Spirit of the Thunder Road

The traveller had wandered
Through desolation
For unknown hours.

The barren plain gradually surrendered
To fields of volcanic stone.

With every step,
The path narrowed.

The black rock rose
Like towering walls
On either side.

Higher.
Higher still.
Until the grey sky itself
Was almost swallowed.

Stone and gravel showered the traveller.

The canyon groaned.

Then, silence.
The path ended.

A ghostly figure emerged
From the drifting mist.
A woman.
Her long pale dress
Hung in tattered folds,
Its edges dissolving
Into the swirling grey.

She stood unmoving.

Blocking the western road.

Where her face should have been,
Only black veins of smoke
Twisted through the mist.

An ancient axe rested
Across her chest.

“Who walks this road?”

Her voice echoed
As though spoken
By many mouths at once.

“I am a traveller.”
“To whom do I speak?”

The apparition remained still.

“We are many.”

An elderly man’s face
Materialised within the smoke.
Then faded.

“We are none.”

A young woman.
Gone.

“We are the Spirits
Of the Thunder Road.”

More faces emerged.

A forgotten friend.
A teacher.
A stranger glimpsed once
Long ago.

Each appeared only long enough
To be recognised.
Then the mist reclaimed them.

“Why do your faces change?”

“They are yours.”
“My memories?”
“Your attachments.”

The smoke drifted slowly.

“They shaped you.”

“They continue
To shape you.”

The traveller watched
As another face emerged.

A child.
Their own face.
Hopeful.
Untouched.
Then gone.

“Are they dead?”

“Some.”
A pause.

“Some merely belong
To another life.”

The traveller lowered their gaze.
“Why have I been brought here?”
The canyon answered
With many voices.

“Because every traveller
Mistakes Limbo
For a prison.”

“It is not.”

The words echoed
Among the stone walls.

“It is a passage.”

“And there is a way out?”

“There has always been.”

The traveller looked ahead.
“I see no road.”

“You are standing upon it.”

“I don’t understand.”

The spirit slowly raised its axe
Toward the darkness beyond.

“There is no road
Around Limbo.”
“No hidden gate.”
“No secret passage.”
“No escape.”
Only silence remained.

Then,

“The only way beyond…

…is through.”
The words settled heavily.
The traveller remembered.
The swamp.
The drowning mud.
The Hollow.
The creature.
The fear.
The acceptance.

“Then every road…”
“…is a lesson.”

The spirit finished the thought.

“You cannot outrun grief.”
“You cannot walk around fear.”
“You cannot hide from loss.”
“You pass through them.”
“And when you emerge…”

The mist shifted again.

This time
The face became
The traveller’s mother.

“…you are no longer
The one who entered.”

Then,
A brother.
Gone.

A friend.
Gone.
A lover.
Gone.
A rival.
Gone.

The traveller again.
Older.

Then,
No face at all.
Only mist.

“So every journey changes us.”
The spirit lowered the axe.
“That is why
The roads exist.”
The canyon trembled.
The mist slowly parted.

“You understand.”
“I think I do.”

“No.”
The voices softened.
“You lived it.”
For the first time,
The spirit stepped aside.

“The western road
Is open.”

The traveller continued.

The canyon narrowed once more
Before ending abruptly.

Beyond it stretched
A bottomless abyss.

Across the void
Hung an ancient rope bridge.

Its ropes sagged
Beneath impossible age.

Every weathered plank
Held a single carved symbol.

An eye.
A key.
A serpent.
A hand.
A tree.
A flame.
A broken crown.

Each worn smooth
By countless travellers before.
The traveller stepped forward.
The bridge groaned.
Each board shifted
Beneath uncertain feet.

The wind howled
Through the endless gulf.

Halfway across,
A sharp crack.
One rope snapped.
The bridge lurched violently.
Another rope failed.
Timbers splintered.
The traveller reached
For the remaining rope,
It slipped away.

Then,
Nothing.
The bridge vanished above.
The world became
Endless white mist.
No wind.
No sound.
No up.
No down.
Only falling.
Darkness gathered.
Everything disappeared.

The traveller awoke
With a violent scream.
Heart pounding.
Breath ragged.

They lay once more
Upon the Thunder Road.
Only a short distance away,
The Path Keeper waited.

“You have returned.”

“I have.”

“And what did
The western road teach?”

The traveller stood quietly.
At last they answered.

“That there is no road
Around the hardest parts of life.”
“Only through them.”

The Path Keeper smiled.

“Then the western road
Served its purpose.”

The traveller looked north.
Far beyond the drifting ash,
A great volcano
Breathed smoke
Into the colourless sky.

Without another word,
They turned,
And walked toward it.