At the Edge of Hope

He was exhausted. His sleep, though plagued by dreams, had brought him some new strength but he knew it would not last. He was growing weaker. He began walking again, ever toward the great shadow on the horizon, ever further into the unknown. His rests became more frequent, and he soon lost the will to continue. But what then? He could not survive if he remained, but he could not go much longer without nourishment. He closed his eyes and stilled his breathing. The air hung thick about him. Gently, gradually, as if slowly making its way toward him, a sound like a rustling whisper reached his ears. He hesitated, not daring to hope, but yes, it must be… the soft trickle of water. He could not run but he moved as quickly as he might in the direction of the sound. As he went the trickle became more distinguished; the image of a flowing stream lodged itself in his mind. The hope of a destination, a goal, brought him strength as he did not believe yet remained in him. And now it was there before him. In the dim light the water appeared a murky grey but he paid no heed. He rushed forward to the bank and plunged his head downward, drinking greedily, relieving his parched mouth. The stream appeared to be only a few inches deep at its edge, perhaps a foot in the middle, but it was water. He would survive. After a long rest at the water’s edge he resumed his journey, now traveling upstream alongside the water. Farther up, where the water was deeper, the man stripped off his clothes and washed them as best he could. The blood had been a constant reminder of what had happened and he was glad to be rid of the memory. He put his clothes back on and continued leisurely onward. He was wet, and the clothes weighed on him, but he was alive. He was going to make it.