L'aura del Campo

The Gorge

Rain washing over the rocks, threads joining into rivers rushing thru narrow slots, over the edge. Rain sprayed into space, wetting our small group.

We crossed the bridge, peering into the rage below, headed towards tunnels where our lamps would light the darkness, give us a moment's respite from the storm outside.

We stood there speechless, drying each other off with whatever we could find.

"Do you think they'll ever find Rosa?" someone whispered.

No one dared to answer.

Rivulets ran down the old roadway now abandoned to tourists on foot or animals seeking shelter.

"We were warned" one voice quivered.

The deafening torrent lessened. Light enough now for an umbrella.

We were a rainbow of color trudging bleakly down a road.

At a bus stop we waited until it was obvious there was no traffic. It was getting darker.

We carefully picked our way down.

No one spoke of Rosa.

No one mentioned the warning.

No one failed to notice how a sacrifice had surfeited the gods.

Next morning we piled into a boat with one empty seat, threatening memories fading like forbidding mountains, diminishing the farther we sailed out to sea.

© Kåre Enga [7.march.2017]