The Mountain Queen

Chapter Five: The Chasm

As we walked east along the canyon's edge—with jagged mountains looming to our left, and the endless gulf of the Chasm yawning vastly in between—Cressock told us what he knew of the rope bridge we were heading for.

"It's a slender enough thread to connect two halves of the world," he acknowledged, "but I think both halves like it that way. There's always been mistrust between the High Country and the Low. They see us as proud, violent, and rigidly hierarchical. We see them as peasants and primitives." He paused, and added musingly: "Perhaps both sides are right."

From childhood, I remembered the legend of the Chasm—how the gods had cleaved the world in two to keep mortal men from banding together against them. I asked Cressock if this legend were true.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I've always found it hard to swallow. What hope could men have in a war against the gods? And what would inspire them to wage it? I think it far more likely that the Chasm has always been here—since well before men walked the earth." He looked to his left, at that great gaping emptiness, and his voice sank to a low drawl. "It has that look about it."

"Who made the bridge?" I asked, after a silence.

"Merchants," he replied. "There's just enough trade between the two sides to make the bridge worth maintaining. Of course, 'bridge' isn't really the right word. It's only a thick footrope that droops across the canyon, and a thinner handrope five or six feet above. You walk along the footrope, and you cling to the handrope for dear life. The merchants lose a man or two every year to the Chasm. It's only the poorest of them who even attempt it." He smiled at me slyly. "Are you certain you wish to continue north?" He had recovered his usual mocking calm.

"I'm not afraid of falling."

"Then you're very foolish," he said, looking straight ahead of him. But he was still smiling. If I was foolish, he liked it in me.

* * *

We walked on, as the sun sank lower behind us, and our shadows stretched out like giants ahead. After a while, Cressock began to frown. He glanced repeatedly up at the mountains, and down at the Chasm, and up again. He was plainly perturbed.

"I've never seen the bridge," he muttered, almost to himself, "but I've been told where to find it. It's just at the foot of Scavilus, on the western side. That," he said, pointing, "is Scavilus." It was a high, narrow peak, much taller than the mountains immediately around it. It forked at the top into two rocky prongs. From either side, it would have been unmistakable. But there was no sign of a rope bridge at its foot.

"Keep your eyes open," he said. "It's getting dark. Maybe I've missed it." I strained my eyes, but only out of obedience. If Cressock couldn't see it, there was no hope that I would.

Then we heard a cry from Brody. He was a little ahead of us, very near to the Chasm's lip, and looking downward. We hurried to his side.

The bridge was there, all right—just where Cressock had said it would be. On the south side, where Brody stood, its two ropes were anchored firmly in the rock by two great rusted-iron rings. But the bridge no longer swooped out across the canyon, to alight in the mountains beyond. Instead, it hung limply along the Chasm's southern wall. The bridge had been severed—severed on the north side. Now it was nothing but lank, neglected rope.

Cressock stared, wide-eyed, at the strands of rope disappearing into the dark of the canyon. The sight seemed to fall on him like a dark omen. Even in the warm sunset light, his face looked pale.

"This can mean nothing good," he said softly.

After that he was silent for a long moment. His eyes moved swiftly, as his mind raced to conceive a plan. Then, abruptly, he stepped toward the Chasm, crouched low, and seized hold of the thicker of the two ropes that dangled there. With a mighty strain of his arms and legs, he began to pull the rope upwards, out of its shadowy grave.