The Roaring River
His mind is afire as if a blacksmith poured molten iron into his head, but his face is ice cold.
He’s lying face down in a puddle.
He lifts his head. A stone’s throw away, a river whirls water and rocks and fire into the air, raising an elemental wall he can’t see beyond. He sits and hears the sound of cranky chain mail and moaning leather straps. He’s clad in a knight’s armor.
The edges of all things are blurry, like in a dream. He pinches his cheek. No pain. “Mother of God, stand by me.”
The sky is a sunless stretch. It rains, but for some otherworldly reason, the rain doesn’t fall. It floats in the air and sways back and forth, brushed by a breeze. Something bitter and sticky coats his tongue. He rubs his tongue over his teeth and spits out green slime.
A horse whinnies close by as if calling for help. It’s lying on its side, tongue out, foam frothing from its mouth, green like the slime on his tongue.
“Were we poisoned?” He worms his way to the stallion, leans against its belly, and pats its neck. “Or did we try to cross this wicked river?”
The horse answers with a trailing snort.
His memory doesn’t answer at all. It’s a mute mass. “Who am I? What happened? How can I not know who I am?”
He calls upon the Holy Spirit and stands. He swipes a hand through the hanging rain and wets his head. The fire inside his head persists.
He turns away from the river and beholds a vast, granitic plain. It bears stone pillars that branch out like leafless winter trees. A violet mountain on the horizon looks like a half-buried egg.
A knightly errand must have brought him here. Who’s his king? He scratches the stubble on his head. “Where is his castle? “Damna memoria.”
“I shall not lose heart.” He bangs his fist against his chest armor and pulls the horse to its feet.
A shield hangs from the saddle and a helmet and a beheading ax, sharp like a Saracen blade. He searches the saddle pockets. A stony loaf of bread, a piece of bacon, a water gourd, a crucifix, and a sachet with a blood-encrusted handkerchief. No letter. Looks like he’s a poor knight. A lost knight.
“What now, horse? There’s no way we get across that river. Shall we head to the mountain?”
The horse nickers, which has a ring of consent to it, and he mounts. Up there, the task looks as uncertain as a battle. Traversing the plain may take days or months or a lifetime. He crosses himself and spurs the horse toward the mountain.
