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each other, for ages on end? For that matter, how many places on the planet remain hidden, unknowable? There is a reason that people who fall out of airplanes are rarely found. The body lands in a swamp, or atop a mountain range, or within a seldom-traveled forest, and is left to decay, sink into the ground, its final resting place an eternal mystery. Hey! her companion calls out, close by. You see that? Over there. She squints -- she is not much good without her glasses -- and sees it: a single flickering light in the distance, suspended between the trees. Leaving her pack by the log, she rises on suddenly aching legs, shuffles towards the light. She hears him behind her. He is not breathing -- he is too scared to breathe.  |
Let's get out of here, he says. Wait, she says. Yes, it is the sound of water. Not the onrushing crash of a waterfall, or the seesaw swoosh of waves on shore, but the plink of a lake rising up to meet shore. A breeze blows in from that direction, as if to say, Yes, congratulations and welcome. They walk onwards, their flashlights bobbing. Hello! she calls out in the local tongue. Hello! Without warning, the trees fall away. They are atop some crags, a conglomeration of them, shaped like the karst peaks in oil paintings. From here the land dips down to the lake, where moonlight wavers on the surface. A slab of stone the size of a full-length mirror juts before them, a single character carved across its face. She runs her index finger down the strokes, and the width  |
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