Cast No Shadow

The road takes all.

She laid atop him, thigh against thigh, breath heavy on his neck. The first light of morning registered through the window slats, painting the rough and worn floorboards a dazzlingly soft orange. The movements, the breaths, all performative at best: hers for the coin in the offing, his because his thoughts were far from the dingy rented bedroom. Liquor, women, God–all failed to draw his mind away from the horizon.

Music crackling with static from somewhere beside the bed mingled with their guttural, rasping chorus, the final moan into his ear little more than her stage lines. He felt nothing. A pass of a coin into a passive waiting hand and the deed was done. Silence followed save the radio. He almost wished she cried. He almost wished she cracked a smile. Almost. It was easier this way.

The bed was still his until noon, as per the arrangement. He wouldn't need it till then. Lumpy though it was, it did provide some temporary relief from the saddle sores; enough at least to hold him there, just for a moment, rooted. Grounded. He knew it wouldn't last.

The visions came, as did the voices, as they always did, and the moment of relief blew away in the wind. He traced its outline on the water stained ceiling while replaying the voice in his mind, that eternal voice that never left him. With a slip of his boots, he passed on through the inn amongst those too drunk from the night before to comprehend the risen sun. He almost envied them. He'd been there before, more times than he wished to remember—those memories were little more than hazy, grainy photographs best left buried in a crumbling wardrobe.

A dram of whiskey sat abandoned beside a hunched figure who smelled halfway between a pig farmer and a corpse. He took it. Finished it. The pig farmer wouldn’t miss it, yet he still put a copper on the bar for the trouble.

Outside, there was just enough light to continue, enough for him. The longer he waited, the less progress he’d make. He undid the horse from the hitching post–it was foolish to name him, good horse though he was. Strong, dark, it never complained, never bucked; it was all he could ask for.

The town was little more than a cluster of shabby wooden shacks, and he had the impression the entire town would crumble under a strong wind. There were a hundred like it on his path, and there would be a hundred more full of all the same sort. He’d put them all behind his horse and behind his thoughts. The taste of her blended with the whiskey. He spit. He needed to carry on. As he cantered the mount around and onto the main street, his breath caught in his throat as it always did.

How long had it been since it first called to him? How many months? He couldn’t remember, and yet it never seemed to grow any larger no matter how long he rode day after day. It was difficult to tell; the thing dominated the western horizon, taller than any mountain. For all he knew, its vastness meant the distance between him and his destination was leagues beyond imagination. So he continued onwards. The onyx obelisk capped in gold piercing the sky called to him, ushered him. He heard its ancient voice whisper when he slept, “this way, come hither. All you seek lies below. Come hither! Come forth!”

He rode away from the sun rising in the east, ever onward.

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A/N:

Saw Oasis at Soldier Field last week. It was epic. The song below inspired this piece.

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