an awareness that the moment of your death is growing nearer. Is it not more compassionate for people to have some control over how that time is spent? Use less coal, live longer. Use more coal, die younger.”
“Does no one rebel?”
“Rebel how, against what? Nobody knows where the coal comes from.“
“Do you have a coal God that you pray to?”
“We do not have this concept of God. We have mystery, and we live in submission to that mystery. We wonder sometimes, why life? Why suffering? Why death? Do you not ask the same questions in your world? Perhaps you explain the mystery with the concept of God, but does everyone in your world agree on this? Is there a universal God, or many different beliefs about different gods? In the end, your world and our world are the same. We accept our existence and do not fret. You pretend ignorance of life’s fragility, and yet all the while you know. Here we have a material reminder. We use a piece of coal, we know we have used a bit of our lives. Consequently, we are an exquisitely frugal people.
“I must ask you, traveler, now that you know the terms of life in our community, have you made a decision to stay or go back into the forest? I’m sorry we cannot allow you more time to decide. The coal you used last night was a gift from everyone. It is a sacrifice and we cannot spare more. If you choose to live here, we will assign a hut. In the morning your coal allowance will appear in your yard.”
After the briefest pause, Erin called out, “Please, stop the carriage. I need to get off and think.”
He walked a few steps from the carriage and sat under a tree. Across the road and on both sides of him were rows of houses with coal piles. If he stayed in the community he would live, probably for many years, but his moments would be haunted by a shrinking coal pile. If he returned to the forest he would surely die, but he would die free, with at least the illusion of choice. And he would fight tor the chance to see his family again.
He turned to his hosts and announced with clear resolution, “Thank you for your hospitality and for your offer of coal. But, no thank you. I’m going home.”
**Story written in response to Inkwell Fiction Prompt #4: The Way Home
Image adapted from two pixabay photos:
River: Public domain pictures
Carp: rshoubhut
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