Here’s a flash-fiction story inspired by an evening I spent at Canyon de Chelley, surely one of the most magical places on the North American continent.
The old man stood at the rim of a canyon in Navajo country, his toes just three inches from the raw edge. Sunset had come and gone, and now the thousand-foot-drop at his feet could only be perceived as a black emptiness as huge and compelling as eternity itself. It was visceral, existential; instead of a canyon, he felt as if he was leaning over the farthest end of the earth, staring down into cosmic infinity. Death was three inches away, but he’d never felt more alive.
Once as a child he’d climbed a railroad embankment, buffeted by the hurricane of the passing freight train, attempting to touch one of the speeding cars. The boxcars had been as big as buildings, shaking the earth as they roared past. The tracks had screamed in steel agony and the vacuum-whirlwind of power and noise had threatened to suck him into the side of the train. He’d crept farther up the embankment, deafened, blown grit and blasting heat blinding his eyes, the stench of diesel poisoning his lungs. He stumbled in the gravel, inching closer and closer, until at last the tip of his finger struck the rough steel of the beast. He still felt fierce pride in the act, defiant and crazy as it had been. Growing up had been defined by a series of self-imposed challenges, most dangerous, some stupidly so. But now he was an old man, and it had been many decades since he’d felt the need to prove himself to himself, or to anybody else. So why then, he wondered, was he once again standing at the edge of a deadly precipice?
The tiny pinpricks of starlight had no power to illuminate the scene, and the desert night was silent. Other than a tangy scent of juniper, it was a perfect setting of sensory deprivation. Or was it? Somehow, even though he could no longer see it, he remained keenly aware of the chasm before him, its presence just as palpable and threatening as the roaring freight train. Was this awareness of emptiness the product of some perceptive ability beyond the five senses? In the absence of input, did the human mind resort to other, more primal senses of the spirit?
He didn’t believe in magic or the supernatural, but there was no doubt that this place had some kind of special quality that challenged his skeptical world-view. He was an east-coaster, from a city of steel and glass and practical sensibility. Here in the West he was confronted by a wonderland of unfamiliarity and strangeness. To the Navajo, this canyon was a sacred place; in its depths the Holy Ones had taught them how to live. Crystal huggers and mystics called sites like this vortexes, physical locations that possessed a sort of concentrated metaphysical energy. Portals into the soul of the universe. Places where the skein between reality and fantasy was stretched so thin that magic leaked across like moisture through a tissue. Whatever caused the phenomenon, its impact was undeniable, for standing on the pitch black edge of this ancient canyon had sent his long-dulled sense of wonder into overdrive.
Of course there was a perfectly rational explanation for the sensation. It was no doubt caused by the powerful combination of fear and exhilaration that humans feel when confronted by the unknown. The same thrill that compels mountain climbers and entrepreneurs and artists to take unusual risks. The same thrill that had once compelled him to touch a speeding train. Hormones impacting neurons. Chemicals and electricity in the body and brain. All perfectly logical. No magic required.
He was still using his scientific sensibilities to analyze the situation when directly before him a huge and silent shape rocketed up out of the abyss, as if the darkness itself was bolting for the sky. Two great eyes flashed, impassionate and cold, between wings wider than his outstretched arms. A whisper of air brushed his cheeks as the apparition passed inches above his upturned face. In panic he rocked backward, teetering, dropping to his backside, hands scrabbling behind him in the crumbling gravel, brightly aware of the danger of the endless drop. He cried out. The void swallowed his cry; there was no echo.
His eyes darted around in the blackness. Nothing. Slowly he crept back from the edge, crabbing gingerly through loose gravel until his shoulders felt the steel railing that lined the tourist trail along the canyon rim. What insane urge had compelled him to cross the safety barrier despite the numerous signs warning tourists to stay away from the edge? Stupid, stupid, stupid! But he couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face. He let out a deep and wavering breath, and the smile broke into a laugh, loud and pure.
What had just happened? Had the spirit universe sent him a message, chiding him for his skepticism, or was it simply random chance that the enormous owl had picked that exact moment to launch itself out of the canyon depths? He would never know the answer, but did it really matter? Either way, it had happened.
He gripped the solid steel railings and turned his face to the stars and cried out a howl of savage joy. From across the infinite canyon, a coyote answered, then another, and another. There was life on the other side, too.
Suddenly, the night held no fear.
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