Tale of Birle
“Waking, Birle peered into the moist air, but could see no riverbank, on any side. The boat moved gently along, like a basket set adrift. But this was like no fog she had even seen on the river. Fogs lay down along the river like ribbons lifted on air, or the unbound hair of drowned women; river fog floated, soft and fine, until the morning brushed it away. This fog crowded gray-white around their boat. Birle knew it must be day, because it was daylight that caused fog to shine white, but how fa...r into the day they had traveled, she had no idea.
It should have been frightening, this blindness, this ignorance, but it wasn’t. She could see the Lord, where he slept, with his long legs hanging out over the flat water. She could see a little way around them. Such isolation was safety. The thickness of the fog made them invisible. At any time, she could pick up the oars and steer them to one bank or the other, and it didn’t matter which; but she judged that for the time they were safest in midstream.MoreLess
It should have been frightening, this blindness, this ignorance, but it wasn’t. She could see the Lord, where he slept, with his long legs hanging out over the flat water. She could see a little way around them. Such isolation was safety. The thickness of the fog made them invisible. At any time, she could pick up the oars and steer them to one bank or the other, and it didn’t matter which; but she judged that for the time they were safest in midstream.MoreLess
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