Waterfall Junction
and
The Narrow Bridge
by Jeremy Bursey
Copyright 2016 by Jeremy Bursey
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Introduction
Waterfall Junction
Part 1: The Rabbit
Part 2: The Flight
Part 3: The Test
Part 4: The Fall
Part 5: The Sacrifice
The Narrow Bridge
Part 1: The Storm
Part 2: The Forest
Part 3: The Canyon
Part 4: The Cottage
Part 5: The Chasm
Author’s Note
Ebook Version
About the Author
Other Books
Contact and Questions
Coming Soon
Introduction
Thanks for your curiosity about this double-featured tale of adventurers and their faith in the unseen and in the unknown. Most of what I have to say about these stories, I will say in the author’s note that follows at the end, but I wanted to address their nature before you read. In short, these are similar to parables and not exactly sprawling epics of grand fantasy adventure or overcoming some evil force (at least not in the classic sense). They are based on messages of faith and wisdom. Even though they are written in the style of traditional fantasy and contain elements of adventure throughout, they are nevertheless allegories of biblical themes. Good and evil exist in both stories, and our protagonists do have plenty of conflict to manage. But these stories are based more on the internal conflict than the external. These stories revel in our heroes’ victories over themselves through the power of faith more than the conquest over an evil entity. Regardless of what you may expect from them, I hope you’ll get a positive message out of both. Keep an open mind about their themes and I’m sure you will. And even if you can’t, just remember that there is still plenty of adventure in both stories, and it would be a shame for you to miss out. So, thank you, and enjoy the experience ahead.
Waterfall Junction
Part One
“The Rabbit”
War was averted. Or so he hoped. As the moon elevated from behind the Great Mountain, a lone horseman in tin-plated armor trotted along the banks of the Paradise River, breathing in a damaged rhythm behind his mask. Although his rusting sword dangled by his hip, the blade destined to see countless engagements remained untested.
Having wandered for hours along a hillside where the fountains of blood had once slumbered, he stopped beside the water’s edge to labor another breath. His Iberian Saddle Horse bowed down to drink from the calmed edge of the rapids, while he, the rider, removed his steel helmet and tossed it to the current. Where he was going, he didn’t need it.
The rider, Dalowin, stepped down from his four-legged accomplice and collapsed along the shore. With his thighs touching the soft ground, he picked a rock out of a shrub and rolled it between his fingers.
The river crashed and bubbled in its flowing fury, yet he stayed close, hoping the anger would quench him. On his own there was nothing he could do short of tossing himself in, but he waited—for an earthquake, maybe—to give him that jarring nudge. Waiting was folly, however. The natural land had showed him no favor, and it would not begin to favor him tonight. He scooted from the riverbank, plunging the stone in his place.
“Do not be afraid,” said a ghostly voice echoing from the water.
Dalowin jumped to his feet. The words vibrated down to the pit of his heart.
“What?”
His attention darted everywhere; his chest heaved from the shock.
He gazed into the churning cauldron, but saw, nor heard anything. The mist floated up from the surface, spraying his face like spit from a baby. The surrounding field of wild marjoram enveloped his senses with its sweet aroma. The butterflies fluttered without resonance and he stood there on the shore looking like the fool. His horse glanced up from the river, snorted, then returned to its drink.
“Thank you, Aspyre, for your staunch reassurance,” he said.
The beast didn’t respond. Dalowin chucked another rock. His heart was now calming.
* * *
The lucid dream had fought with him three separate times: the first, a week before departure while sleeping in his father’s castle; the second, when his army had split into three parts at the Hill of Resilience; the third, while resting along the banks of the Paradise River. Each time, the vision had replayed the story picture for picture, engraining him with visions of terror. Though the images were short-lived, they had panned out with an orchestral voice so booming that the pieces haunted him in broad daylight.
A castle with four towers stood like a giant at the foot of the hill, with bloody moat on three sides and a mountain on the fourth. A city opened at the base of the drawbridge, surrounding the canal to the edge of the rock. Walls of mortar encased the city, with an inner wall keeping the castle court. The strongholds were covered in venom.
Soldiers with crossbows paced the surface of each protective layer. Scores of swordsmen roamed the city streets. Multiple guards stood outside the gates and pikes stabbed down from the ramparts like wooden icicles.
The son of the duke, regarded among his countrymen as Dalowin the Rabbit, stood on the hill’s peak, surveying the land. Though his army of a hundred horsemen stood loyal to him—or to his father, rather—their presence brought him little comfort. Hundreds more stood between him and the Throne of Destiny, waiting to knock him off his saddle. The sky moved at the speed of an arrow, but he and his men remained frozen in time.
A man in purple robes materialized a few feet down the slope, stretching his hands toward the kingdom.
“The king of this land has defiled his people,” the prophet said. “He must be dethroned. Go and claim the kingdom for your father and the Lord will bless your people accordingly. Do not delay or the city before you shall die.”
Three times Dalowin had wanted to take that first step toward the valley to rush the gates, but three times his courage had failed. With every scuffle of the horse’s hooves, he spun the animal around and charged the opposite hill, fleeing from his own men. And every time he awoke, he lurched into reality with a dry mouth and a shattered will, convincing himself the prophecy was false and the war was never meant for him.
* * *
“Do not be afraid,” the voice of ambience whispered.
Bolting upright, Dalowin stared at the water, hyperventilating through the shallows of his lips. Though the signs continued to elude him, something had chased him. He strained his ears to hear it again. Whitecaps broke less than a meter from his feet and the wind echoed through the reeds. But nature, like an irritating mime, lacked speech. Whatever it was, it hid itself. Taunting him. Scolding him.
Confounded by the problem, he insisted the place was cursed.
Weeks ago, his accompanying cavalry had vanished. By his fault. When the three squads separated atop the Hill of Resilience, he had broken rank and dashed for the woods, hoping they had the sense to follow his l
ead. Without a commander, he was certain—or hopeful—they’d return home. Disbanding them was the only way he knew how to protect them.
In his heart he believed the prophet had fed his father a lie. It was impossible the kingdom below the Hill could fall before his small army. The castle guard clamped the city with the strength of a thousand elephants. Cowardice was the key to his survival.
For many nights, he had rationalized himself to sleep. A dead man never dethroned a corrupt king. An army never rose from a bloody heap. A sound leader was a wise leader and a wise leader was a living one. Leading these people away had left him with no consequence.
He hoisted himself over the saddle and clutched his reigns with eagle claws. He had to depart from this land.
Part Two
“The Flight”
As Aspyre the Iberian Saddle Horse trotted along the riverbank, Dalowin fell asleep. With his cheeks planted in the animal’s mane, a heavy trickling noise filled his ears. He saw only unmistakable darkness, yet imagined the picture of a slanted brook rolling over the edge of a mountain. In the dream, an immense hand leapt from the current and knocked him off his seat, throwing him over the lip of a mighty waterfall. And then, he plummeted, faster and faster, farther and farther, until at last he ripped his eyes open. In his frantic state of alertness, he overcompensated his position and fell off the steed.
“Aspyre, stop.” The beast continued without him. “I said stop.”
When he caught up to his equestrian companion, Dalowin noticed the landscape had changed. Though he could see only by starlight, he discovered he was on the verge of hitting a gargantuan cliff face towering nearly a thousand feet above him.
Pine trees blocked his path, yet a narrow opening etched into the heart of the mountain a short distance down the river. He hopped onto his horse and headed for the break.
As the black sheer rock rose, he saw tree clusters extending over the shoreline, forcing him to waver through the wood the closer he came. It took him nearly an hour to navigate the foliage.
When he reached the cleft, he entered a narrow canyon stretching beyond his sight. With only a few feet separating the wall from the swelling river, Dalowin held his arms close to his sides and took a deep breath. The squeeze brought strain to his triceps, but it was worth him staying dry.
He and his horse traveled along the skinny path for the remainder of the night. With vertical rock faces repeating with each step, the hope for an escape looked slim. The trail seemed like it went on forever. His shoulders trembled with despair.
It was too late to reverse direction; the path had gotten too narrow. The rapids spilled down the declining river, yet the rider knew escape meant braving the current—in all its fury. The path ahead seemed dry, but endless. He considered the path behind.
“You know the way behind you,” said the voice of ambience, barely audible. It sounded like it was riding on the wind as it scraped the rocky edges around him. “Your freedom lies in the risks ahead.”
Once again Dalowin stopped his horse and waited. The voice, though whispering, sounded clearer than ever. The landscape didn’t present change, but the air rustled in his ears. The thought of its warning brought sweat to his brow.
A few minutes passed before he had the courage to move. Only, he resolved he had gone mad, so he attempted to turn the horse around. With a tight grip of the reins, he jerked its neck to the left.
The creature didn’t move. It snorted.
“Aspyre,” he said, rib-kicking the animal, “move it.”
The horse spat; then continued on the normal path. Dalowin kicked it with greater force.
“Aspyre, turn around.”
Five gusts of wind passed before the rider surrendered his effort. The river, meanwhile, continued to splash in his face as it hit the jagged shore at his feet.
The hopeless journey went on for another hour, moving up a leftward bend into an even narrower section of the canyon. With his toes scraping the mountain wall, the horseman dismounted his steed by climbing over its head. He continued on foot, leading the animal by the bit.
He and the horse walked for another mile before the river leveled out and calmed to a trickle. To his relief, the path also began to widen. With a glimmer of hope, he rested against the cliff. The ensuing comfort nearly pushed him back to sleep.
Part Three
“The Test”
Sometime later, when the morning reached its peak, Dalowin nearly lost his balance. The road before him finally changed. Though the rocky trail maintained its rugged surface, the bordering cliffs tapered off into a series of platforms that formed a cylindrical container rising a thousand feet at its highest point, with the river spilling into a bowl-shaped lake. The entire landscape reminded him of the interior of his discarded helmet, but upside-down, craggy, and full of water.
The river itself, now calm at the mouth of the great pool, branched into three adjoining streams that met at the edges of each shore. The channels, all about thirty feet wide at the mouth, flowed from the spray zones of three large waterfalls. Dalowin took a deep breath as he absorbed the splendor.
Each waterfall spilled from consecutively growing heights: the lowest precipice standing at the height of a tree, the highest at the top of the sheer rock. He also noticed a series of steps ascending the rock face from the base of each surrounding path. Though the segments passing the greater falls were inaccessible—cut off by the adjacent streams—the stair leading up the smallest wall started at the end of the main path.
The majesty of the reflecting pond drew from him a sense of wonder, but the confined quarters still trapped him. He resolved to find a way out. The path he followed reached a dead end. The steps climbing above the first stream appeared to lead to a higher river. He sighed, relieved.
“Come, Aspyre,” he said, “I think we found our way.”
The horse hesitated at the first ascending step; Dalowin helped it navigate the curvature and sharp zigzags leading to the next level. It was certainly no simple ordeal—the steps couldn’t have been wider than his shoulders, making the journey especially awkward for the horse. But with an intense strain on the horse’s bit to keep it level, the difficult task was a successful one. At the top of the stair, he found a small field at the edge of a wood and a stream passing through.
The field was narrow. Trees squeezed it against the riverbanks on one side; the adjacent border cliff tackled it from the other. It was also absent of any defined path, making the river the only clear navigation point for escape. It bent right, about half a mile down the way into the heart of the forest.
As Dalowin mounted his horse, he set course to follow the shoreline. The trip seemed easy compared to the canyon’s claustrophobic road, yet still he had uncertainty. On the one hand, the ground was softer than the former path, making his steps potentially shakier. On the other, the forest was so dense that keeping to a straight line was impossible. His safest measure, then, was to tread the shallows of the river, but that, of course, meant hitting deep pockets, throwing him and his horse off footing. In the end, he realized he had made a mistake coming this far.
“Take the boat,” said the voice of ambience.
Again, Dalowin stopped to listen to his surroundings. That voice—it was driving him mad. And the boat—what boat? He looked around; all he saw was—wait, there was a boat. It was sitting against a small rock just inside the forest. It was wooden, rickety, and far too small for a horse. The voice was clearly suffering from head trauma.
“Leave the horse behind,” said the voice. “I will take care of him. Your journey must continue in this boat.”
“Who are you?” Dalowin asked at last. “Why have you followed me?”
“Set the boat in the river.”
He glanced from treetop to treetop, suspicious of the wind and the birds. But then he laughed.
“Certainly there is no one there. Aspyre, am I imagining things?”
“The horse will not answer you,” said the voice, “for a horse do
es not speak.”
“But the wind speaks? How is this so?”
“I am more than wind, as I am more than life. Trust My instruction. Set the boat in the river.”
The rider wanted to protest the wind, but realized further response was folly, so he did as the voice instructed—questioning his intelligence at the same time. He climbed off the horse and approached the river. Then he waded in to reach the boat.
“What shall I do now?” he asked, as he stepped into the boat. He could not believe he was listening to the wind, or understanding that which it spoke.
“Let the current carry you.”
Dalowin squeezed into the tiny vessel and waited for the river to respond. It took a moment for the boat to move, but a soft breeze pushed it to the river’s center. From there, the current gained control, leading him down the watery path. Without an oar to steer, he prayed he had made the right choice. Only, when he realized the current did not lead toward the bend as he had assumed, but toward the waterfall, he panicked.
“This is mad,” he said. “I will not do this.”
Before he could take further action, the boat accelerated, pulling him into a forward motion stronger than his ability to resist. He put one foot over the edge in preparation to jump, but he knew he would never make it in time—the water was pulling him too fast. Whether he was ready for it, whether he stayed in the boat, one way or another he was going over the edge. He pressed his forehead against his knees to prepare for his impending doom.
Part Four
“The Fall”
The river hurled him over the precipice. The boat rode the bumpy cascade a pine tree’s distance to the bottom, splashing nose-first into the stream below. The impact submerged the vessel long enough to draw a few inches of water, but not enough to sink it. When Dalowin opened his eyes and looked up, he found himself floating toward the reflecting pond in the middle.
The ordeal left him speechless.
The boat drifted to the next shore where the channel met the lake. As the vessel touched the rocky bank, Dalowin stepped out and kicked the water off his feet. Silence followed. Inside, he shook, but he didn’t know what to do. The gurgling rush of the falls rumbled back to life. The spill of the river rose from his gut and flooded into his cheeks. The dam in his throat couldn’t maintain its hold any longer.