Art Explained By A Writer: The Walk of Death (1896)

3 AM
I sneak out of the house—it’s finally silent.

3:30 AM
The boat is like a goldsmith's shop, and your tea stinks, says the note on the riverbank. I look over my shoulder, is that message for me? Hard to imagine, unless it’s from that idiot pacing back and forth on the rocks. How much force would it take to push him? The scene would be interesting enough to film and post on YouTube or TikTok. It reminds me of an old commercial where a guy hangs off a cliff, and instead of helping, his girlfriend says, Hang on... and films him—something that’s a common thing to do these days. But it’s too dark, and I’m not quick enough to sneak up, scare the living daylights out of him by asking if the message is his, then dash downstairs to record it all.

4:01 am
There are empty bottles on the beach. I’m not sure if they’re the ones I threw into the water or leftovers from a drinking party. What if these were the answers I’d been waiting for? I step into the water while Devil stays on the shore. He isn’t interested in joining me.

---

What is that woman doing in the water? What does she see that I don’t? She’s picking something up—is it proof against me? Evidence from the day I asked her to get in the boat?

---

The sun shines through a crack between the closed shutters. I’ve found a way to break out of here. One more night of work, and I'll be gone.

I hear the waves crashing against the poles of the hut, built above the water. I smell the river and watch it splash through the cracks in the wooden floor. This is my only entertainment after years of confinement. I wonder if I can still swim. I barely remember the old man’s words: Pull in, close we, it's not difficult child. Relax and float like a plank on the water. The only thing I ever learned was treading water.

"Take the compass that always points to..." I have no idea where it leads, but as long as it’s the opposite direction from here, I must reach the other side. Whether it’s true, I don’t know, but Grandpa trusted that compass with his life and survived every hardship except the last time, when he shoved it into my hands and told me to run. To this day, I don’t know what I was running from. After an exhausting sprint, I’m still locked up here, and no one’s ever come to my aid.

When I close my eyes, I see a boy smiling at me. He looks familiar. Do I have a brother?

When I pry the plank loose and lower myself, a bottle taps against one of the poles. The sound is almost musical. I keep it as a talisman; if that bottle can float, so can I. There’s something inside. Later, I tell myself. Later, when I’m safe, I’ll see what it is. It’s the first gift I’ve received in all these years.

Planks drift within reach, and I cling to one, letting the current carry me, my face pressed against the wood and the bottle tucked under my shirt. It won’t be long before the moon burns at full strength.

A white gleam shimmers in the distance. Is it a beach? A desert? It doesn’t matter as long as it’s land.

"I am Death," she says. "Welcome. Give me your hand, and I’ll help you out. Did you pay the ferryman, or did you crawl through the hellhole into the well?"

I don’t know who she is, but her face is the kindest I’ve seen in years.

"Do you want an apple?" she asks. "Shake that tree when they’re ripe, it’s when they taste best. Don’t take one by force, or you’ll pay for it."

I nod, eyeing the tree swaying gently in the wind.

"How can you refuse an apple, child?" Mother Holle teases. I hesitate. Accepting apples from old women can be dangerous. I remember Grandpa’s fairy tales.

"Nonsense!" She laughs. "These are organic, bio+, and as long as you only take what you need and waste nothing, nature will care for you. Look at me, I’m at least 4,000 years old and still walking. "Trust me, you’re in good hands if you take the walk of Death. Now, where are you hiding with that driftwood? Aren’t you cold? I’ve made a fire. Come inside, but grab some firewood on your way in. I’ve baked apple pie and pancakes—unless you’re on a keto diet... You’re as skinny as Hansel and Gretel!"

She laughs, and I join her. She has Grandpa’s humor.

"I’d love to warm myself by the fire, thank you," I say politely, balancing firewood in one arm and clutching the bottle to my chest.

When the flames dance high, she serves the food. I eat warm apple pie with whipped cream, and she is right, the walk of Death isn't bad at all. She knows how to survive and take the best out of life. That night, it's the first time in long I sleep sound and safe.

_{2.4.25
@almaguer
Painter: Magnus Enckell
Painting: The Walk Of Death (1896) - public domain
Prompt: The compass that always points to your... by @freewritehouse
Art & Writing is hosted by @solperez
Original text: Dutch - translated}

_{steempro.com - test
If I try to delete a word/text by blogging it, the cursor jumps to the end of the post.
I have no idea how to center the picture. Is this done automatically?
I again cannot schedule a post - this time some read message showed as I clicked 'scheduled' but it shows in a flash, it's too fast to read what it says.
I mainly wrote in a notepad and pasted the text.
After I tried to schedule and it was denied for an unclear reason the 'publish' button disappeared. I showed after going to home and back to 'the pencil'.}