Once, they say, there was a great earthquake that shook the mountains and ripped apart the land, leaving a tear in the ground like the gaping maw of a monster so fierce even the mountains would tremble in fear of it. Anything that fell into this pit was forever lost. No one dared to climb downward into the dank heat that was far, far below the ledge to attempt a rescue; once something fell over into the cavity, it was never seen again.
There are many stories that tellers weave that surround the edge of this world; there are many legends that lead us to believe different things about the precipice and why it was created. Mayhap the gods were angry at the humans? That they'd become greedy and selfish? Or maybe they'd stopped believing in the gods? Maybe they'd forgotten about who'd created them, who had given them life, and knowledge, and many other things…
Maybe.
But if you know anything in this world, it is that you never trust a storyteller's words fully. They spin pretty words, and weave pretty tales, but when it comes down to the cold hard truth, the things they say are nothing more than petty lies based upon the barest of facts. Even so, lies are sometimes welcome in the world in which we live. If nothing, they envelope you and take you away, if just for a few moments, into another world, one that is not slowly crumbling away into nothingness.
Before that happens, before the entirety of the world collapses into the darkness that waits beyond the edge, I will stand upon it, breathe the air at the edge of life, and follow the cliff downward…downward…downward…
When we were younger, we would run and play in the fields like children do, without a care in the world. We ran and played with the sun on our backs and our hair full of wildflowers that had seemed so beautiful, like they would never die or wilt or loose that wonderful, wonderful smell that filled our noses like honey filled a bee's nest. We felt invincible, like nothing could stop us, like nothing was wrong. Despite all this, we all knew, somewhere in the back of our minds, that while we were invincible now, there was something deeper, darker that awaited our attention when we grew older. But then, we were children, and we were happy.
When the sun set on days like those, we would all chase each other from the fields, our tiny feet pat-patting in the dirt, leaving broad, childlike marks there for anyone who would care to notice. We would laugh and tease, brushing smudges from our cheeks and earth from our clothes, and the older ones would take the smaller ones onto their backs, weary from play, and then we would troop to the village where we knew our parents were waiting for us.
Some nights, we all separated into our different homes, leaving the play for another day when the sun would shine just as bright, and fell into our beds and slept until morning came. The other nights, however, we all fought our sleepiness away and walked together to the inn, where we knew we could bribe (or rather beg) the innkeeper into telling us stories she'd heard from people who had passed through our quaint little village. Miss Matilda, for that was her name, most nights would chuckle, dust her hands off on her apron and herd us all to the large hearth, where she would sit in the rocking chair to the left of the fire and tell us a story or two (the other nights she would cluck her tongue at us and shoo us away, at which we'd groan and whine and complain but would dutifully follow her orders and leave the tales for another night in which she was in a better mood). Often, we asked for the same story: the one about how the great ledge came to be.
"Please, Miss Matilda?" We would all beg, and she would roll her eyes and shake her head huffily, wild, fiery ringlets bouncing 'round it. Then she would say, "You children and that story! Why – you would think children would like a story that didn't include death and disaster." She would mutter a few words under her breath, something about children and getting heads looked at (at which we all would laugh), but would reluctantly agree to our whimsical fancy and begin the way she always began:
"This is the story about The Great Earthquake that split the land – at least, it's our village's version of the story," Miss Matilda would say, and then she would continue: "Once, the land was whole, and it was a beautiful place. However, it was not as beautiful as the land in which we live in now. In that land, there lived humans who prayed to the gods, everyday. If one would miss a day, they would pray double the amount of time the next day so the gods would stay happy and disease and disaster would avoid them.
The gods were pleased with the humans; they prayed to them, recognized them for the parts they played in the creation of the world they lived in and the things that walked it, which no one other than the gods themselves had ever acknowledged each other for. They decided that if the humans would continue to pray and believe in them, nothing harmful would befall them.
And for a time, that is how it was; the land was prosperous and no disease or famine plagued the land. It was a peaceful time, until – "
"Until Phesferous!" Mouse, whose real name Francis but reminded us too much of a mouse to let it go, would exclaim, fists clenched in front of himself and a fire alit in his eyes, proverbially "sitting on the edge of his seat" in excitement – this was his favorite part.
Miss Matilda would laugh then, a twinkle in her eye,"Yes, Francis, it was a peaceful time until a boy was born to a blacksmith and his wife, with the chosen name of Phesferous –"
"Who would name their kid Phesferous? I mean, it's such an ugly name!" Elizabeth would interject at this point, clutching at her skirt and eyeing her nails on one hand pettily. Mouse would always make some comment about Lizzy's middle name (Which was Annarellatrix; where they got it, we'll never know), at which she would huff and point her nose in the air, and we would lapsed into silence again. Miss Matilda would lean her head on a hand and wait until it was quiet before she rolled her eyes for the second time and say, "May I continue?"
All of us would nod, and she would straighten herself up to move forward in story. "So, anyway, Phesferous was a fine child, had his bad times and good times – " Someone would open their mouths at this, and Miss Matilda would shoot them a glare and they would snap it closed quickly, lest she stop the story completely and they were sent to bed. " - until the age of ten. At that time, the children were to start paying their respects to the gods with the other children; Phesferous refused. At first, they passed it off as a teenage rebellion of some sort and let it go. He would see reason before his seventeenth birthday, when he became an adult and had to pray with them. But his seventeenth birthday came and went and he never prayed, not once, to the gods. It was then that Phesferous began to reach out to others and convince them that his views were the right ones. That the gods were controlling them and that they should fight back against those who held them captive.
More and more people joined him and his views; soon they were raiding and destroying temples, and while the people still believed in the gods banded together to form a army and annihilate the rebellion –" Everyone would brake into cheers and applause at this (except for the older ones like Anthony, who would just smile at our antics, and the youngest ones, like Belle, who could only giggle); Miss Matilda would allow it, and then would continue once silence fell upon us. " – but it wasn't enough. Like a disease, it spread, and soon no one was praying to the gods, not at all.
The gods were angry; the people they'd given life to abandoned them because of the convincing words of one man and his followers. They thought, 'We made you, so we have the right destroy you,' and they did. The gods let loose their worst: disease and famine spread across the land, animals went rabid, the waterfalls and fountains were polluted with blood and sickness, and water crashed up from rivers and lakes to drown people in the floods. And finally, there were the earthquakes, which got steadily worse until finally there was one that shook the foundation of the world and ripped a ravine in the ground so deep, so wide, and so long that none would cross it lest they be thrust to the pits of hell.
There were few people left after that; those who had survived The Great Earthquake and all that had come before were brought to the gods and told this: 'You have scorned us, forgotten us, the people who made you…gave life to you…but we will let you live, live to know eternally the mistakes you have made. Your brethren and their brethren will ridicule you and you will live in contempt with yourself that while what is left of your world will be more beautiful and lively than before, it will also slowly crumble away until there is nothing left. Nothing of what once would've been the reminisce of humanity.'"
Someone might wonder if they saw us - why would we like that story so much? It was a reason why. While at the time we didn't know what the gods had said were true about our world, we knew it had something to do with that little darkness that we could sense in the back of our heads. It was something to hold onto about our pasts, why were clutching onto the edge of the world until it crumbled. Solemnity would overtake us then, and with our heads bowed and sad eyes we would set, until, with tears stinging the back of my eyelids, I would whispers into the silence: "I will stand on that edge one day."
No one would say anything, no one had to. What was there to say?
As we grew older, the darkness we knew was there stalked the edge of our thoughts, contenting itself to waiting until we were considered adults and able to bear such heaviness upon our shoulders to make itself known. And while we were not told of it, we knew that the darkness represented the reality of the story we were so enamored with. But while we were fond of it, were also terrified of it; the darkness that haunted us was a constant reminder of that truth, and in the truth the horrifying fact that things were ever changing in a world were we wished for stability and normalcy. However, while these thoughts flouted inside of our heads, our parents knew nothing of our innermost toils. We kept them to ourselves, acting like we believed nothing was wrong and the world was at our fingertips, waiting to be enjoyed. Pretending such was an unspoken rule between us all; I have no recollection of when it began. It just was, and was something we all knew but never dare say aloud to one another.
But as they say, rules are meant to broken, and things don't last forever.
It was the day of my sixteenth birthday; quill in my hand, ink a-tip it, through the pen flowed the letter that told every one of my planning. The words flowed like a floodgate of water come surging across a barren desert, filling it with life and dampening the aridness of the sun and the sky that was much like the way the words stilled the anxiousness in my heart. When it was done, my ink smudged fingertips folded the parchment, almost lovingly, and tied a ribbon in the same color I was most smitten with (a soft, faded blue that reminded me of my father's eyes) and attached an orange flower to it, it's coloring quite similar to the ribbon I wore around my neck almost constantly, and pressed a kiss to the paper, leaving no mark, only warmth.
That day, I took the letter and placed it by Anthony's door before the sun had rise very far above the horizon, a green cloak folded over my face, hiding my distinguishing features from view. Stepping backward softly, I gazed at the door for a moment, and then turned away, pulling the forest-colored cloth closer to myself.
I didn't get very far before I was stopped; a surprise to me, it was not my father, nor anyone very much older than I. But then, when you inscribe a letter to someone, wasn't it always the ones who were the recipients of such a letter to be the first to follow? I should have guessed it; it made me chuckle lightly in the back of my throat and eye the ground underneath the soles of my worn shoes before I forced out the words: "So, what has you all running like hell's hot on your heels?"
Lo and behold, there was every single person whom I had been with since birth, the ones I'd grown up with, played with, shared secrets and fond memories with – they were there, panting and exhausted when the sun had barely made itself known to the sky. Anthony; Lizzy; Francis (who we still called Mouse on some occasions); Aaron; Belle; Lilith; Warren; Christopher; James; Hope; Rebecca…
None of them answered me, only stood there wheezing, blocking the path forward. It was finally Anthony who stepped frontward; he was the oldest, the one who looked after us all and spoke when no one else could. Breathlessly, he told me: "Did you really think we'd let you go so easily, Ally? Do you know us at all?"
My lips quirked upward into a half-heart smirk. "A girl dream, can't she?"
"Yes," Lizzy huffed, "but what a girl can't do is leave us a letter and expect us not to follow her! Really," She mumbled, dusting her skirt off, and settling her hands on her hips. I hid my smile behind my hand at her behavior; as the years passed, she because less petty and more…how would one put it? More like a disapproving mother, always huffing and scolding us. It was hard to believe that such a person could change so much throughout the years, and yet she had, becoming something that wouldn't have fitted her so childlike image of years past.
"Oh?" I said quietly, "You wish to join me then? At the edge of the world?" They merely stared at me as if I should know the answer already. My bangs covered my smirk as I brushed past them all, walking a few steps away before pausing. "So be it." I glanced over my shoulder at them, the smirk still firmly in place. "…Just hurry up, will you? The sun doesn't stop for you all, don't you know?" It wasn't until my back was firmly turned from the people who wanted to see my dream realized did I let my smirk slip into a smile and tears tug on the lids of my eyes.
The journey seemed to take forever, despite the lively air between us all; days passed as we travelled, and it soon turned to months. The growth around us hummed with life, brilliant and green, and I couldn't help but take it all in. Everything was so alive, so wonderful, and it made me sad to think that it was the fruit of disaster. However, I never let myself dwell on such things; it would only bring me discontent, so I let it not trouble my thoughts too often. We had other hardships to take on, after all.
It was four months into my sixteenth year that we glimpse the great ravine that had so often frequented our thoughts; my breath caught as I gazed upon it. The edge was crumbling, a sooty black color lined with a white-hot red, and it lead in the dank heat of a cut mauled into the ground so deep the bottom could not be seen. As we looked on it, I could feel my heart pound in my chest, and before I could control myself, I was running, running, running, and then I was there and it was so wonderful I couldn't describe it. My feet steadied themselves against the soot-like ground, and I threw my arms high into the air, catching a breeze as light a feather through the gaps between my fingers. The others gathered behind me as my eyelids slid closed over blue irises.
And finally, finally as I stood on the edge of the world, arms out stretched and proud looks at my back, I couldn't help but think that it felt like home.