My grandmother says the Canyon used to be less of a
chasm and more of a crack in the sidewalk, but that’s hard to believe. Canyons
don’t form in a generation. Mom never contradicts her though, just sits there
with her eyes on the hem of her shirt, looking sad. I’m not supposed to go near
the Canyon, but everyone does it. I’ve even caught Grandma there a few times,
but neither of us can accuse the other one without incriminating ourselves, so
we don’t. We just walk to the edge and feel the strange sucking sensation, like
the wind at the bottom is pulling all of the energy out of your body. I can’t
imagine a crack in the sidewalk doing that.
According
to Grandma’s mushed-up brain, when she was a little girl, our town was a city,
with a government and everything. She tells me about how there was a Mayor who
was in charge, and a Cabinet who helped him keep things organized and running
smoothly. There were parks, and a town swimming pool, and libraries, and people
to look after all of those things. No curfew, either, and school five days a
week. There must have been a lot more people back then. Grandma never says. I
don’t think she liked the Mayor much because talking about him pinches her
eyebrows together.
Elizabeth
says her great uncle Dan was part of the Cabinet, and he got sucked into the
Canyon entirely, that whatever the Canyon sucked out of him was all he was made
of, so it took his whole being away. The same thing happened to the Mayor. Most
of the Cabinet survived, but none of them were able to speak after their
encounters. Dan was important, I think. He had a lot of responsibilities. Elizabeth’s
mom says not to worry about that because it won’t happen anymore, yet that
doesn’t stop me from lying awake some nights and wondering if Dan maybe just
stood too close to the edge and fell. I don’t stand too close to the edge, just
enough to feel the rush while Elizabeth stands guard. She never ever stands by
the Canyon, because she’s frightened of the force inside that gap. She thinks
it’s full of evil. I disagree; I can sense something wonderful about it, if
only I could get a hold of the wind, instead of the wind getting hold of me.
I’m
going to the Canyon tonight to think about growing up. It is a little ritual I
perform. Without a trip to the Canyon, tomorrow won’t feel like a birthday. The
thing is, tomorrow is also the 50th anniversary of the Canyon’s
appearance in the sidewalk, so it might be crowded. That’s a big anniversary.
It’s a big birthday too: ten. That’s why I didn’t invite Elizabeth this year. Grandma
says that in her day, the Canyon was guarded by policemen on anniversaries to
keep people from visiting. They were supposed to protect the people, she says,
but most of the time they used their jobs to protect themselves. The Canyon
took most of them, too. The Canyon only takes certain kinds of people. What
those kinds of people are is a mystery to me though, because no one will tell
me. Apparently I’m too young. Maybe I’ll be old enough to know tomorrow.
Sharing a birthday with it sometimes tricks me into thinking I have some sort
of privilege, like I get to know things about it that other people don’t, just
because of when I was born.
When
I go to the Canyon, a few hours after Mom has shut off the lights, and Grandma
is snoring on her cot, I find I’m entirely alone. It’s just me, and this giant
hole that pulls on your insides. It’s a little scary, and a little
exhilarating. I’m fascinated by it. It makes me feel strong, energized. On the
rim of the Canyon, I’m in control; I can do anything I want.
Stepping
closer to the edge than I’ve ever been before, I stare down into it, trying to
see the river that carved it. There is no river.
“What
are you?” I whisper. It’s tugging a little more than it used to. I jump back because
I swear the Canyon laughed at me. Just a chuckle, but it was there. “You can’t
hear me, you’re a canyon.”
There’s
another chuckle. “Of course I can hear you.” It sounds smooth with a tangy
after-taste, like a cough drop.
I
sit down. My legs feel like they’re being erased, hot and rubbery and distant. I’m
not afraid. At least that is what I’m saying, even if that is not quite what I’m
feeling. I’m feeling like there’s nothing I can do unless the Canyon thinks it’s
okay for me to do it. I’m feeling like if the Canyon tells me anything, I have to
do it. I don’t like it. I’m starting to understand that face Mom makes when
Grandma tells stories about the old days, that defeat and resignation. I’m
feeling—
“Powerless.”
And
it’s right. I want to move away from the edge, to run home and hug my mom and
never go near that Canyon again, but I can’t. It won’t let me. So I sit there,
my knees shaking on the dirt in front of me, my fingers gripping at tree roots
as the ground slowly runs away from my body. My nose is full of mud and there
are goose bumps on my arms. I’m being sucked into the Canyon, and there is nothing
I can do about it. I guess power destroys you in the end, if you’re not careful
with it.
