Falling

by Knut Farstad

Tidry made his step up the narrow hill. It was the first step. The very first. But he already had rocks in his shoes. As he felt them scraping his toes, he knew how destined he was to be a clumsy. "This isn't my life!!" he almost yelled out in the valley. "I don't want this!" Back home, he could just do the things he found exciting. Like poaching rabbits, or whatever Yrynvan had figured out the evening before. He couldn't do it on his own.
      This was the first time he had ever been in an adventure. "An adventure!!" he now said to himself, gloriously. But, as said, "you don't make a diamond of a rock by scraping the surface." He was no hero, no warrior. He had no banner to show. And worst of all, he was alone. Alone in the heat, with his weapon. He had to convince himself not to throw the knife, or sword, or whatever you should call it, down the mountain.
      Going up the mountains, he had gotten many new annoyances to bear with. He had scraped his knee so much that if there was any flesh left, he could see it blow away in the wind. But he had not the time to tend to his injuries. He was going up to whatever cabin Torgalv had directed him to.
      Tidry was halfway up the narrow mountain, and jumped from rock to rock on the loose sand that was the ground beneath him. If he hit a wrong point with his jumping, he could be tumbling down again, hitting each rock that was to find on the way down.
      "Finally!!" Tidry said as he saw the top. Would this be the answer to his problems? Torgalv had said so. The last rock he hit, before he jumped up at what he thought to be his destination. He closed his eyes, and waited for the ground to hit his feet.
      He waited . . . but nothing happened. Except for the wind brushing through his hair. He opened his eyes, and his smile was quickly killed. Nothing but emptiness. Blackness, erupted by the sun that had once been shining above.
      "I'm dead . . ." There was nothing to touch, nothing to feel, except the wind, that only made him more prone to the fall. But there were clouds of thicker air. Clouds that -when he hit- slowed him down for a small second. Thicker air.
      He should have hit something by now. If it wasn't an eternal fall. He was sure it was not. It couldn't be. He waited for minutes, until the clouds became thicker. One thicker than the other. Until he met hard points in them. He scratched his arm and knocked his head. It wasn't terrible, because he felt so good. Almost ecstatic. Not like regular falling from heights. Not like your regular stomach going up your mouth. Just fall.

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