The Road
A boy grows up while threatened by a curious danger that lies in wait at the end of a dirt road.
I walk down this road for the fourth time in my life. The forest surrounds me on every side and the worn, brown earth I walk on is the only thing in sight that isn’t alive and growing. It hasn’t changed since I was last here. I turn a corner I dreamed of turning but never could, and pass the point where the fog used to envelope Dad’s tall figure. It is then that I can begin to see what used to be the house.
The house is even smaller than I remember. A few broken bricks are scattered around the yard and the plants have begun to grow over them. Tiles are missing off the roof and the broken windows are cradled among invading greenery. Following the trail of creeping plants, I squeeze through the small front door. In the few spots plants haven’t taken over, I can see the dusty furniture and even a nearly complete dinner set on display. Half a blackened log still rests in the fireplace, telling of an unexpected stop to happier times. The house still holds onto its pride and memories of times long passed.
Every morning of my childhood years, I would wake up early to watch Dad travel that long road again. I was never told where he was going or what he was doing. All I knew was what time he would leave and what time he would hopefully come back. As young as I must have been at the time, I would get up at first light and toddle around his feet asking questions and wishing I could go with him. Then, after pulling on his old worn boots and slinging his bag over his shoulder, he would leave the house and disappear around that corner or into the fog.
I was only ever allowed to stand as far as the front of the house as he walked. I would be in trouble if I went any further; on those occasions, my mother would keep me inside all day. Most of the time, I would ask her lots of questions about why she did this or that. The questions would always eventually lead to the road and the land beyond, and this would always end the same way.
“Why do you have to ask so many questions?” she would ask as she turned from her work to face me.
“I don’t know. I suppose I’m just curious,” I would reply innocently.
“Well, just remember, curiosity killed the cat,” she would say as she returned to work.
I wasn’t allowed to ask questions after that. I had always wanted to know what cat she was talking about, but by the time it was okay to ask, I had forgotten. After our short exchange she would tell me, “I never want to see you walk down that road. It only leads to trouble,” and “He’s never been content here since he started travelling down that road. It messed him up in the head. It did.” She always seemed upset on those days and would often burst into tears and run outside, but I wasn’t allowed to leave the house if I had talked about the road.
Other days, I was allowed to go outside and roam, as long as I didn’t go in the direction of the road. I would climb trees, swim in the murky creek, run laps around the house, scream at the top of my lungs, and occasionally ‘spy’ on my mother as she did whatever mothers do around the house all day.
My favourite thing to do on these days was bird watch. I would sprinkle some seed or bread crumbs on the ground and hide behind a bush. If I was quiet and still enough, a pretty bird would flutter down and begin to feast. The first few times I did this, I sat and watched the bird as it ate and cleaned its perfect wings. I would sit amazed at the beauty of the little creature and the incredible colours in its shiny feathers. I would wonder about how far it had travelled to get here, how long it had taken, where else it had been, and what it had seen. I came to believe that if I caught it, it could tell me wonderful stories of lands far away. It was when I reached this conclusion that I began to leap out of my bush to surprise the bird, but it would simply flee to the nearest tree to study me before flying down the road. As I grew older and wiser to the ways of a bird, I would leap out while it was still eating. A short chase would ensue, but the end result would always be the same and I would find myself looking down the long winding road until the bird disappeared around the corner.
I always looked forward to bedtime when Dad was home. He would read me stories and make me count the stars he arranged on the ceiling. However, every third night or so, he wouldn’t return until later. My mother tried to tell me stories, but she couldn’t read so they were never really good. She never asked me to count for her either, because she didn’t know if I made a mistake. On those nights, I would stay awake longer and count the stars by myself until Dad came home. He would always come in to say good night and ask about my day before he retired into their room.
One night, Dad didn’t come home. My mother kept me inside every day after that. I knew she was worried, but she wouldn’t talk to me unless she was telling me how bad the road was.
A few days later, two men in stiff clothes came down the road. I was sent outside and told not to come inside until the men left. I obediently left the house, but climbed a tree to spy on them. They closed the door, but muffled sounds travelled through the quiet air. The men talked quietly with her and she started to cry. Her sobs grew in volume until the birds nearby took flight. I have never seen anyone leave a house as quickly as those men left ours. I jumped down from the tree to join my mother at the door and watch them walk down that crooked road.
She cried a lot after that day and tried to keep me by her side every moment. Eventually, I asked her why she cried and why Dad didn’t come home. What followed was a long, serious talk. I will never remember most of that talk, but I will never forget three words that changed my life: your father’s dead.
After that talk, she told me the road led to another world from ours. It was a cruel world which changed people. She told me that world killed Dad and she couldn’t live if it took me too. She hated the road and tried to make me hate it too. Yet, through it all, I knew Dad would have disagreed.
After many weeks, I was permitted to play outside for short periods of time. I found a pretty bird and, as I had many times before, slowly followed it. When it moved, I changed direction, but this bird seemed particularly slow to move out of my reach.
I followed it up and down the garden until it stepped over my mother’s set boundary. I firmly told it that wasn’t fair because I wasn’t allowed there, but it just cheekily chirped at me and hopped a little further away. Frustrated that it was so close, I checked over my shoulder and crept over that imaginary line. Bit by bit, the bird pulled me further up the road. Just before we reached the corner, it brought me into the forest. After what seemed like hardly any time, I looked up to realise I was lost. It was at that point that I tripped on some unseen obstacle and scared the bird away.
We had taken so many turns that I had lost all sense of direction, so I just kept going forwards, hoping to find the road again. I found it, but somehow it looked different. Deciding it was just the different vantage point I had, I started walking, but it was longer than I first thought, so I began to run. The forest suddenly ended and the road opened up onto another, but this one was wider and covered with something hard and black. I had never seen anything like this before, so I knew I had headed in the wrong direction. The obvious solution was to turn around and go the other way. However, going in the other direction lead me to a choice of several roads, each just like the rest.
Dad had always been proud of how smart I was and I was determined to keep up my standards. I sat on a rock and thought about my predicament. I could have gone up and down every road, but that could get me more lost. I decided that all the roads must eventually lead to other houses like ours, so sooner or later someone like Dad would travel down the road. They could help me find home.
I knew I could be there for a long time, so I wandered up and down, waiting and hoping I could see far enough to tell which road led to our house. The sun began to set and I sat on the rock again. I must have waited for hours before a man showed up.
I was right about him being like Dad. He was tall, but had a deeper voice. He also walked in big boots, but he wore stiff clothes like those other men. I think the biggest reason he reminded me of Dad was because he was kind and liked to tell stories. I heard lots of his stories when he walked with me. We went to his house because we didn’t know my address.
The next day, the man helped me find my way home, but I didn’t stay there. When we went inside, the house was a mess. He made me go outside and wait while he went in further to look. He came out with an expression just like the men who came to talk to my mother.
I have lived in many houses since then. I was never told what happened to my mother, but I know she would have blamed the road. The road took Dad. The road took my mother. The road led me into a cruel world that changed me into another, stronger person. However, looking at this sad house now, I know, like my father, I could never be content staying here again.
The Road is a short story Courtney wrote for her college writing portfolio in 2008. Inspired by a photo of a road disappearing in the mist, this is one of the first times Courtney began to explore symbolism in her writing.
What do you think about this story?
How do you feel about the road representing knowledge and experience? Do you have an alternative view of the symbolism in this story?
