Chapter 20 | As if the Lone Ranger
Some nights are longer than others. This one's been going on for two days and change, as the Lone Ranger rides close but not too close to the river gorge, right on the edge of the world, where you can reach out and practically touch the stars. It's a huge moon tonight, with just a lip of darkness along the bottom, so clear you can practically see it turning, miraculously suspended in the still, black sky. There's a whistling sound, like rockets or birds, far off, barely noticeable, but the Lone Ranger notices everything. He rides on, stopping on occasion to get his bearings, to listen to the moon spin, to drink, to eat, to carefully place a rock along the path for some lucky, wayward traveler to pick up and wonder about. Where did it come from? How did it get here?
There was a time early on when everything stopped, and the earth abruptly reversed course, turning backwards on its axis. It might've been a million years ago, and only for a millennium or two, but the resulting chaos of rising tides and howling winds made the creatures fall down and the trees twist in on themselves, and nothing’s been the same ever since. That brief period of the world is what gives us a sense of unease to this day, a feeling of something not quite right, as if it'll happen again without warning, and it could. The Lone Ranger doesn't ponder such things. He rides, sure of himself and the world he lives in, and if the rug gets pulled out from under him, he finds himself another rug.
The river, in places, cascades loudly down a waterfall, where no man has ever made it through alive. There are ways around, for those who take the time to plan, or simply travel the path above, assuming you weren't one of the river people who'd never found your way to the world above. Yes, there are such people, even in this modern age. The earth's cruel geography has cut them off, and so they live in close proximity to the river, between impassable falls, scraping by so close to the ones outside, who they can see and hear but cannot touch.
Clarissa, who saved him from the sirens, is keeping her distance. She travels in silence, watching over him, making sure he doesn't drift into sleep or carelessness. The sirens are everywhere down deep in the river gorge. Their song makes your compass spin. So far, the Lone Ranger has stayed on course, but she watches. This is her jurisdiction, and she wants to keep it trouble free. She's got her notebooks and water samples and a radio turned off till she needs it. Blankets and first aid supplies, of course. She knows these parts, every square inch from here to the other side of nowhere. The Lone Ranger has no idea she’s following, she’s that good. There are others slipping into and out of the shadows of this eternal night, unbeknownst to each other, all on various missions or simply out for a moonlight ride or stroll. And the people of the river, timeless and unbroken, gathered round fires, telling stories, waiting for a savior to lift them out of this place.
The Lone Ranger’s approaching a solid granite wall that blocks any further progress. He’s looking for a crack in the wall, a gap leading out of the night, but he’s not finding it. A trail, perhaps, corkscrewing up and up and further up still. The wall extends for miles, parallel to the river gorge. He’ll have to follow it and eventually go around, then double back if necessary. There’s nowhere through, no opening where he expected one to be. Might as well be down by the river, trapped between falls. But at least up here there’s some way out, just have to ride till you find it. He stops for a moment, suddenly feeling a presence nearby. But not only is Clarissa silent, she’s also managed to contain her scent. Whatever the Lone Ranger is sensing, it’s pure conjecture on his part. Soon, the feeling passes, but he’s left feeling tired and pointless. This is as good a spot to set up camp as any. He takes a quick look around and gets off his horse. Sirens in the distance are singing, too far to pose any danger. Lying on his back in an improvised bed of pine needles, the Lone Ranger stares into the million year old starlight. Soon, his eyelids grown heavy, he slips into a siren’s dream, suspended like a moon between the world of the river people and the place high above the granite wall that blocks his way.
