Part I: The Cliffs

A thousand feet above the beating surge extend cliffs of black basalt. Like the sides of an excavated honeycomb, they jut upwards with unearthly geometric perfection. The sky perpetually hangs gloomy and low over the escarpment, wisps of cloud settling across the grassy plateau, which extends horizontally for miles – carpeting the tops of the cliffs.

There is a cottage about a mile inland from the edge of the highest precipice. This home – one of the first built in the area – despite the relentless humidity, has endured for an unusually long time. It has never stood unoccupied and has seen generations of children born and grown. Now, it is home to a small family of five – two parents, and three children – the youngest of which has scarcely seen four summers.

Rain never falls this high up, though travelers who venture to the precipice find themselves drenched from their trek through the belly of clouds. Such visits are scarce, for most find themselves horrendously dizzied by the heights – even when craning their necks upward from the trail at the bottom of the rock-face. The few who have courage to climb to such an elevation – and manage to safely trace their steps back down – never return a second time.

Ones who survived the climb are unable to speak of the cliffs without a trembling voice, and many of their stories all sound the same:

There is something…unnatural about that bluff. Once you get to the top, the cloud mists hang so heavy that they conceal the cliff edges – conceal…everything really – I hardly knew where to step. And as the clouds blew in more thickly, I completely lost my way…all I could see was the colourlessness pressing in on me so vehemently I could no longer hear the sound of the surge pounding faintly below. I could scarcely hear my own heartbeat, though I felt it dancing furiously to the song of terror in my veins. And when I began to sob – I felt so hopeless- just then, I felt… fingertips – as if heaven’s hands reached down to guide me. I immediately felt a great calm them, reassured by the presence around me, nudging me to safety – or so I thought. It was so very strange – I began to trust the pressure at my back. Well, what else could I trust? The clouds had robbed me of every other sensation. So I allowed myself to be pushed forward, step after step, step after step, until one of my steps was met with open air. I was being pushed over the edge. So I threw myself backwards and slammed into the earth and… lay there shaking…

 

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Part II: The People

When the panicked father phoned his office, speaking with alarming volume and urgency, the Sheriff had almost dropped his phone. It had taken about five minutes and several “Could you please speak more slowly?s” and “Would you please repeat that?s” to ascertain what exactly was wrong. Once the Sheriff finally understood, he nearly dropped the phone a second time. Youngest child. Missing. The house on the cliffs.

—–

Marci had been tasked with plucking the freshly washed sheets from the clothesline – her favorite chore. Something about the twang and snap of the line when cloth broke free from pin was endlessly entertaining to her.

She tugged a sea-foam green cotton swath from the line – her own bed sheet – and spun around in a circle, the fabric billowing out behind her. Dancers did that, she had seen it before; vibrant silks, seemingly possessed with the instinct of snakes, writhed around ballerinas. Marci wanted to dance just like that. She wrapped the bed sheet around her shoulders, pretending to be a little grub-girl cocooned in possibility. Today was her birthday and she vowed to emerge from her seafoam chrysalis as a matured four-year old version of herself.

She closed her eyes tight and thought about it really hard; she could actually feel herself changing! She perceived her arms and legs getting longer – they would be the wings she needed to dance. A sense of anticipation filled her heart and she peeked open her eyes – just a little bit so her dark eyelashes still blurred the world, kept the spell unbroken.

But despite her wishing and her vivid imagination, Marci knew she was still the same toddler. The little girl who mom and dad would never send to dance lessons because That kind of money should not be spent on the changeable whims of a child. Wait a couple years and if you’re still sure, honey, the lessons are yours.

So without much thought, she took off running away from her cottage and her Mom and Dad, who would surely never ever see her as the girl she wanted them to see. With her bedsheet undulating behind her, she ran towards the place Mom and Dad said was only for the most mature of people. The place she was told babies like her didn’t belong. As she rushed through the grassy field, she envisioned a miniscule Marci waltzing a thousand feet above the roaring surge. That little Marci would grow wings at such unfathomable heights – she was sure of it. And that little Marci would return home grander, respectable, ready for the future for which she lusted.

—–

A search party was organised within half an hour of the call. Though the volunteers were visibly nervous to go anywhere near the cliffs, they knew the consequences to be brought by inaction.

Fifty-three locals, including the sheriff, drove through the rural hills to the house on the cliffs. It was agreed that Marci could possibly be lost on the inland side of the house, but she would survive much longer out there than if she had ventured seaward. Within an hour and a half of that initial phone call, fifty-five bodies were advancing steadily towards the edge of the cliff. The word Marci was called out time and again, soon sounding more like two meaningless syllables rather than the name of a child who must surely be found before the unspeakable happened.

—–

Marci had grown tired of running. She hadn’t know before but she soon discovered that a mile is a very long distance to four-year-old legs. By now, her cotton-fibre cocoon had grown quite damp – especially the lower hem, which dragged along the dew-laden grass. It was actually getting quite heavy from the moisture. And though she found herself shivering, she dropped the energy-sapping weight of her blanket. Marci was determined; she knew maturity came with the strength to follow through. She had intended to see the cliffs and she most certainly would.

—–

It was her mother who found the bedsheet heaped in the grass. Though it was soaked with freezing cold moisture, she hugged it close to her and allowed the water to seep through her own jacket until it warmed against her skin.

With the discovery of Marci’s sheet, the search hastened; the volunteers knew they were searching in the right direction – a fact they each silently cursed.

—–

Based on the way the clouds began to cocoon her in place of the bedsheet, Marci guessed she was getting near the cliff. The breeze that had stolen her warmth died down, the world getting eerily quieter the closer she got to the bluff.

She clenched her jaw tight to keep her molars from knocking together – frightful or frozen, she couldn’t tell. The clouds were shifting around the edge of the cliff, which Marci perceived was about five Mom-sized steps away. She inched forward, astounded by the faintness of the ocean surging below. The thunder of the crashing breakers seemed but a whisper, the magnitude of sound lost as it bounced off hundreds of feet of basalt.

The realisation of how high up she was struck her and she began to feel a little woozy. She would not turn back; plus, she had this urge to take a little peek over the edge. So Marci got down on her belly and slipped off her shoes so she could grip the grass between her toes – something strong to hold on to. Then, she wiggled herself forward until just her nose and eyes stuck out over the edge.

It was breathtaking. Some basalt spires stuck out further than others, creating a sort-of staircase down to the water for some kind of giant. Exhilaration finally broke through Marci’s fear. If she inched back and then stayed a ways away from the edge, she could dance safely – and up here, she’d really be flying.

—–

All fifty-five members of the search party became alarmed at the cloud-cover; they could hardly see where the edge of the cliff was. In fact, they could hardly see each other. Marci’s father called out her name one last time, knowing that if she were still alive, she would hear him. If she didn’t reply… he wouldn’t let himself consider that possibility.

—–

Someone was calling her name! Someone had found her. No, she wasn’t ready. She didn’t want to be found; if they found her, it would only make them believe she was more fragile than they previously thought. The leash they would keep her on – tighter than before, she knew it. They couldn’t find her. She would hide in the fog and return home later, when she felt ready.

So Marci didn’t reply to the voice calling her name, though she stood up and faced the sound to be sure she wasn’t caught unaware. When she heard her name called a second time – it was her mother, she knew – she took a step backwards.

The fog was overwhelming now, she couldn’t see anything – not even her feet beneath her. When she took another step back, it hardly felt real. Her foot felt the ground and she felt her foot but it was like her foot was not hers anymore.

It was almost as if she were cocooned by mist. And as she imagined the cocoon wrapping her tighter and tighter, imagined wings sprouting from her shoulders, her limbs and torso growing longer, she was met by the unmistakable sensation of flying.

—–

When the Sheriff found Marci’s shoes a few feet from the ledge, he sank to his knees in despair. She’s gone. The wind began to gust again and the fog  – like something alive – parted and closed around the contours of the landscape and the people standing atop it. The worst possible thing had happened, the child had fallen. Though none of them spoke it, they all shared the same sense of horrific inevitability; from the search’s inception, it seemed undeniable that they would end up on the cliff’s edge, gazing out emptily into the vast space beyond, aware of a tiny shattered body below.

—–

After a brief period of disbelief, Marci understood she was falling. That epiphany was cut short by a sudden jarring pain along her legs and spine and the horrendous sound of bones cracking. Her motion had stopped much shorter than it should have, she realized.  In flashes of fragmented understanding, Marci saw that she had been caught by one of the steps of the giant’s staircase. She tried to call out; she knew her parents were still on the ledge, not 20 feet above her, but she could hardly move. And she just couldn’t catch her breath.

—–

None of the adults could bear to look over the ledge. Without a doubt, the ocean had swallowed her up. They all felt too weak to come face-to-face with that reality.

The mother and father turned to each other, horrible wails leaping from their lungs. It was too late, too late and they knew it.

In an act of habitual paternity, the sheriff collected the two tiny shoes in the grass and began the process of escorting the group back inland. He was met with little resistance from the parents, who knew they were liable to leap if not directed away from the cliff that had stolen their youngest. They had just been too late.

—–

What Marci could not understand was why no one would look down. Surely if they would just look, they would spot her right away. I’m right here! I looked over the edge – and I’m only four!

No one is coming to get me. That terrifying thought alighted upon Marci like the gauzy wings of a butterfly. She began to drift off – she just couldn’t catch her breath – but she was not afraid.

The clouds drifting around her little form seemed to her soft and warm, how she imagined ballet-silks to feel. Her mind began to dance to that idea though her body lay draped over unforgiving rock. It would be okay, even if they never found her, she thought. From her ledge, she could see the edges of the horizon, the endlessness of the ocean. What an amazing audience to witness her dance.

Her mom and dad would be so proud – maybe not now but later. So proud of their child – braver than them all – the one who twirled off the cliff they were all too afraid to peer over.