THURSDAY: The Road Taken

BY ROBERT P. BISHOP

Copyright is held by the author.

THE MAN came downstairs from his room at the Rose and Cutlass, carrying a rucksack and a walking stick. His breakfast, a pot of coffee, a basket of croissants and a jar of honey, was on the table by a window. He dropped the rucksack on the floor, leaned his stick against the wall and stared out the window at the cobblestone street as he ate.

When he finished, he shouldered his rucksack and headed toward the door. The brass ferrule on the tip of his walking stick made sharp tink-tink sounds as he tapped it on the stone floor.

“Where are you bound?” asked the innkeeper.

“I am taking the north road out of the village.”

The proprietor pursed his lips. “You might find the south road more enjoyable.”

“No. The north road is the one for me this morning. I believe it will be more to my liking.” The man tapped his stick on the floor. “Yes, I am quite sure about that,” he said before walking out the door.

The man found the dirt road leading north from the village. With his head up and arms swinging gracefully, the man stepped briskly, purposefully, along.

The dirt road wound over undulating green hills. Tall poplars flanked the road and cast shadows over its dusty white surface. Since the man had not encountered any cars for some time, he felt at ease walking in the middle of the road. Little puffs of dust mushroomed around his boots with every step.

The absence of cars or other walkers on the road perplexed him. Even in this remote countryside he expected to encounter an automobile or another hiker now and then. Still, this did not distress him for the man frequently sought solitude and was often uncomfortable in the presence of others.

The sun felt warm on his face. As he began to get too hot he would pass into the shadows cast by the line of the trees growing along the road. The shadows cooled him to the point of being chilled before he passed again into the sunlight and warmed.

The man walked gracefully, holding his walking stick in his right hand. He could not remember where he got the walking stick. Perhaps in Arizona, or in New Mexico when he trod the desert trails, but that was such a long time ago. Maybe, he thought, I have always had this stick. “Yes, this is my walking stick,” he said aloud.

Each time his left foot went forward his right arm with the stick also went forward. Left foot forward, right arm and stick forward, in unison, like clockwork. When he reversed arms and held the stick with his left hand it went forward when his right foot went forward, in unison, like clockwork.

In this manner the man covered miles on the white dusty road flanked by the elegant poplars.

The man came to a fork in the road. The man studied the diverging roads for some time, unsure which one to take. He saw a large rock in the shade of a poplar. He sat on the rock with the walking stick across his knees, dropped his rucksack to the ground and pondered the fork in the road.

“Which one should I take,” he asked over and over. He could not decide, so he remained on the rock, studying the fork in the road.

A noise startled him. He turned. Another hiker! The first one he had encountered all day. The hiker, wearing bright blue boots, approached and stopped at the point where the road forked. He studied each road for some time then he turned to the man with the walking stick.

“Which fork are you taking?” the man in the blue boots asked.

“I do not know. I have to give it more thought. Which fork are you taking?”

“The right fork,” the man responded confidently. Then he trod into the left fork.

“Wait!” cried the man on the rock. He leaped up. His walking stick fell to the ground. “You said you were taking the right fork!”

The man wearing blue boots stopped and turned around. “You misunderstand. I said I am taking the right fork. Perhaps you should do as well.” With a wave of his hand he turned and walked away.

“How will I know?” he shouted after the man with the blue boots.

The man wearing blue boots didn’t reply. He moved swiftly and was soon out of sight. The man with the walking stick sat down on the rock and studied the fork in the road some more.

A whistling sound alerted him that another hiker was approaching. The hiker stopped where the road diverged and studied the fork. He peered into the distance where the dusty ribbons narrowed to points then disappeared over the horizon.

The man with the walking stick called out. “Which fork are you taking?”

The hiker smiled, pointed, then walked on.

The man with the walking stick got to his feet. “I will take the right fork,” he announced decisively and stepped off. He continued along the dirt road. Little blooms of dust burst around his boots and hung suspended in the still air.

The man came to another fork in the road. He stopped, leaned on his walking stick and contemplated the fork. Another hiker, wearing a wide-brimmed hat with a white feather pinned to one side of it, appeared and walked up to him. “Which fork are you taking?” asked the man with the white feather in his hat.

The man with the walking stick smiled. “I am going to take the right fork,” he stated confidently and stepped off.

“Wait!” cried the man with the feather in his cap. “Which fork should I take?”

“The right fork, of course,” shouted the man with the walking stick as he strode away.

***

Robert P. Bishop, an Army veteran and former biology teacher, is the author of three novels; The First Apocalypse; Rising from the Ashes; Night Kill, and four short-story collections; River and Other Stories; The Gatekeeper and Other Stories; Payback and Other Stories; Syndrome and Other Stories. Many of his short stories have appeared in online and print journals. He lives in Tucson, Arizona.