They found themself at that point on the horizon where parallel lines meet. It wasn’t that they’d been deliberately heading for this place, this spot, wherever - whatever – it was. True, they’d been increasing the distance of their runs, training up ready for something, something big, but they hadn’t expected this. Not at all. This very much seemed to be the end of the road.
Planted exactly where the lines met was a Union Jack, vaguely fluttering at around the height of their thigh. Had there been an imperial expedition who found this anomaly previously? If so, it must have been a good while ago because the flag was faded, grubby, and frayed at its leading edge. Was this then the last outpost of Empire? As far as they knew, there had been no news reports, no jingoistic trumpeting of this far-flung claim. There had been no fanfare, extraordinarily. Perhaps, they thought, it was like Scott of the Antarctic. Perhaps the expedition party had all died here or hereabouts, some curling up in foetal balls to stoically fade away, proud but deluded. Others wandering off into the unknown, more or less selflessly. Was such a demise the reason that news of their outlandish discovery, their far-fetched claim never got out? At least not as far out as themself. Where would anyone go from here, though? Where would they wander, where would they roam?
“Hello?” they called, foolishly they felt immediately. There was no hint of an echo: their voice cleaved the air like a stepping razor and flatlined in the exact same instant that it spiked: a cymbal struck and clasped and so muted. And there was no reply. Only the breeze, which was not strong, carried no scent and was neither warm nor chill, but which constantly shifted direction. The flag fluttered.
“I’ve got to get out of this place!” Quailing into a void.
But where was there for them to go from here? An involuntary tic pulsed in their eyelid. It seemed obvious that there was no way forward past this point, but what was there to go back to? They were certain that on their unwitting way here there had been no forks in the road, no options. So, the only way back was the way they had come. It must be an extremely long way home, however. They glanced quickly: that infinite divergence was appallingly daunting.
“Home?”
Was that where they’d set out from? Try as they might, they could not recall. Home is where the heart is. But theirs was here, beating a djembe drum in their chest, bass and strong but slowing as they finally got their ragged breath back. All they could remember before getting here was running, running harder and harder with no starting point in either time or space. They didn’t know how far they’d come or how quickly. Whether they had run uphill or down dale, they had no inkling. All they could bring to mind were the sensations of one foot falling hypnotically in front of the other, incessantly. Tears welled unbidden in their eyes but were not shed.
Into their mind floated a song by a group who dubbed themselves Madness from a time long gone, a time musically way before their own generation’s supine off-beats and monotonous arrhythmic white-noise. The tune was lost to them, but they mouthed aloud the only lyric that they could recall:
“One step beyond.”
Was there one step beyond the end of the road? Could they indeed go forward? They examined and assessed, but did not believe it to be so. Onwards was not a viable direction. It would require, if not a leap of faith, then at least trusting themself to put one foot in front of the other again. One step beyond was, for them at least, a bridge too far. They winced. That was a terribly mixed metaphor or whatever. But they really must return. It would surely be an extremely arduous and vapid journey, though, and they were so tired, entirely worn out. Worn down.
“You should go back.” Their shoulders slumped.
What had those lost explorers who had been here before them decided? After all, they had presumably arrived by glorified intention rather than aimless footfall. For them this was just happenstance, for those predecessors it must have been a quest. Madness indeed.
Suddenly angry in a way that they really should have been immediately they saw it, they seized the Union Jack and made to break the stick from which it had fluttered across their knee. Whatever it was made from, however, the “stick” was too strong, iron and unyielding. All they succeeded in doing was hurting themself. So, they cried out and dropped the flag on the ground, unheard and unseen.
They spat on the horrid cloth.
Hopping madness now. They rubbed their knee, casting their gaze over the panoramic nothingness. There was no going back. There was no going on. They were where they were. They were here. They had arrived. Better to travel than to arrive, they mused wryly. Because now they were trapped, seemingly doomed to be a perpetual arrival. Their mouth twitched up at one corner. If there had been a mirror, they thought, it would reflect wild eyes: frantic stasis. If only they had more get up and go. If only there was somewhere to go!
“Chill, sib!”
For no reason other than there was nothing else left to do, they dropped to the ground and, flat on their stomach, put their eye to the hole from which they had ripped the Britannic standard. They had no idea what they were expecting, but there at the end of the tunnel… Was that? They thought they could see a faint glimmer, the merest chink of light!
Except that it wasn’t a tunnel, only a hole which they could barely fit three gathered fingers into, and the ground was hard and dry and sharp. There was no way in, no way out, not any way at all. The perceived light was no beacon of hope. They sighed, withdrew their lacerated fingers from the hole, rolled over and coiled themself into a sitting position, arms linked about their knees. Their fingers spotted crimson on the earth. Rather than look back, they looked up.
“Above me only sky.”
Another lyric, or almost, from somewhere or other? The clear sky was such a deep blue. If they knew very little else – and they didn’t – at least they had some ancient song-lines to amuse themself. No tunes, however, no music. Nothing they could comfortingly hum. Curious that. They wondered about comfort, and about who or what might bring comfort to them? Try as they might do, they could think of no one they had left behind who cared for them, or for whom they cared. They must know and be known, but carelessly. They were not realised. And they did not have a faith to fall back upon. Everything they might once have believed in had been disappeared or nauseatingly sullied. Disconnected, that’s what they were, not only physically but emotionally and spiritually, that unholy trinity. That was all that had become of them: a lonely long-distance runner!
So, they could conjure literature as well as ancient lyrics, titles anyway, because they couldn’t for the life of them remember exactly what that book was about beyond the bald evidence of its title, where it was set, who the protagonists were… Who even wrote it? Though it seemed a fitting title, it was not actually a good fit at all, because they were not lonely. Yes, they were alone, but they certainly did not feel the need for company of any sort, animal, vegetable or mineral. Certainly not human. Not even a dog. The more they stopped thinking about it, the more they felt at ease. Their race was run and they had finished simultaneously first and last. What else was there?
Suddenly, they had no need to travel further, to go back or to turn away. They were in place, impossibly with themself and with no baggage. No more aggro. No need for further analysis. Nor action.
“Except…”
Picking up the soiled flag, they withdrew it from its unbreakable support. Then they laid the red, white and blue cloth over the small hole in the ground exactly where the parallel lines met, the hole they now thought of as the arsehole of the world. They removed their worn running shoes and laid them aside, neatly side by side, tongues hanging out, parched. Summoning energy from deep within, and using the stick as dramatic prop - a cane around which to circle, a sword to shred the air, a drumstick to beat time - they began to dance. In revolt, the wind ruffled their hair as they tripped a wild Moribayassa, shedding themself, overcoming: stamping and scuffing and grinding the bloody flag into the dirt.
This was terminal.