Oathbreakers

The wind blows pine needles across the path. Things move in the undergrowth. The path is long and I cannot see what lies ahead. Eyes dart in the shadows behind me, but the drums march me forward. The dusk fades on either side and there is only night in front. Left, right, left, right. A buzzard calls. I don’t look up. There is only the path. Only the drums.

I do not choose to follow them. I didn’t choose to hear them but they come calling. The path doesn’t ask if you are ready, only that you follow. The drums are not fear but something older. I ask the trees: what is behind me?

The wind answers in catkins: Oathbreakers.

The shapes at my heels aren’t evil. They made the promise before they knew its cost. They are compelled to follow, because I started walking. The wood knows this. It has watched people turn back at the treeline for centuries. The path exists whether I walk it or not. I have been standing at the edge, on fallen pinecones, dry leaves and empty acorns, for nearly as long.

The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it, until the time comes.

Until the time comes. It arrives with the drums, it is unmistakable.

I am not unafraid. I step onto the path because I am the only one who can walk it. The drums put courage into heartbeats, left, right, left, right. The trees do not offer comfort. They offer the paths of the dead, they have been waiting. I go anyway.

A broken promise does not disappear. It haunts and rises until it is fulfilled.

I do not summon. I release the shadows. And myself. I walk not to keep a promise but to break one, to honour an older one, the one made to my daimon, before I turned grey.

The only thing left is to walk with no promise of light, only the drums, the pulse of the unfinished. Behind me, always a breath away, dread follows. Fear does not pursue me, it pushes me forward.

The madness was never the path. It was turning to look into the faces of the oathbreakers. The trance of the dark keeps them behind me in creeping whispers. Always the drums. There is no way but into darkness.

The trees: why have you stepped onto the path?

I answer: To have peace. To break one oath and keep an older one. The drums the pulse of everything unfinished.

It is not too late to honour what you owe, even on the other side of death.