By Sara McClayton

I can’t find the road. My boots, caked with grass and mud, press bruises into my calves. Gnats swarm my eyes. Sweat soaks my clothes. It is my second hour wandering these muggy trails. I am beginning to worry. 

I stop, examine a cluster of young pines. Did I pass them earlier? I grab a gray stone and place it before the biggest tree. Now I’ll know for certain. 

Minutes and miles pass. I have not seen the stone again, and the shadows have lengthened. I dial my husband. “I’m definitely lost,” I tell him. “Can Laura and Sean come out with the Jeep?”

I say goodbye and wait. I sing the longest song I know five times. No Jeep. 

My husband calls. “Can you hear the Jeep?”

“No, “I say, “I can’t hear anything.” I realize as I say this that I do not even hear the buzz of insects. 

“We’re shouting your name on the trails!” I hear some mumbling in the background. “Laura says to go west.”

This is not remotely helpful. 

“I’ll start yelling,” I say, “Try to follow my voice.” 

My scream barely echoes in the dense brush. “Can you hear me?” I ask my husband. 

“No,” he says, “We hear nothing but-“

My phone goes black. The silence congeals. 

In sudden panic I close my eyes. I struggle to steady my breath. I try to imagine the forest of my childhood, icy streams and silky ferns. But I glimpse only dimness, the meadows parting to reveal a blank. 

I open my eyes. I see the arrow. 

Just a red smear of paint on the tree in front of me. It points to the left. 

How had I missed it? I approach the tree and touch the arrow. My finger comes back crimson. 

My limbs tighten. I follow the arrow despite my unease. I come to a fork in the path. Another arrow, this time pointing to the right. I follow, grazed by blackberries and slender branches. A third arrow, pointing to the left. 

This time I pause. The silence is thick and watchful. I gaze to the right, then the left. As I follow the arrow, I hear a rustle behind me. 

I whip around to stillness. I continue down the path, jogging, until I reach the wall. 

It is at least six feet tall, a fortress of mossy stone. I think the road might be behind it, so I sink my fingers into a slimy crevice to hoist myself up. When I peer over, I see nothing but forest. 

I turn back to the path. On top of a gleaming cairn is another arrow. 

Dread clogs my throat. This arrow points to the right, down a strangely dim path cloaked by silver- barked trees. I follow slowly, each step a suck of mud. I turn the corner to see the tree. 

It is different from the others. Thick, ropy branches send yellow leaves to the sky. The smell of spiced sap mixes with soil. The dripping arrow does not face right or left, but up. 

Struggling to breathe, I crane my neck under the branches. 

Something stares with leering eyes. 

I scream and tear down the path. I hear a giggle splinter from tree to tree, in front, behind, below, above. I run until my breath grows ragged and the silence returns. 

Gasping and heaving, I notice a quality to the silence. The blurred edges hew vivid and sharp. I see rough contours of bark, the glisten of sun through the grasses. As my breathing slows, I glimpse the gray stone in the orchard of pines. 

I close my eyes. The haze fades in a last choke of laughter. In place of the forest, I imagine the road.

When I open my eyes, I hear the Jeep. 

*   *   *

Sara McClayton is an educator and writer living in Baltimore, Maryland with her husband and dog. In addition to teaching English with Baltimore City Public Schools, she enjoys spending time outdoors, teaching and practicing yoga, and reading. Her work can be seen or is upcoming in Unbroken Journal, Neologism Poetry Journal, and Club Plum Literary Journal, among others.