Mason

The terrain matched what we expected.

The left branch made sense.

We took it.

We walked on.

An hour later we found a second post.

This one wasn't at a major junction, just a minor fork where the trail skirted a marshy spot and rejoined.

The post had no official signboard at all.

Instead, there was a strip of bark nailed to it with something scratched into the bark.

Not carved cleanly,

scratched like someone had used a nail or a knife tip and pressed too hard.

It looked like a symbol more than letters, a few lines intersecting, then a circle, then another set of lines.

No arrow, no direction.

Mason looked at me.

People mark hunting areas, I said, because I wanted an explanation that didn't make my skin tighten or someone's trying to be funny.

He didn't answer.

He just kept walking,

But his head turned more than it had the day before, like he was checking behind us without admitting he was doing it.

That afternoon we crossed a creek that was higher than it should have been.

Not dangerous, but enough that we had to slow down and pick our way across slick rocks.

On the far bank, tucked under a tangle of roots, I saw something white.