Above the Vaulted Sky - Page 183

                I cry out as my feet scramble ineffectually against the hot air.

                I feel the stinging scrape of my hands on the rope and I pull myself to a stop. I pant, desperate for air and hold it against my cheek like that will coax my lifeline into helping me hang there.

                I stretch my feet out once I’ve stopped spinning and begin my descent again.

                Before long, I reach the bottom. I’m enveloped by a glorious bubble of cool air. I wonder is that why my skeletal friend decided to stay down here.

                I touch, one, two feet to the ground and survey the crumpled body at the bottom. The ground is covered by still more sand. Any hopes I had of water to quench my thirst dissolve like grains through the gap in an hourglass.

                I look into his hollow eye sockets and take in his gaping mouth with lines of straight teeth. Slowly, I notice that the rags of clothes he once wore cling to his bones. Blue fabric of what looks like an old hoody and some blue remains of denim around his legs.

                With some trepidation, I look at his feet and see the dregs of the red converse I’ve been wearing for a year.

                It feels as though someone has got a grip on my heart and squeezed. I claw at the walls and try to gain a purchase. I grasp the rope and jump up onto it. How has this happened? How am I dead? This is some trick, some ghastly, awful trick someone is playing. I have to get out of here. The walls feel like they’re closing around me and I don’t think I can last another second in here without throwing up.

                I jerk my body weight onto the rope and instantly hear my mistake. There’s a sharp, loud snap like a gunshot high above me and I see the well house crack down the middle. I clatter to the floor to lie with my own skeletal remains and wait for the weight of wood and rope to land on top of my still, foetal body.

                I open my eyes. The heat of the sand against my skin is unmistakable. I feel the burn of the sand against me and I know I’m outside again. I look up and take stock of the world. There’s the dunes, high as mountains, and there’s the dead tree, standing, lifeless, taunting me like the laughing skeleton.

                What is this place?