Above the Vaulted Sky - Page 182

                I grab the rope above me and wind it around my wrist. It’s old and coarse. Grains sit inside the weave and it showers down my sleeve. I don’t know why I’m compelled to see the skeleton but part of me feels like I have to. It would offer me some sort of solace to know that another person survived out here for some time anyway. Maybe it would lead to some clue as to what happened in this town, or anything at all that might lead to a glimmer of hope.

                I climb up onto the low round wall and dangle my feet over. Pulling on the rope, unreeling the old rope I let it down into the well, down and down until I think it reaches the bottom.

                I hook it around the handle so it doesn’t come off and take hold of it in both hands. It scrapes at my palms without any of my weight on it. I cringe and anticipate the pain that I’m letting myself in for.

                I take a breath and kick off from the side. I pause for a second, frozen in mid-air with at least a twenty foot drop beneath me. My shoulders strain from the effort and I wonder – am I strong enough for this?

                I remember having to climb a rope at school, in one particularly awful PE lesson where my teacher shouted me to the top. I managed it after every other person in the class and I returned to jeers and laughing at the bottom.

                Spurred on by the embarrassment I resolve to complete my mission.

                I brace myself and let go with one hand. I reach out with my feet and find I can brace against the side, taking some of the slack away.

                My feet work with my hands in unison. I hear the vultures squawk above me again. Did they pick my new friend’s bones clean?

                As I consider the possibility, the flesh torn from my bones by a razor sharp beak, I lose my concentration. My foot slips and I feel the call of empty space beneath me.