I look at the hole, and below it the yawning vacancy of the chasm.
I could try to hold on to the rope and haul myself along it, hand by hand, but I know I don’t have the arm strength.
I’m going to have to jump.
I stand there, hesitating, and then I sense the air shift behind me, and I turn and see the wolves coming, the pack streaming toward me.
Mark, I think.
In front of me, the Child’s arms are still outstretched, as if straining to reach me, across the thirty yards that separate us, across the glass walls of its prison. Her cries echo against the rock walls.
There’s no time to think—I give myself as much of a run up as I dare, then I sprint to the edge and jump—
for a moment I am in free fall; weightless—
then my forearms land on the planks on the other side and my fingers find a hold and I swing there, panting.
I glance back and see the wolves stop—not quick enough; the momentum of the pack pushes two of them off the side and down.
Ha, I think. You just try to—
The ropes spanning the gap, the ropes green with algae, snap.
My part of the bridge is still attached to the other side, but now I’m the weight of a pendulum; now I’m swinging fast toward the rock wall of the moat. There’s ten feet of bridge between me and the side, and I know the formulas to give you the speed and the force, (Mom) taught me them, but there isn’t exactly time to work them out, and when I hit the rock I hit it hard, and it smacks the breath out of me.
I dangle there, for a second, then the plank I’m holding snaps, and I fall.
My hands windmill, looking for purchase; I am maybe screaming but I can’t hear it past the rush of air. Little trees and weeds and patches of ivy whip at me as I plunge down and then—
Crunch. I hit a hard branch, a thick one, and I manage to get my arms around it in like a headlock kind of move, and cling to it. I see that it’s a tree, jutting out into the air. It’s strong; it will hold me.
But that might not help.
I look up. No—I didn’t fall that far. I can see the top, maybe fifteen feet up. And there are handholds too—little crevices in the rock, and other branches and roots; things I could cling to.
It’s just …
If I fall, and I don’t snag something again, I will die.
I hang there, cursing silently. Then I try to reach up for the next handhold I can see; a root snaking out from an earthy crack in the rock, forming a loop. But my hand trembles—I can’t do it. I’m too scared, and too tired.
I’m stuck.
There’s a bottomless drop below me, and a hard climb above me. And I’m no climber, and if I make a mistake, it’s the end.
I’m so sorry, Child, I think. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll find a way to come back and I’ll get you out of there, I promise.
Then I do the only thing I can think of.
I concentrate very hard, and I step back—
through the air—
into my other nightmare.