The hand is a thing of bone and tendon. It holds the shovel. It holds the clay. It holds the weight of the world.

I am Thomas. I am a clerk. I sit at a desk. I stamp papers. The ink is black. The paper is white. The day is gray.

But here, in the wild, the hand is different. Here, it digs. Here, it finds.

We are on the road. The road is old. It winds through the hills. The air is cold. The air smells of rot and rain.

My name is Thomas Whitmore. I am thirty years old. I have a job in London. I have a small room. I have a life that is thin.

I am walking with Elias.

Elias is old. He is my teacher. He was a man of letters. Now he is a man of dust. He walks ahead of me. His coat is brown. His hair is white. He does not look back.

I walk behind. I carry the pack. The pack is heavy.

We are going to the place. The place is in the legend. The place is in the map. The map is old. The map is wrong.

"Keep up," Elias says.

His voice is dry. Like leaves.

I keep up. My legs burn. My lungs burn.

Why am I here? I do not know. I only know I must be here.

We have been walking for three days. The sun is low. The shadows are long.

We stop. We sit by a stone. The stone is smooth. The stone is cold.

Elias takes out a flask. He drinks. He offers it to me.

I drink. The liquid is hot. It burns my throat.

"Are you afraid?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say.

"You should be."

"Of what?"

"Of the cost."

I look at my hand. It is dirty. There is mud under the nails. There is blood under the nails.

I do not remember getting the blood.

"The hand," I say.

Elias looks at me. His eyes are dark. His eyes are deep.

"What about it?"

"It feels heavy."

"It is heavy. It is the heaviest thing we have."

I flex the fingers. The tendons pull. The skin stretches.

In London, this hand signs letters. It moves a pen. It is soft. It is pale. It is weak.

Here, this hand is strong. Here, this hand is hard. Here, this hand is mine.

But it is also a burden. It is the thing that acts. It is the thing that chooses.

If I stop, the hand stops. If I run, the hand runs.

I cannot escape the hand.

"We are close," Elias says.

He stands. He brushes the dust from his knees.

He walks on.

I stand. I walk on.

The path narrows. The trees close in. The branches touch the ground.

It is dark.

It is very dark.

We do not speak.

The silence is loud.

I hear my own heart. It beats fast. It beats hard.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I hear my breath. It is ragged. It is wet.

I look down.

I see the ground.

The ground is black.

It is not soil.

It is something else.

It is like ash.

It is like soot.

It is like the inside of a chimney.

I stop.

Elias stops.

He looks at me.

"Do not touch it," he says.

"I didn't."

"Look at your hand."

I look.

My hand is clean.

I look at the ground again.

It is moving.

The black stuff is moving.

It flows like water.

It flows like smoke.

It rises.

It forms a shape.

It forms a hand.

A black hand.

It reaches up.

It reaches for me.

I pull back.

I stumble.

I fall.

My knee hits a rock.

It hurts.

I look at Elias.

He is standing still.

He is watching.

He is not helping.

"Why?" I ask.

My voice is small.

"Why is this here?"

Elias does not answer.

He walks past me.

He walks toward the black hand.

The black hand stops.

It waits.

Elias stops.

He looks at the black hand.

He looks at me.

"It is you," he says.

"I don't understand."

"It is the part of you that does not go to the desk. It is the part of you that wants to be free. It is the part of you that is wild."

"I don't want to be wild."

"You do. You have always wanted to be wild. But you are a clerk. You are safe. You are small. You are free of consequence. But you are not free of yourself."

He steps forward.

The black hand moves.

It grabs his ankle.

He does not struggle.

He stands still.

"I am free," he says.

"Of what?" I ask.

"Of the lie."

He kicks the hand away.

The hand dissolves.

It turns to smoke.

It disappears.

Elias turns to me.

"Your turn," he says.

I look at the ground.

The black stuff is still there.

It is waiting.

I look at my hand.

My hand is trembling.

I raise my hand.

I reach down.

I touch the black.

It is cold.

It is wet.

It is alive.

It pulls at me.

It pulls at my soul.

It wants to drag me under.

It wants to swallow me.

I feel my fear.

I feel my shame.

I feel my longing.

It is all there.

It is all in the dark.

I am not a clerk.

I am a beast.

I am a man.

I am both.

I pull my hand back.

I stand.

The black is gone.

The ground is just ground.

It is dirt.

It is mud.

It is real.

I look at Elias.

He is smiling.

It is a sad smile.

It is a proud smile.

"We have to go on," he says.

"I'm tired," I say.

"Good. Tired is honest."

We walk.

The night falls.

The stars come out.

They are bright.

They are cold.

They are far away.

I look at the stars.

I feel small.

I feel free.

I feel afraid.

I am free of the desk.

I am free of the ink.

I am free of the stamp.

But I am not free of the hand.

The hand is still here.

The hand is still digging.

The hand is still holding.

I cannot put it down.

I will never put it down.

That is the cost.

That is the price.

To be free, you must carry the weight.

To be wild, you must feel the pain.

To be true, you must break.

I look at Elias.

He is walking ahead.

He is walking into the dark.

He is walking into the mist.

He is disappearing.

"Wait," I call out.

He does not stop.

"Where are you going?"

He does not answer.

He is gone.

I am alone.

I stand in the dark.

I stand in the wild.

I stand in the cold.

I look at my hand.

It is shaking.

It is dirty.

It is mine.

I close it.

I make a fist.

It is tight.

It is strong.

I am Thomas.

I am a clerk.

I am a man.

I am free.

I am broken.

I am whole.

I walk on.

The road is long.

The road is dark.

The road is mine.

I do not look back.

I do not look up.

I look at the hand.

The hand guides me.

The hand leads me.

The hand is my master.

The hand is my friend.

The hand is my enemy.

The hand is me.

I walk.

I dig.

I live.

The night is deep.

The night is deep.

The night is deep.

I am here.

I am here.

I am here.

The hand is here.

The hand is here.

The hand is here.

We are together.

We are one.

We are free.

We are bound.

We are free.

The hand digs.

The hand holds.

The hand is.

The hand is.

The hand is.