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This was advice Tim took, even holding his breath until he was past that deadly grove filled with treacherous, sunshiny death.<br />
Near the end of the third day, he emerged on the edge of a narrow chasm that fell away <strong>for</strong> a thousand feet or more. He could not see the bottom,<br />
<strong>for</strong> it was filled with a drift of white flowers. They were so thick that he at first mistook them <strong>for</strong> a cloud that had fallen to earth. The smell that wafted<br />
up to him was fantastically sweet. A rock bridge spanned <strong>this</strong> gorge, on the other side passing through a waterfall that glowed blood-red in the<br />
reflected light of the setting sun.<br />
“Am I meant to cross that?” Tim asked faintly. It looked not much wider than a barn-beam . . . and, in the middle, not much thicker.<br />
No answer from Daria, but the steadily glowing green light was answer enough.<br />
“Maybe in the morning,” Tim said, knowing he would not sleep <strong>for</strong> thinking about it, but also not wanting to chance it so close to day’s end. The<br />
idea of having to negotiate the last part of that lofty causeway in the dark was terrifying.<br />
“I advise <strong>you</strong> to cross now,” Daria told him, “and continue to the North Forest Kinnock Dogan with all possible speed. Detour is no longer<br />
possible.”<br />
Looking at the gorge with its chancy bridge, Tim hardly needed the voice from the plate to tell him that a detour was no longer possible. But<br />
still . . .<br />
“Why can’t I wait until morning? Surely it would be safer.”<br />
“Directive Nineteen.” A click louder than any he had heard be<strong>for</strong>e came from the plate and then Daria added, “But I advise speed, Tim.”<br />
He had several times asked her to call him by name rather than as traveler. This was the first time she had done so, and it convinced him. He left<br />
the Fagonard tribe’s basket—not without some regret—because he thought it might unbalance him. He tucked the last two popkins into his shirt,<br />
slung the waterskin over his back, then checked to make sure both the four-shot and his father’s hand-ax were firmly in place on either hip. He<br />
approached the stone causeway, looked down into the banks of white flowers, and saw the first shadows of evening beginning to pool there. He<br />
imagined himself making that one <strong>you</strong>-can-never-take-it-back misstep; saw himself whirling his arms in a fruitless ef<strong>for</strong>t to keep his balance; felt his<br />
feet first losing the rock and then running on air; heard his scream as the fall began. There would be a few moments to regret all the life he might<br />
have lived, and then—<br />
“Daria,” he said in a small, sick voice, “do I have to?”<br />
No answer, which was answer enough. Tim stepped out over the drop.<br />
The sound of his bootheels on rock was very loud. He didn’t want to look down, but had no choice; if he didn’t mind where he was going,<br />
he would be doomed <strong>for</strong> sure. The rock bridge was as wide as a village path when he began, but by the time he got to the middle—as he had<br />
feared, although he had hoped it was just his eyes playing tricks—it was only the width of his shor’boots. He tried walking with his arms<br />
outstretched, but a breeze came blowing down the gorge, billowing his shirt and making him feel like a kite about to lift off. He lowered them and<br />
walked on, heel-to-toe and heel-to-toe, wavering from side to side. He became convinced his heart was beating its last frenzied beats, his mind<br />
thinking its last random thoughts.<br />
Mama will never know what happened to me.<br />
Halfway across, the bridge was at its narrowest, also its thinnest. Tim could feel its fragility through his feet, and could hear the wind playing its<br />
pitch pipe along its eroded underside. Now each time he took a step, he had to swing a boot out over the drop.<br />
Don’t freeze, he told himself, but he knew that if he hesitated, he might do just that. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement below, and<br />
he did hesitate.<br />
Long, leathery tentacles were emerging from the flowers. They were slate-gray on top and as pink as burned skin underneath. They rose toward<br />
him in a wavery dance—first two, then four, then eight, then a <strong>for</strong>est of them.<br />
Daria again said, “I advise speed, Tim.”<br />
He <strong>for</strong>ced himself to start walking again. Slowly at first, but faster as the tentacles continued to close in. Surely no beast had a thousand-foot<br />
reach, no matter how monstrous the body hiding down there in the flowers, but when Tim saw the tentacles thinning out and stretching to reach even<br />
higher, he began to hurry. And when the longest of them reached the underside of the bridge and began to fumble its way along it, he broke into a<br />
run.<br />
The waterfall—no longer red, now a fading pinkish-orange—thundered ahead of him. Cold spray spattered his hot face. Tim felt something<br />
caress his boot, seeking purchase, and threw himself <strong>for</strong>ward at the water with an inarticulate yell. There was one moment of freezing cold—it<br />
encased his body like a glove—and then he was on the other side of the falls and back on solid ground.<br />
One of the tentacles came through. It reared up like a snake, dripping . . . and then withdrew.<br />
“Daria! Are <strong>you</strong> all right?”<br />
“I’m waterproof,” Daria replied with something that sounded suspiciously like smugness.<br />
Tim picked himself up and looked around. He was in a little rock cave. Written on one wall, in paint that once might have been red but had over<br />
the years (or perhaps centuries) faded to a dull rust, was <strong>this</strong> cryptic notation:<br />
JOHN 3:16<br />
FEER HELL HOPE FOR HEVEN<br />
MAN JESUS<br />
Ahead of him was a short stone staircase filled with fading sunset light. To one side of it was a litter of tin cans and bits of broken machinery—<br />
springs, wires, broken glass, and chunks of green board covered with squiggles of metal. On the other side of the stairs was a grinning skeleton<br />
with what looked like an ancient canteen draped over its ribcage. Hello, Tim! that grin seemed to say. Welcome to the far side of the world! Want a<br />
drink of dust? I have plenty!<br />
Tim climbed the stairs, skittering past the relic. He knew perfectly well it wouldn’t come to life and try to snare him by the boot, as the tentacles<br />
from the flowers had tried to do; dead was dead. Still, it seemed safer to skitter.<br />
When he emerged, he saw that the path once more entered the woods, but he wouldn’t be there <strong>for</strong> long. Not far ahead, the great old trees pulled<br />
back and the long, long upslope he had been climbing ended in a clearing far larger than the one where the bumblers had danced. There an<br />
enormous tower made of metal girders rose into the sky. At the top was a blinking red light.<br />
“You have almost reached <strong>you</strong>r destination,” Daria said. “The North Forest Kinnock Dogan is three wheels ahead.” That click came again, even<br />
louder than be<strong>for</strong>e. “You really must hurry, Tim.”<br />
As Tim stood looking at the tower with its blinking light, the breeze that had so frightened him while crossing the rock bridge came again, only <strong>this</strong><br />
time its breath was chilly. He looked up into the sky and saw the clouds that had been lazing toward the south were now racing.<br />
“It’s the starkblast, Daria, isn’t it? The starkblast is coming.”