“What illness has struck your reason?” he asked. “You could have killed me.”
As the water dripped from his metallic coverings, a gale blew down from the tallest canyon wall and knocked him into the stream. For one brief moment he was completely submerged. When he resurfaced, the voice reverberated off the rocks.
“Are you dead?” the voice asked.
“No, I am not dead, but I could be.”
“But are you?”
“Could I speak if I were dead?”
“Draw the boat from the water and ascend the next stair.”
“What? Are you mad? After—”
“Do you trust Me?”
“I do not know who you are.”
“In your spirit, you know. Do you trust Me?”
Dalowin kicked his feet against the rocky path. He didn’t need this, nor did he want it. Ambient voices, unpredictable journeys; all he wanted was to go home.
He glanced up to the precipice from which he had fallen. Aspyre, the Iberian Saddle Horse, was looking down at him. He could sense it snorting as it ate of the grass at its feet. Then it turned around and headed for the forested bank of the river above. Dalowin knew he was on his own now. He shook his head.
“What do you want from me?” he asked the voice of ambience.
“Draw the boat from the water and ascend the next stair.”
Dalowin followed the sheer rock with his eyes to the second ledge and shook his head. It was so much higher up than the first.
“As you wish,” he muttered.
It was a difficult reality to process; the voice of ambience was Someone indeed, Someone with an agenda no less, but Someone who knew a lot more than he did, so he complied. Though he couldn’t stifle his resentment, he pulled the boat out of the stream, dumped the water from the hull, and carried it to the adjacent stair, which climbed about a hundred feet to the next level.
The higher ledge resembled the one below, though a bit wider, a lot darker from shadows cast down from the thousand-foot sheer rock, and more unkempt. The grass was wilder and the gnats busier. Dalowin huffed in his exhaustion as he threw the boat to the ground. The second stair wasted his stamina.
The river on the second tier had a wider channel than the first, but flowed a little more slowly. The currents hugging the banks oozed, while the deep regions moved at a resistible speed. The scent of decaying fish emanated from downwind.
“Set the boat in the water,” said the whispering breeze.
“But at this height the fall will kill me.”
He waited for the voice to respond.
“Why do you wish to kill me?” he asked.
“Do you trust Me?” asked the voice, fainter than ever.
Dalowin wasn’t sure what to say. He nodded, though the tear in his eye left him questioning the truth. His fear outweighed his courage.
“Set the boat in the river.”
Continuing to nod, though he didn’t know why, he dragged the boat to the water’s edge. Climbing stairs and falling down waterfalls took its toll on his body. But he pressed on. When he set the boat into the stream, he entered the hull and let it carry him to the next precipice. He held his breath as he drew closer and closer.
Though he could justify survival from the first fall, he wasn’t sure what to make of the second. There was still enough ground presence from the lower tier to sense the swiftness of the drop, but from this level he could not see the bottom. His vision permitted him sight of only the rock wall across the lake, and the huge pit in between. Anxiety tapped him on the shoulder and clawed at his chest as he waited. Then, the river took control of his future.
From this height, his stomach lost anchor. As the nose tipped over the edge, the rush of the plunge engulfed most of his boat. Far below, the central lake expanded across the rocky canvas; then it fled behind the curtain of water closing over his eyes. Within a second he lost contact with all surfaces, feeling only the torrent on his back and his sword detaching from his waist.
The end came as quickly as the beginning had.
When he splashed into the stream, he dropped knees first. His boat landed a few feet to his left and his sword thrusted away like a missile, just inches to his right. Both he and the weapon went under so deep that he hit the bottom. The fall drained him; he didn’t have the strength to kick back to the surface.
“It is not finished yet,” gurgled the voice of ambience. “Remove what armor you can and swim to the boat. I will give you the strength to make it.”
Though he was tired, Dalowin felt the second wind hit him, even at the depths of the stream. Heeding the surge of energy, he unfastened the straps holding his breastplate together and slung it over his head. The strain on his muscles exhausted what was left of his lung capacity, but he was buoyant enough now to return to the surface. Grabbing his sword from nearby, he kicked away from the bottom and rose into the violent bubbles of the falling stream.
When he reached the surface, he inhaled a large volume of air. Survival had never felt so refreshing. It was like watching a ship coming to rescue a survivor from a deserted isle. He whooped with whatever amount of strength he could muster.
Once he got hold of his boat and floated to the shallows of the shoreline, he climbed onto the next rocky platform and fell onto his back. For several minutes, he panted as the sunshine spilled over him from high above the bowl. When his strength finally returned, a swift breeze shot down the sides of the canyon and across his face.
“Dalowin,” said the voice of ambience, “it is time to climb the final stair.”
Part Five
“The Sacrifice”
He didn’t want to argue with the voice anymore. For whatever reason it put him through this trial, he didn’t care. Twice now he had survived the impossible, and it only made sense that he’d survive the next. The commands were strange, even brutal, but he had gotten through them. If the voice wanted him to climb the thousand-foot stair, then that was what he would do.
His legs felt like pudding and his shoulders like fire, but he took up his boat and climbed the final stair. The journey lasted nearly an hour. He collapsed at the top from exhaustion. His heart was leaping out of his chest. But he made it, and the relief of lying still was enchanting.
While he lay supine, resting and staring at the sky, he drifted into a deep sleep. The silence transformed into a burning hill where soldiers lit arrows and sent them off into the valley below. He stood there, shouting at the men as they set the city by the mountain on fire. A smile crossed his face as the castle guard fell off the parapets.
When he awoke sometime later, he sat up to view the landscape. This time there were no cliffs, but a field stretching infinitely toward the skyline, with rolling hills cascading both up the side of a mountain and down the slope of a valley; the stream branched in two directions in the middle. At the top of the waterway, a spring percolated in all of its glory, giving the stream its source of life. At the bottom, two other streams met the first at the mouth of a great river and continued well into the horizon. Thanks to the overwhelming image before him, he couldn’t find his breath.
“Set the boat in the river,” said the voice of ambience, knocking him out of his stupor. The accompanying wind kissed his forehead.
He didn’t argue the voice’s logic. A thousand-foot cataract plummeted down the side of a cliff—certain doom would befit any man attempting to ride it—but he didn’t argue. The voice kept him alive during the first two descents; certainly it would keep him alive during the third. He didn’t know how many limbs would stand with him afterward, assuming he could stand, but that was no longer a concern. What mattered now was that he finished his journey.
He entered the boat, allowing the stream to carry him toward the precipice overlooking the impossible drop, and waited. Only, when he drew near, the voice whispered through the breath of a swift breeze.
“Your faith has saved you, Dalowin. You need not continue this course.” A pause followed. Dalowin searched the sky
for validation. “Now turn the boat around and sail for the valley. The waterfall ahead will surely destroy you.”
The sudden realization that death awaited him at the bottom of the fall didn’t faze him. The strength coursing through his blood from having survived two previous drops toughened his will to leap from the boat and force it into the opposite direction. Though his legs fought the weights of his shin guards, he pushed hard from the depths of his gut, keeping the vessel far from the precipice. For several minutes, he struggled to stay afloat as he resisted the currents, but his endurance paid off. As soon as the stream changed direction at the top of the declination, he let the boat carry him all the way down into the valley. Once the water leveled out, he inhaled another desperate breath and pulled himself into the boat.
Without a paddle, the journey voided direction. Dalowin clutched his knees together, believing God would lead him to the next trial. Whatever that was, he figured, somehow, his Protector would take care of him. Shivering from the cold, he looked ahead toward the river, attempting to understand what life test that might be.
“Do you trust Me?” the voice asked from across the grassy fields.
The drenched rider nodded against his elbows.
“Then, climb out of the boat where the three streams meet the Paradise River.”
The mouth of the river was close—maybe a half-hour’s worth of sailing away. Although the stream’s current decelerated at the foot of the hill, it increased speed as he drew closer to the wider body of water. With the two adjoining streams adding pressure to the mix, the boat took off as it crossed the first junction.
The approach took about twenty minutes. Once the nose of the vessel reached the mouth of the river, Dalowin sheathed his sword; then he collapsed over the edge into the refreshing water, taking a drink as his head went under. Despite all of the streams and rivers he had dealt with since late the previous evening, this was his first real effort at hydrating himself. In all of his agonizing punishments, this was his first attempt at healing. A broken twig slipped past his cheeks to commemorate the moment. He caught it before he resurfaced.
When he pulled himself onto the riverbank, he lifted his eyes to discover a welcome surprise. A set of hooves scuffed the grass before him.
“Aspyre,” he whispered, digging his face back into the ground, “you found your way.”
A moment passed before the soft breeze of late afternoon brushed across his back.
“Dalowin,” said the voice of ambience, “you are now fit to fulfill your destiny. Take your horse and return to the Hill of Resilience. May your courage offer you a new name: Dalowin the Falcon, for your stance will be mighty and your attack swift. With My strength you and your armies will prevail against the city of corruption. Ride now, for your army awaits you.”
And so Dalowin rose from his grassy bed and mounted his valiant Saddle Horse, thanking God for his newfound courage. Once he felt situated on the saddle, he raised his nose to the sky and kicked the animal into action. Like an arrow, the equestrian chariot sprinted off down the riverbanks until it met the moon at the place of prophecy. It was there that he met his eager army and told them his story.
~~~~~
The Narrow Bridge
Part One
“The Storm”
Kirk forgot what peaceful weather looked like, the Storm had raged for so long. The sky swelled with clouds of darkness. The rain whipped about from east to west, blinding him from the road that was forged ahead. Streaks of lightning engulfed his path, offering light to see his map, but filled with enough madness to nullify his comfort. With all the natural chaos, he thought, the sooner he ended his journey, the better.
The map showed a canyon sunk into the road before him, introducing him to the possibility of floodwaters blocking the way. The road behind seemed like the safest place to which to retreat. The trees in that old place, however, were stripped by the elements—scattered branches lay in heaps along the road. Fortunately, he knew where each piece had fallen, so he was content to return to familiar territory, if only to escape the unknown ahead.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t betray the heart that had urged him to continue. The journey had been arduous, but turning back would have made his progress futile. He had to push forward.
He huddled over his soggy map, which dripped on the muddy pathway. There were so many crisscrossing lines covering the sheet that a casual glance might’ve confused a navigator. Fortunately, his chosen path, the only path to reach the mark denoting his destination, was defined boldly in red. Unfortunately, it drove right through the heart of the canyon and over the peak of the mountain summit, both which left him with a deep sense of dread and danger.
He scoured the chart for a way around the obstacles, perhaps one that didn’t even stay on the page. Lines traveled in spiraling motions, winding from one printed landmark to another, none of which presented him with a sound alternative.
With the map failing to show him what he wanted to see, he undoubtedly had to find an uncharted path on his own.
However, the last time he had searched for his own safest path, taking dead end after dead end, he had discovered the hard way that the map was resolute. After staring down the blinding road, looking into only a curtain of water, he figured he had to trust what others had outlined before him, as they were the pathfinders and he was their student. If they were wrong, then the map would’ve never gotten to him in the first place.
By his understanding, the road pushed forth in a northeasterly direction. It looked dangerous from this standpoint, with lightning striking the bordering forest in heavy doses—each bolt sending a new tree bursting into flames, which inevitably would cause a chain reaction that could engulf the entire region. Logic told him not to continue, but logic had no connection with his heart. Treasure awaited him; nothing—not lightning, floods nor mountains—would stop him. He hoped.
Additional paths branched off from the small muddy artery. Each was a wider, though barren road passing over denuded fields, each leading to places that appeared unhampered by the Storm. The paths were flat and easy, with safe spots for veering around deep puddles. Most of them lacked deadly debris, with not one flying branch or piece of bark whipping by. It was the most comfortable this journey would ever get, if he were to choose any of them as his road.
One seemingly inviting road even had a storm shelter erected along its shoulder. It would take a journey for him to get there, but the shelter looked as though it were made of decent wood, which would give him a break from the frightful weather. He also thought he saw the outline of a neon sign deep in the distance—perhaps a diner or a venue for entertainment. But he couldn’t tell for certain, for the place was a great distance away, and, according to his map, the road tangled in many, many directions along the way, and he couldn’t predict how long it would take him to arrive, regardless of which twist in the road he’d take.
Nevertheless, as the Storm wailed louder than ever, Kirk found the prospect of making the distant trip to the neon lights attractive. It would’ve delayed his journey—that much was clear—but he was tired of the leaves, the berries, and the pebbles pelting him, and he believed a reprieve from the pain was desirable.
As he stepped near the branching side road, Kirk halted and meditated. There was no telling whether he could find his way back to this trail or not. According to his chart, each branching road led to more branching roads, which led to more branching roads, which led to more branching roads. Any one of them could’ve had storm shelters, diners, or entertainment venues in place, but this one—this unwavering one—was the only one that would lead him past the canyons, past the mountains, and past all the other landscapes within the Storm. At least, that’s what the map claimed.
Perhaps, through no failure of possibility, an incompetent mapmaker had created the map with a drunken navigator at his side. Perhaps, it was one of many fakes designed to set would-be treasure hunters on the wrong path. Stories had told of such things happening before; civili
zations have preserved anonymity over such ruses. If such a decoy existed in his hand, then he would be foolish to continue along this dangerous course. Only a fool would keep traveling within this Storm into the burning forest and beyond, just to reach a place he had never seen before—that might not even exist. It only made sense, therefore, to go to the storm shelter, or the neon sign, or any place he could see with his own two eyes.
But, so far, the map had been accurate. Up to this point, everything it outlined had in fact appeared in the place where it was recorded. Each crossroad had cut across the trail exactly where the map had shown. Even the major landmarks along the red line had emerged from the rainy horizon at the points revealed. Doubting the accuracy of the map seemed more foolish than continuing along this wild road. He decided it was best to keep going, even if flying twigs did blast him in the face.
And so he continued toward the fiery forest, hoping with all hope that the map was telling him the truth.
Part Two
“The Forest”
Several hours into his journey, Kirk incurred bruises, making the narrow road an uncomfortable place to travel. The Storm continued hurling branches and stones at him, throwing also the occasional spark from the forest inferno. He covered his head with his map for extra protection. None of it, however, brought him to crumble under the Storm’s ridicule.
In one sudden moment, however, after a lengthy spell of repetition, the Storm became angry. As Kirk continued to trek along the trail, he felt the wind increasing its speed and its whistling howl through the trees deafening him. Within moments, he thought a tornado had come.
The power of the wind nearly swept him off his feet, threatening to send him into the fire or the unknown beyond. As he quickly slid toward the edge of the road that approached the heart of the burning forest, he caught onto the cleft of a boulder and held on for dear life. It took all of his strength, but, as he hung from the fissure with his feet to the air, he pulled himself down behind the rock and sought cover from the wind’s fury.
Waterfall Junction and The Narrow Bridge Page 2