Fiction logo

The Precipice Prior

One Way of Understanding

By C.D. HoylePublished 2 years ago 14 min read
9
The Precipice Prior
Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

Welcome is the feeling; No words are spoken.

I felt called upon, I reply, without speaking. There is a moment of increased vibration in the warm stream of infinity.

“That means it’s time” they respond in beautiful three-piece harmony. “Be drawn in, let us collect you up and bring you to us in the way you have chosen to understand,” they say.

“Oh, I love this version” giggled one of three astonishingly beautiful lights as they slowly materialized into woman-shaped beings. They twirled and examined one another as if they had just finished primping themselves for a Royal Ball. They ranged in height, body shape, and age in perfect scale; the eldest is both tall and slender while the youngest is short and plump.

“We still have our work, sisters,” the tallest of the magnificent beauties said, then looking in my direction, “Come. Join us while we work and you can finalize your choice”. She indicates an elaborately carved wooden rocking chair.

“I made this,” I say, appreciatively, as I settle into the chair. More giggles. The youngest smiles adoringly in my direction.

“In a way - you have made all you see” explains the elder. I watch as a glowing coil is lifted from a basket by the youngest, spring tested and pulled straight as if her hands, with their stumpy fingers were not just as warm - as they appeared, but hot; hot like an oven making the glowing coil malleable as she begins to stretch it out thin and long.

“Oh yes. That is very satisfying, thank you,” she says, passing one end to the middle sister with a smile while cheerfully continuing to roll and lengthen the strand.

Sound from the glowing string vibrated low. I felt I could almost figure out the song if I could just get a little closer to the string. The middle sister took the end given to her and worked it into the fissure of a wooden spool. She began to turn the spool and wind the glowing thread slowly around and around it. As it moved through her fingers, its low vibration took on melody as if it encompassed all the strings of an orchestra in itself. I know this song, I think... did I write that music?

I break away from watching the enchanted string to find the middle sister, holding the string, is staring at me. I am glad she is being gentle with it as I have an overwhelming feeling of love for it. It looks so robust and delicate at the same time. She slows her progress, smiles big, and presses into the thread by pinching it just a little;

Music fills our arena and Paul Simon sings;

“I said take this child, Lord

From Tucson Arizona

Give her the wings to fly through harmony

And she won’t bother you no more

This is the story of how we begin to remember

This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein

After the dream of falling and calling your name out

These are the roots of rhythm

And the roots of rhythm remain”

“Sister!” the eldest says, sharply but with a small smile playing at the end of her lips.

“Oh you never let me have any fun!” replies the middle sister, returning to her slow, methodical work.

“You’re just upset because that song is not about you, for once” adds the youngest towards the eldest and she winks at me again.

“Yes, well, that puts us in 1986 if I’m not mistaken?” The eldest asks and receives nods from the others.

“We have the time now to look, come,” she says and indicates the edge of a grande precipice I was and was not aware of moments before.

Rocking forward in my chair I’m able to see a flowing stream below. Deep and wide, a river courses its way from one horizon to the next. Ebbing and flowing bands of strings, moving swiftly. I gather it is a beautifully refined system. Each string glowing in a full spectrum of unique colours. A sight so sublime any description would fail it.

“Sublime!” says the sister. “What a great word; Lofty, grand, exalted in thought, expression, or manner ,” she says, gesturing towards the river and nods approvingly. “You have chosen to understand the unfathomable in this way. We have seen it all before, in different versions of the same narrative, of course, but we “Sisters” love this version. And your river is gorgeous,” she says, smiling kindly.

“This is how you will best understand what you are here to do,” she tells me. “You have been building your vibration for long enough. It’s time, again, to add your string to the collective.”

I am hit with understanding; Yet am utterly bewildered.

“Yes, it's a contradictory feeling at first. You’ll get used to it.” she says.

“I feel like I know everything and nothing all at once,” I tell her.

“Some call it limbo,” she replies and I attach myself to the word. Limbo. “There is a reflection of this feeling on Earth...that's where you’re off to this time, if you choose. You’ll know the feeling in due time. When your vibration flows freely in and out of you, openly giving and receiving; like a breath. You become a conduit for this place,” she says, making an imitative gesture. “We get to touch your song again.” She gives me a very maternal smile. “It is a beautiful rendition.”

My attention wanders back to the other sisters, with their glowing string. The middle sister seems to be showing the youngest portions of the string as she draws it along and loops it around and around the spool. One moment they laugh together, the next they look rigid and exchange woeful glances. Then their faces seem bathed in sunlight and they are smiling and slowly winding their hips, dancing, enjoying music only they are close enough to hear.

“This is why you’ve come,” says the eldest, drawing my attention back to the river.

She lifts her hand up as if to conduct an unseen orchestra, and three of the strings emerge, still flowing, but separate from the rest.

“Oh! I like that, thank you,” she whispers and an ivory wand appears in her hand. Not a wand, I think, a baton, like a conductor. “Hold my hand and we will start here,” she says presenting her hand, which I take. She touches the end of the baton to the first of the three strings.

There is a moment of electric current and images, smells, tastes and sounds that overwhelm my senses. Raising to the surface of it all is a warmth so deeply familiar and a smell I could never forget. But I must have forgotten, or else...I’ve not known it yet?

“Mother” she simply says.

I allow the images and sensations to float by calling some to the surface for closer inspection.

A small cottage on the water with painted tires each filled with colourful flowers lining the front path. The taste of homemade turkey soup and ‘Craven “A” cigarettes. A chocolate lab puppy hidden inside a bowling-ball bag. Gazing, smiling in the mirror at a belly swollen with pregnancy, a macramé barn owl hanging, watchful, in the background. There is an overwhelming feeling of pride held for “The Girls.” A pod of whales; children excitedly shouting “Flukes Up”. And then a door. A black door. I reach for it but my hand is intercepted.

“Not for you,” she says calmly. “Not even for her, yet...where we drop you in, anyways”.

This is part of my purpose, I think, and know it is true.

“Yes, indeed,” she replies to my thought.

I linger in the warm feeling of having someone show up for you time and time again. I smell and feel being enveloped in a deep, vanilla-scented bosom.

“What does this all add up to for you?” she asks me.

“You already know, don’t you?” I reply, teasing.

“It makes me whole to hear it, still,” she says.

“Love. This is love” I acknowledge, laughing, and we smile together. With a twirl of her baton, she conducts the string to retreat and pulls the next of the three closer.

The current envelops me again as soon as the tip of her baton touches the next string.

The feeling of holding my breath and being underwater, crawling along a sandy bottom rippled by the tides. The weight of children on my back and peels of screeching laughter. The smell of Old Spice and the soft velvet feeling of a purple Crown Royal drawstring bag. The taste of nicotine and rye across my pallet, somehow playing off like a firm handshake and protection. A vision of a Siberian husky running fast and free across a park with giant trees. The delightful sound of giggles as mustache tickles over soft flesh. Watering eyes, the crunch of snow underfoot; A rush of fear while racing towards an overturned toboggan, the flood of relief on hearing a child’s laughter from the wreckage. The smell of old books and all the worlds they hold within them.

“Dad” I say, then admit “This love feels different.”

“All love is different,” she says. “It’s a combination of so many variables. The multitude of places where there is harmony and overlap can be where you find comforting love; yet unimaginable strength and fortitude are found in the differences between us. That is love; it is full-spectrum. It even rubs right up against some of the other strongest emotions out there.”

“Sister,” we hear the other two call out in unison.

“Excuse me,” she bows and turns in the same movement to walk briskly back to her sisters... I follow behind.

“January 17, 2014. Cross-check, please,” she says.

“Correct and incoming,” replies the middle sister.

“Don’t look so worried,” says the youngest to me after catching my eye. “My sister is the best in the biz,” another giggle.

“Mark,” says the eldest, and brandishing a pair of razor-sharp scissors she snips my precious string.

I am unharmed but breathless in a moment of terror. I thought...I had kinda thought that…

“Yes. This is yours. What I just did is necessary for life to change in its biggest ways,” she said snipping her blades in the air. “We can’t change our vibration playing the same old chords, can we?” she asks.

“So this is my end?” I ask trying to recall the date, January 2014.

“Ha! No. Just a brand new beginning,” she says knowingly.

“Oh!” I say feeling excited anticipation.

“We better wait here, I think there are a couple more coming,” she says, empathetically.

“Yay!” I begin before I see her face.

She grimaces, slightly. “Well, yes, there are different reasons a human might have a perspective change strong enough to change their...frequency...so to speak.”

“So the next one…” I don’t finish my sentence because I know.

“There will be challenges. Every one of them is a teaching moment. Resilience is not built without fortitude.” All three nod in unison. “Cross-check on June 30, 2017?” she asks.

“Correct,” middle sister verifies.

“Snip,” I say, sadly, as she cuts the line again.

“Oh dear,” says the youngest. “This season of life does play out a little like a country-western song. The good news is, with every cut and change, you’re getting closer to living your true life. For this next cut, you’re not even 40 years old! That’s still pretty young on Earth. Lots of string left!” she says smiling.

“Cross-check on August 11, 2018?” says the eldest.

“Confirmed,” says the middle sister.

As the eldest cuts the string I hear a moment of laughter. “Sounds like that might have been a good one?” I ask, hopefully.

“Your life is filled with laughter. It’s beautiful, really….we were just saying that,” the youngest tilts her head in the middle sisters direction.

“Now, now, Sisters,” says the elder.

“Please,” implores the youngest, “She has the best laugh. We will have such a good time enjoying it together, as sisters, and then we will send her through none the wiser. Can’t we laugh at just a couple of the best moments? Let’s show her St.Lucia! Please?” she says, putting her palms together, begging.

“Everything we show her will leave breadcrumbs, you know that. The poor girl will go her whole life having terrible feelings of Deja-vu! I know you mean well, sister, but we still have work to do. Correct me if I’m wrong; I’m not needed here again for quite some time now?” she asks and both sisters nod in unison, a small pout on the lips of the youngest.

The elder walks over to me and offers her hand again, and we turn back to the river.

“This last one is very special,” she says, drawing the final of the three closest to us. “I have the capacity to see far beyond your limited range, even in this place, and the vibration of this string and yours are a pretty unique fit”. She touches the baton to the final string.

I am jolted into a world of colour, sound, and movement. I can hear giggling and feel soft fur around my neck. “If you want to be a fancy lady, you must have your minks” a child's voice says. I smell chlorine and hear splashing then, the voice again: “Let's play Mermaids!” I taste soap and hear the word “Shit” echoing in my mind. My stomach turns with trust-falls and cartwheels in green grass. The refreshing taste of ‘Rev’ coolers, pizza, and onion rings. Screams on roller coasters; Expansive night sky and floating naked in its mirrored image on the lake. The salty taste of tears and the cries of a newborn baby mixed with feedback from a microphone.

“This is my Sister!” I say, smiling big. “She is my most important person. Look, she just starts off right away, showing me the ropes,” I laugh at an image of a toddler climbing into the crib of an infant, settling in for a morning chat.

“You make a very good team,” the elder says. “I don’t mind saying, as eldest, we do tend to be the more responsible ones,” She raises an eyebrow; “She sets you off down your right path. The two of you play imagination games together and your creativity is sparked at a very young age. Usually, when one person is a catalyst for another’s capabilities only one will flourish. In this instance, your support of each other is a gift allowing you both to be very successful with this lifespan”.

Sadness fills me as the string is set free. I wanted to live inside that projection; taste its candy flavoured love.

“Ok, well, when do I start? You said something about a choice? I choose her.” I catch myself, “I mean this life, my string,” I say.

She turns me back towards the others, smiles and says: “Having a sister will deliver that full spectrum of love, that's for sure. Sometimes, it might be hard to recognize it for what it is, especially when you're hurt. You will be born into this sisterhood, however you each will choose others as well.” We reach the other sisters and are greeted warmly.

“You are glowing, dear,” says the youngest.

“I get to have a sister, too,” I say proudly.

“And, oh, what fun you’ll have,” she winks again.

“Did you decide when to drop her in, sister?” the middle asks her elder.

“I have. May 7th, 1982,” she says, and they all smile.

“You’re going to a Birthday Party!” says the youngest.

“Will I remember any of this?” I ask, looking at each in turn.

“You might have strong emotional reactions to things and not know why or the feeling of deja vu we mentioned earlier? That happens sometimes. But, generally, no, there are…. compatibility issues in trying to cram infinite knowledge into an earthlings baby-brain. Sadly, what little we leave you with is usually gone by the time you start talking and figuring things out in your own ways of understanding. Like you’ve done here, but with the grit and finesse that comes with experience,” says the middle sister.

“It is always a pleasure when we get to hold this space with someone joyful,” says the elder. “Your joy touches more people than you will ever know. Thank you. I'm moving you through a couple weeks before your due date so you can be at the party and get used to moving around with no motor skills. It's tricky,” she says, holding out her hand and is passed the spool of string which she then hands to me. “Squeeze it tight, Love.”

I squeeze it tightly in my hands as all three work together to draw out the last of the string. They turn to me as the eldest cuts the thread. There is no pain at the end of my life. I wind the last turn around and hold it all together. No individual song or sound is coming now but a vibration so strong I’m sure it will begin to collapse the precipice.

“Look through the center of it and you will see the beginning. Fare thee well, Love!” I hear them in three-piece harmony once more.

I hold the spool up and squint through the center. I see the glowing end that was wedged into the wood and feel now that I can move towards it. I reach out for it.

It is warm and I am floating. There is only comfort, although the space is hardly big enough to move. Faintly, a muffled and broken song can be heard “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you…”

Short Story
9

About the Creator

C.D. Hoyle

C.D. Hoyle is a writer who is also a manual therapist, business owner, mother, co-parent, and partner. You will find her writing sometimes gritty, most times poignant, and almost always a little funny. C.D. Hoyle lives in Toronto.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.