The Cliff of Deeds

by Kat Beyer

Our village lies up with the hawks.  I can name you every current and cross-current of wind that rails around our high seat.  Some several thousands of years ago, my people diverged from the human tree, choosing a peculiar kind of self-protection over terror and aggression: we fly.

But not all of us.

That’s the hard part.

We train and train, when we are young; we name the winds and learn the ways to speak from mind to body, to say, we are as birds, we are as dragons, we are as air, and we shall not fall.  We study, and prepare, and then—no amount of preparation can ensure that we will pass the test when we are old enough.

That’s where I stand, right now.  I stand at the edge of the Cliff of Deeds.  I don’t look down.  The nets don’t catch everyone, after all, and before today my friends and I have crept to this edge and picked out a white skull, here and there, far below.  Those who fall and live have to stay in the village forever, and may take no-one to child with.  Those who fall and die have peace, I suppose; I have thought sometimes I’ve heard their spirits.  And those who fly…

I have no time left.  It’s my turn and my mother is watching.  I judge the currents, my hands shaking at my sides.

And then—

That’s that—

My stomach lurches—

There’s nothing at all, nothing at all under my feet—

I can see the horizon—

And then, I am not among the white skulls or the trapped living, I’m myself, flying, and there is nothing more lovely than the edge of the earth, out there ahead.