The Town That Stands on the Edge

The wind arrives before the land does. Polly rides it south along the coast of Corsica until the island simply stops, and there in front of her is open water, and beyond the water another island lying low and blue on the horizon. That is Sardinia. The channel between them is called the Strait of Bonifacio, and the wind pours through it like water through a gate.

She turns back toward the cliff and sees the town. It sits on white limestone, right at the lip, and the houses are tall and narrow and pressed together, cream and pale ochre, their shutters closed against the afternoon light. What makes her stop in the air is the bottom of the walls. There is no gap. The stone of the houses runs straight into the stone of the cliff, and the cliff drops about seventy meters to the sea. This town does not stand near the edge. It stands on it.

Polly lands on a rampart and looks over. Below her the rock is pale and dry and scoured by salt, and gulls turn in the space between the wall and the water. Then she notices something that does not belong. A narrow groove has been cut into the cliff face, running down at a steep angle, and inside that groove there are steps.

She tries to count them before the light goes, and gives up. There are more steps than she can see, and they end somewhere below in shadow. The sea keeps up its slow noise against the rock. Polly decides that she is going down there.