The Other Road
by Dana Beehr
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THE ROAD WAS A PALE gray line, cobbles showing through the yellowing drifts of leaves and the silver poles of the beech trunks. There were great gaps between the cobblestones; the road had not been repaired for a long time—nor would it be. I looked forward, and saw that like the trees, the road itself was dying. You might not think a road can die; I assure you, it can.
They call me Tullia, though that is not my name. I have none, and never felt the lack. In this age, Tullia is the name of the road I walk, and so that is what people call me now. I’ve always borne the name of the road, ever since the two of us first came into existence together, before stone cities and steel weapons, back when there was only a hunting trace along which men a
