The River Behind the Fog

You slam the throttle forward and the engine roars. The fog tears — not disperses, tears, like fabric ripped from a frame — and for one breathless second you think you've broken through. Then you see what was hiding behind it.

The tributary is gone. In its place stretches a vast, dark river, wide as a lake, flanked on both banks by towering stone formations. They are carved — every surface, floor to crown — in deep, precise symbols that belong to no alphabet you've ever seen. They look old enough to predate the river itself.

Then the engine dies. No cough, no shudder. Just silence, and the barge drifting to a slow stop on water black as ink.