The Long Wall
by Wilfred Owen Morley
It was just a high stone wall in Maine. It was not different from any other save for one queer thing—it had but one side and no matter how you tried, you could not get over it.
Michael rolled down one, of the front windows and knocked his pipe speculatively against the frame, sending little chips of faded blue paint flying. "Are you quite sure," he remarked, "that we should have turned left at that sign?"
"Wouldn't swear to it," mumbled Crosby. He sidled the car to a stop. "Let's rest awhile, anyway. Roust out the maps, and we'll take bearings after a sandwich or two."
They emerged onto the tufty grass, shaking off muscle cramps of various sizes and shapes. No breath of air was stirring. Above them the sky was spotted with motionless clouds, minus birds of any kind. No scurrying animal life showed itself on any side. They masticated assorted sandwiches between yawns and let the sunlight drench them as it saw fit.
Crosby shied a pebble across the well-packed road at the high wall gracing its other side. "Quite a thing, eh?" he ventured.
"Yeah." The two examined the edifice at leisure. As far as they could see in either direction it extended, unbroken, unmarked. Ten feet, all of that, it rose, dull and grey, the stone of it well weathered. There were no distinguishing signs, no places where grass, vines or trees, eclipsed it. Behind them and far ahead, it ran parallel to the sandy road until the far horizons swallowed it up.
"Must be miles long," Crosby whispered, wondering why he dropped his voice. He paused as if to pick it up again. "When did we hit it?"
"After we made the turn. Some time after. In fact," added Michael slowly, "I don't believe we came upon it until a moment or so before we stopped. I was looking at both sides of the road, and who could miss that? I didn't notice it until just before I asked you about the turn."
Crosby turned and stared at the wall as if expecting the structure to explain itself. "It's odd," he stated. "A wall like this should be marked on the map; it should have some sort of reputation, too, don't you think? Signs saying 'You are now ten miles from the famous Long Wall' and so on.
"Who built it? Why should an immense thing like this be constructed out in the heart of the wilds? This territory doesn't look as if it's ever been settled. Maybe it was cleared once, but I'll bet that's all. We must be at least thirty miles from the nearest town."
"More than that," Michael added. "Have you noticed how quiet it's been since we made that turn?" He strode over to the wall, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Look, Clyde. It seems to be made of just one piece. I can't find any sign of separate stones in it at all."
The other joined him. "Where did it start?"
"I don't remember, though I'd say offhand not more than half a mile back. Perhaps less."
Crosby drew out his watch abstractly. "12:30. What say we take a little walk before going on? Half an hour's exercise."
"Good idea, I have a yen to hike around this affair. Look, you start down that way and I'll head on. We'll meet after awhile and then try to figure out how big this thing is."
Crosby ruffled his hair, a faraway look in his eyes. "It may be longer than we think."
"Then say we walk for fifteen minutes, each following it in the opposite direction. At 12:45 we stop, and, if the other isn't in sight, we turn around and come back to the car."
Michael started briskly
down the road, whistling
thoughtfully between
his teeth. There were a
lot of things about all this that
didn't fit in. First of all it was
ten feet in height. Why? Perhaps
there was nothing wrong
with that—after all, he didn't
know what the approved height
of a wall might be, yet it did
seem overfall. Call that point one
then, even if it might turn out
to be okay. Point two: how was
it made? You could not figure
out how it had been put together.
He ran his hand over it.
Yes, it felt like stone. But there
was no sign of any breaks in
it; no separate stones or mortar;
no cavities; no appreciable irregularities.
Very well, then.
Point two: composition.
What was it that was odd about the top of it, now? He let his eye run along its shelf. Nothing there, nothing at all. Ah, that was it. There was no sign of anything at all behind it. No house, trees, bushes, or vines. Nothing leaning over. When they got back to the car, they must walk away from the wall until they could see what kind of land might be on that
