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More and more it seems a cruel trick—all of this. I see no meaning in my own existence. Nothing sweet or special, nothing even offering a bit of comfort. There are only obligations and the feeling that I’m no different than the cows. I’m just a thing to step about the grass and color up the matrix of our island. I am nearly nothing, really.
I wonder how the others do it. But I know the answer. It’s as meaningless for them as me, but they’re not alone as I am. Anna lives for Kayti and for Freddy. I suppose Kayti’s wee, round belly and Freddy’s arms around her in their bed at night must ease the pain, lessen the numbness. That’s what makes her warm, what gives her universe its starlight.
I wipe a tear from my cheek.
Holly has her dreams. Nothing’s happened to her yet to make her doubt their power. Holly’s got both parents, and they worship her. I’ve been in her house at night when her mum makes that lovely bisque and her father does his crossword by the wood stove. Holly lives next door to Dorothy, and they’ll look at magazines and file each other’s nails for hours. I adore them both, but all of that is foreign to me. It seems…silly.
I look at my own plain nails, curl my freezing hand into a fist. I use my fist to blot the moon. My hand looks like it’s glowing. I’ve still got it stretched up when I hear footfall—heavy steps, and moving quickly. I sit partway up, then lie back down and tilt my head in the direction of the path that runs up toward the volcano.
When I hear movement on my other side, my stomach drops. Someone’s on the plateau with me. I roll over slowly, careful not to make a sound. When I see him silhouetted in the moonlight, all the breath leaves my lungs.
He looks taller, wider, from my vantage point here on the ground: a shadow figure stopped perhaps a meter from the cliffs’ edge. I watch as he folds his arms in front of his chest. He stands with his feet a bit apart, as if he’s bracing for the wind…which I suppose he is.
Watching him, I feel a clawing sense of want, a sort of breathless desperation for him. It doesn’t do for me to be so near him. I shut my eyes and pray he’ll pass by quickly. Will this be the last time we’re in such proximity? I count down the weeks till his departure as I sit frozen with my eyes closed. Nine weeks—plus or minus. Do I hope for the former or the latter?
I breathe deeply, losing a bit of my balance so I have to open my eyes. When they latch onto him again, I’m alarmed to find he’s nearer to the edge. His head is down, as if perhaps he’s looking over.
Don’t be foolish, Declan.
What’s he thinking? Is he tired? Cold? Sad? I want to know it all, and yet it isn’t mine to know. I grit my teeth as tears fill my eyes. I wish I could steal away without him hearing, but I don’t believe I can.
My throat tightens so fiercely, I can scarcely draw a breath. It’s the latter, I decide. I’d like him to leave sooner. I can’t even look at him without aching.
As if he hears my thoughts, he steps much closer to the cliffs’ unstable edge.
Careful, Sailor.
As if in defiance, he takes a small step. Terror swells in my chest. I feel like I’m in a dream where I should run, but my body is frozen.
When he moves again—to sink down to the ground—I nearly expire from fear. I tell myself he’s only sitting, and he’s perhaps half a meter from the edge, not there at it. I watch as he brings his knees up to his chest and drapes an arm over them. His hand strokes back through his hair. Then his head bows and one arm comes over it. His hand rifles through his hair, tugs at the tresses. I watch as his shoulde
rs rise and fall.
Lord, give him strength. Give him peace. You alone can ease his pain.
Despite my prayer and my deep belief that God can ease him, I’m swamped with a desperate feeling. One of panic, same as in my drowning dreams. I feel ill with the need to go to him, to hold him as he held me. It’s the only thing I want, and yet…I can’t.
I wipe my eyes. I lower my hand in time to see him scoot still closer to the drop-off. He drapes his legs over.
My heart stops—and then I’m moving, gliding toward him with the iron will of an angel. There’s no question. I will reach him.
The frigid breeze slaps my cheeks as he shifts there the ledge. Overhead, the stars pulse. Then I’m dropping to my knees beside him. I can’t even breathe his name, can only latch onto his shoulder with a low moan.
As he turns toward me, I see his face has got that lost look I remember from the burrow.
“Declan?” I can’t tell who’s trembling—he or I? Panting fills my ears as I cling to his arm.
“Shimmy back…” I gasp, “before you frighten me.” A cracked laugh squeezes from my throat. “Please.”
I look up and find his face looks frozen, his eyes fixed on the sea.
“I loathe this ledge. So dangerous.” I press my face against his shoulder as I breathe in deep pulls. “I hate heights.” My voice quakes as I imagine the rock below us breaking away.
Declan’s hand squeezes my shoulder, and I open my eyes. Then he reaches back with both arms, palms against the ground as if he might push off the ledge. I throw my arms around his neck and lock on.
The next second is a riot of sensation. I dig my nails into his nape as the fall flickers through me like the old films they projected at school. The sharp air and the dizzy plummet twist my senses as my mind plays out a reel of our demise. I’m so certain I’ll fall with him that when instead he shifts away from the ledge, my mind can’t quite comprehend.
“Finley?”
