The Long Road to Bonona

1587-12-16
Road to Bonona

The road did not end so much as thin into distance. I rose with the sun, walked until stars stitched a seam above the hills, and learned what patience feels like in the bones. Weather turned from knife to mist to mild breath, yet weight belonged to miles, not sky.

Trouble traveled too. Wolves kept to shadow. Men with quick eyes and slow scruples took the measure of my stride and then thought better of it when I set my stance. I saved my strength for the path and let small storms pass.

Villages traded news as if it were salt. At one wayside a miller’s boy swore the red towers ahead were being taught new harmonies by stone-church men. On a ridge at dusk I heard a chant carry from a shrine and saw three figures keep a stillness that did not belong to prayer. The road holds more than dust.

I kept my notes in the margins of sleep. Zornhau for the first light, Krumphau when a gust cut across my line, a quiet guard when the day asked for nothing at all. The lute rode my shoulder, scarred and steady. Its creak matched the pull of the pack. Its silence matched my breath.

When the horizon finally lifted and the towers of Bonona showed red against winter, I stopped and let the sight arrive twice. Once to the eyes. Once to the will. The long road had tempered more than stride.