Seeker quickened his steps as the fading sunlight cast long shadows. Not far from Stupidity, he reached the source of the river: the Slough of Despond, where waters bled out from the mire, murky with what the bog could no longer hold.
The Slough stretched before him, dark and treacherous. Mist clung to the reeds, and blackened pools shifted silently. The stench of decay, damp earth, and rotting vegetation pressed in, a hint of stagnant air catching in his throat.
Today was not going according to plan. He’d been robbed. The sun was down, and his stomach growled—reminding him of the bread he’d left in the mud. The far side was lost in darkness. Unlike in his Book, there were no steppingstones.
There was nowhere to rest—not even a tree in sight. The air carried a damp chill. Laughter drifted from Stupidity, low and mean. It tangled with the sucking squelch of mud, the ripple of distant water, and the whisper of reeds in the wind.
Just beyond where the Slough spilled into the river, scattered patches of solid ground broke the surface. Not enough to cross the Slough—but enough to reach the far bank. He tapped the ground with his staff.
He took one step. The ground was soft, but it held. He took another—his boot slipped, and he barely caught himself before his other foot plunged into the muck. He tested the ground ahead, but his staff found no bottom. The cold, sucking mire closed on his legs. Damp crept through his clothes as he tried to turn, each step dragged heavy by the mire. Mists thickened around him, obscuring the blackened pools.
He stood very still. Beneath him, the shifting mud gurgled softly. Reeds rustled in unseen currents. Mist wrapped around him, cold and clinging. The stench of decay grew stronger as the mud stirred—stagnant water reeking of rot. The air thickened in his mouth, musty and damp, almost choking.
He was thankful he carried no burden, unlike Christian in his Book. Still, he sank. Standing still was no use. He listened—for laughter drifting from the village. Not so mighty now. Was that his imagination? He turned, trying to face Stupidity, to retrace his steps. But the sound echoed, impossible to place.
He was waist-deep in mud, darkness pressing close. Fog shifted, faintly lit by unseen sources. Shadows moved within it. Distorted shapes rippled through the water. The mire fell silent, broken only by his labored breathing, the slosh of movement, an occasional ripple, and the dull squelch of sucking mud.
“Help!” he cried.
Help? the Slough echoed back, as if mocking.
A bittern boomed somewhere deep in the mist, its call hollow and mournful, like a drum struck underwater.
The more he struggled, the faster he sank—chest, shoulder, neck.
His feet touched bottom. Then his staff followed. He relaxed for a second—then gagged on the thick stench of rot, the bitter tang of sweat and stagnant air, fog pressing against his lips like a foul vapor. Slime flooded his mouth before he could catch a breath. He threw his head back to cry out, but only a gurgling sound escaped.
With no sun, moon, or stars to guide him, he fixed an invisible point in his mind and pushed toward it. There was no choice.
Hours passed. Maybe days. He imagined the sun rising and setting. Again. And again. With the fog so thick, there was no way to know. There was no end.
The relentless cold of the mire seeped into his bones. He couldn’t remember warmth. Not even sunshine. His legs were lead. Muscles screamed. Fatigue pressed down. Even his eyes sagged with the weight of it. Each step drained everything he had.
Step. One more. Just one more. He inched toward that invisible point.
If he stopped, he would die. He didn’t care. Couldn’t. Had to. He would just rest his eyes. Just for a second. Light washed over him. And then—everything faded.
