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cleared the route that was his daily wont, the selfsame route that had just yesterday played puckish games with him. Colin ate some of the food he’d brought and took a long draught from his canteen before concluding that he would try the paths again, this time making deliberate changes to his choice of crossroads, this time doing his best to get lost.
    He once more took to the paths, zigging where he had previously zagged, cobbling together ever stranger combinations of paths. Every bend of the trail stoked his eagerness that he would soon feel the cool basement drafts creeping out from the reeds like luring fingers, but to no avail. Even shutting his eyes and roaming with literal blindness did not bring Colin any nearer to the marsh or the chapel.
    Though his tricks had not accomplished Colin’s goal, they did manage to get him to the rim of the woods that was farthest from his home. Weary and overheated, he slumped down on a log and fished out his all-but-drained canteen. He was afraid. Not only had he been unsuccessful at relocating the church, but now even his memories of the place were growing muddied and ephemeral. Had his granddaughters’ version of yesterday been the bona fide one? The implications of this possibility left Colin cold. Perhaps Paula and Millie and whoever else were correct in their theories. He was, unbeknownst to himself, slipping.
    He had almost mired himself fully in newfound woe when he spotted a horrible face in the brush, a face that lent immediate and shocking validation to his crooked memories of the chapel in the reeds.
    The features were amorphous, but the presence was undeniable. Having been mined of its eyes, what stared out at Colin were two black pits. Colin dropped his canteen and marched over the stony path to get nearer to the object. The pair of hollow sockets was the only detail that was clearly visible. The rest of the face was mummified in a great webworm nest, which had been spun over the thin branches of a young maple. Colin stood a mere foot from the nest, watching as a few of its inhabitants squirmed over the dark face’s cheekbones or nestled into the great gape of its mouth. He couldn’t help but wonder whether the effigy had been carefully inserted into the nest or whether the bugs had spun it themselves. Perhaps they had woven their whitish gauze around the face to claim it as their own.
    The complexion was dark, as though it had been hewn from a leadwood tree. Thorns from the effigy’s crown punctured the murky threads, allowing Colin to identify what it was he was looking at. Before he was even aware of what he was doing, he reached his hands into the openings where the nest sagged. He wriggled the thorns loose and then began the careful extraction. Webworms muscled across Colin’s fingers. He wondered if they were attempting to fight for what was theirs.
    He freed the head without causing any major damage to the nest. Cradling it in his palms, feeling the sickening heft and studying the hideous features, Colin’s hands began to quake. The expression on the face was not one of pious suffering, or even of hurt; instead, it was an emblem of rancour, of unfathomable malice. The mouth was a carved maw. The lips curled back to reveal thick, misshapen teeth. Deep furrows had been gouged along the brow and around the pitted eyes, suggesting flesh stretched tight across bone. Fire seemed to have reduced the whole carving to carbon. Some of the darkness stained Colin’s hands. He glanced shamefully over either shoulder, sickened at the thought of anyone seeing him there, cradling such an awful thing. He prepared to return it to its nest but halted halfway.
    The pocket of his puffer vest was unzipped before Colin even realized he had reached for it. He extracted the pair of coins that he had spotted yesterday morning. Something guided his hand and instructed him to plunk each silvery disc into the Messiah’s hollowed eyes. His payment for the Ferryman now in place, Colin