At the Place of Perpetual Dusk

A young woman stood at the edge, too far up to see the ground. She was where the trees of the earth grew no more and clouds moved out of an old god’s lungs. Her eyes shrank to see the posture of the god’s blurred face, pushed up to the heavens to such a degree that she could not make godly nose from godly eye.

The young woman looked not once downward. She knew the earth was at the boundary just as she knew she had met the door of the ever-present, the not-to-be-fathomed soul of her world and the realm beyond. Where she stood, resolute as a shout of thunder, she could count the stars. Had there been sand, she could have counted every speck.

“Lend me your foot,” the old god spoke, gently. As he uttered the small request, the clouds above, backdropped by baby-blues and blushed roses, undulated turbulent flow. Of course, as old as the old god was, and as godly, there was no need to be had. The woman understood. She stepped once, left foot, then the other, out above the drop.

Had she been anywhere else, an old law—though not as old as the old god—could have taken hold and pulled her down (down, down), screams and lungs and all the heat her arms could generate, down for hours unto her sorry end. Had she been anywhere else, she would not have such a moment to lose herself. To be blessed.

“Grab ahold,” the old god hummed. So she took a cloud form between palm and thumb, and not a glance was spared to the space below her. Matter unseen, and energy as pressure wrapped around her center, then she rose up. And up. And up. She slanted her neck back and peered at the same godly face she’d attempted to see before. She made out the crest of a nose-end and an arch of an amused brow, bushy as a grandfather. The face became greater as she grew closer.

Soon, they were eye to eye.

She could see only a part of the old god’s eye. The color, green, amazed her, for she’d expected blue or perhaps a warm black, near as he was from the edges of the ether.

“You have made yourself known,” he breathed. Strange warmth spread through her. Hundreds of thousands of feet above any of the summer breezes, yet the old god had a way to soothe her. A ukulele could not have struck a sweeter chord to please her ear.

“What do you count now?” The eye zeroed on her as though to calculate each cell of blood beneath her cheeks.

“Other than the stars?” She asked her words slowly, unsure.

“Mm, you tell me.”

The god’s mouth was upturned, though she could not see for herself.

“All,” she guessed, strong. “All can be counted here.”

The old god pushed out a boreal laugh that stole the steel from her calves. “And what do you count?”

The woman wondered at the not-to-be-fathomed grandfather. Here she stood, atop the sky, at the boundary of the ether and warm, not to look down. And was she scared? As sure as she was that she’d stepped through the door to the ever-present, crossed the threshold and met the host of all hosts, yes. She was beyond scared. As sure as she was that she had put her best foot toward an amused old god, her best was had just been moldy rags—no, broken branches. And he had asked her, What do you count?

What could she count?

“Oh, grandfather,” she began, small. “To count any product of your breaths breeds only reverence for you.” She paused merely to stare at the face she could not see all of. The face of all-power, all-fathers. A pulse near the god’s mouth made real such unrealness before her. She breathed. “Of two tasks to count, stars and sand, there’s no end to the numbers, should they start by my own tongue. Grandfather, my own heart collapses, thousands upon thousands of shards. Could they all be counted?”

What she saw when she peered at the old god bade her answer.

“No. They could not,” she spoke, forcefully, eyes a-sparkle. “For myself, to be blessed means to count what has come before me. You ask, ‘What do you count?’ and my answer has to be the checks you have bestowed upon my head and on my heart.”

The eyebrow unfurled. A flower unto heaven.

“Aye,” he spoke. “A humble heart.”

He shrunk an eye as he wondered at her. And fear consumed the blood cells beneath her cheeks, paled to the perpetual dusk that surrounded them. Not to be blessed? What could she have been about, to make the trek here?

Not twelve hours ago, the woman could spare no thought to her own personage. Now, thoughts thereof subsumed her. Could she be wrong? She had gotten here, face to face. He had taken her up. Could she be so small?

She watched vapor be expelled from the god’s mouth, as he spoke the next sentence, “Tell me, do you care to look down?”

“Not at all,” she answered. “What could be there for me now?”

“Mm,” spoke the god.

But her eyes moved, absent of her consent. Dread ascended to her throat, her stomach dropped, she screamed, but was muffled by a band of energy as pressure over her mouth. She pleaded, eye to eye.

“Who told you not to look down?” The old god murmured these words as though they brought joy to a turbulent flow. “Rumors about me are rarely true.”

She hadn’t fallen, as she’d expected. Her breaths were uneven, shaky. “N-no one told me.”

“Ah. You presumed a test.”

“Y-you’re the old god. A test m-makes sense.”

He pondered and energy began to crack around them. “You counted correctly, before. But there was no test beneath my query.”

Her heart found the steel her calves had lost. More blood cells paled to fear. Soon, she felt no warmth at all.

“The pulses drove you here, pulses from the heart of a soul who wants.” Lungs punctuated each word, long and fast together. Then he spoke gently. “You want. You want to be changed, you want yourself anew, but never not you.”

Energy as pressure lowered the woman to the old god’s outstretched palm. “You must depart from yourself. Had you not looked down because you feared not, that would have been…success. Or even, had you feared a fall yet gone on. But you pretended and looked away. You looked up. At me. What do you want?”

The woman stepped forward, knees as earthquakes. Left foot, then the other. The old god’s hand.

“You.”

“No.”

The god’s brow fell and the woman screamed.

Had she been anywhere else, an old law—though not as old as the old god—could have taken hold and pulled her down (down, down), screams and lungs and all the heat her arms could generate, down for hours unto her sorry end. Had she been anywhere else, she would not have such a moment to lose herself. To be blessed at the boundary, the place of perpetual dusk.

The dark had never felt so cold.

Please, God, save me, the woman prayed. For hours, she prayed. My best was moldy rags, broken branches. Please, God, save me.

The dark had never been so full of aches.

A/N: For the challenge sans the letter that shall not be etched.