Purple Skies

The soft warmth sensation of a dog's nose against ones palm is a reassuring one. I had chosen Echo's name ironically as a joke I think I only ever found funny once. The white Norwegian Buhund had been with me for about four years now, ever since I found her roaming around my camp one night, pushing my backpack around the fire-site. She's not the greatest conversation partner, on account of her being mute. Also on account on her being a dog, I suppose, but it's easy to forget these things after a while.

We had been going southwards for several days now, steadily keeping away from the sickly purple beginning to spread over the sky. They had said that the people coming through the crack in space had been important. "We can learn so much from one another." they said. I wasn't in any position to contribute to the conversation, but now I feel it's justified to call them mistaken. Purple layers unfold clouds, far above us, as we face the river blocking our path. Over the last few days we have noticed the purple sky catching up with us, little by little. First it was the silence. Beyond Echo and I, we hadn't seen anybody in a while anyway, but once the mornings didn't begin with the incessant singing of birds we were overdue to move. Again. I don't have a collar for Echo, so pulling her on top of the log against her will is a little difficult. She splashes with her paws, expressing her distaste for baths by craning her head upwards. I push her along in front of me as we cross the river. Echo is carrying the backpack. It'll stay drier this way, and it's not particularly heavy now anyway. She flees onto dry ground once it's in leaping range and I climb out of the water after her. She shakes herself dry and grins sheepishly back at me, as if inviting me to do the same. I would, if I could.

The top of the mountain behind us has begun to twist into itself. A stark reminder of the thing we're avoiding. We don't know whether we'd twist as well, and whether that would be such a bad thing, but I for one am not eager to try it out. Neither are the animals, it seems, and if I've learned one thing from Echo it's that animal instincts are rarely unfounded. We hurry across a street cutting through the woods and towards a wooden cabin. I click my tongue at Echo and she goes looking for food. It's what we're best at when we work together. Her claws make clicking sounds as she gallops down the short corridor and darts into a storage closet. I check the room for other useful items. Glass containers and cloth I could replace mine with. Maybe a backpack that's not as battered as mine. No such luck. The cabin has running water, so I refill the bottles I carry. Echo bumps into me as I secure them to my backpack, then rushes off again. She's found a stash of non-perishables. Pickled vegetables, some old sausages and dry bread. She's helping herself to the sausages. That's fine. I'm not sure whether she can eat pickled things, and she's not going to like the bread. Neither am I, but it'll do. I figure that's all we'll find without losing too much time. I take whatever Echo has left of the sausages and stand up. She tilts her head. She wants to know which way I want to go.

Echo has found a beetle. It's shiny and brown, and I don't think I like how it looks. It's facing down my dog with nothing but its stick-eyes and wings. Both do a little dance, wiggling side to side, unwilling to let the other pass. Echo eats it. I scratch her behind the ear. She likes that. I've prepared a boat for us to continue on the next leg of our journey. There's no more land further south, so we'll have to cross water for a bit. I don't know how fast I can row, but I'm willing to give it a try. I have prepared food and water for at least two weeks, if we ration it well. It's strapped underneath where I'll be sitting, so Echo can't accidentally do anything to it. I lure Echo into the boat with whistles and neck-scratches. She plays along, but I can tell by her look that she's not amused. Not even when I give her the neck-scratches I've promised her. I push the boat away from the shore with the oar and begin rowing. Echo looks back at the land, ears and tail upright. I wonder if that's how she says goodbye. She keeps looking that way even after mist has swallowed up our view of the woods, and the sandbanks, and the discoloured, unrecognizable mountain. I know, because I check the compass a lot in between rowing, until I figure out that Echo's nose is pointing north. I check the compass less often afterwards.

We're out of pickles. The sky has closed in on us too. Not just from the North, but also from the South. We're standing underneath the edge of a circle of blue. The sunlight being filtered through the purple skies looks a little disoriented. It's as if it's been spinning one way really fast, and suddenly reversed the direction it's spinning, and now it's dizzy and stumbling a little. Echo isn't looking. She's found a marigold flower. I place my hand on her back and she turns to me, ears and tail stand to attention. She looks like she's smiling, but there's a question in the slight tilt of her head. I shrug as the sky passes over us.