as if the work could be finished

He arrives where the land has already been opened. He finds its emptiness arranged as a promise.

With the trees set back, the ground marked in faint lines where something will be placed, he stands there a moment longer than necessary, as if waiting to be recognized.

There is always a first task, though no one agrees what it is. In some tellings, it begins with a body—muscle against fur, breath against breath. In this one, it begins with a diagram. A way through.

He studies the problem until it yields its names. The lion appears as resistance. The hydra as recurrence. The hind moves just beyond permission, luminous and uncatchable, and so he follows. This is not about taking, he insists. He means to learn the pattern of this place. He keeps a careful distance. The distance defines this story.

There are places he is told not to enter, and yet. What kind of a hero would he be if he listened? He rebrands his defiance as a mark of nobility, enters gently.

The birds lift at his approach—metal, this time—circling back with images of what cannot be held at ground level. He watches himself from above, a figure moving through a field of tasks. It steadies him, this second vantage. It confirms the shape of his intention.

From here, the river is no body, but a solution. When it turns, when it carries what was meant to be cleared, he marks the success and looks away from where it goes.

There is a belt he must take without breaking what it binds. There are mares whose mouths open at the edge of hunger. There is a dog at a threshold that does not understand passage, only guarding. He speaks to it as if it might recognize him.

No, he is not cruel. This is what complicates things. He believes in the work, in the ordered sequence of steps and in the way each task, once named, can be approached and completed. He believes there is a version of himself at the end of it who will stand in a different light, having moved something essential.

Sometimes he imagines that figure: arms open, at a height just sufficient to prove ascent.

He does not imagine the fall, except briefly, as a flicker at the edge of his vision. By way of correction, he reviews the plan, turns to other images. These are readily available.  

Here is one now. A man in a doorway upends a table. Dust rises behind a horse. A voice intones surrender, means dominion. He carries these as permissions. He arranges them carefully, so they do not contradict. 

At night, the tasks loosen and the numbering slips. He finds himself back at the beginning, unclear how he returned. The land is less arranged now, and its studied lines have blurred. Something moves at the edge of sight, as if something had been here all along, waiting. Not a beast, exactly, but its presence implies some refusal of the entire project. 

He stands without instruction and for a moment nothing is named and he does not reach for a tool.

Then the light shifts, and he begins again.