Dulcer's Canyon

Trigger warning: Physical violence, suicidal thoughts.

The story of Conroy McFabb always begins the same way, with blood.

The walk home from school along the dusty country road wasn’t inherently dangerous, but the older boys who traveled up and down its dirt contours turned it into a battlefield from which Conroy wouldn’t always emerge unscathed. On one particular day, his fourteenth birthday, his mother had given some extra coins to buy one of those buttery corns the bag lady roasted once a week outside their school. But Conroy decided that wasn’t what he wanted; on this day, he was feeling brave, and decided to spend his corn money on a single deep red rose for Merrigold Walters, the girl down the road. But the bigger boys were waiting for him, having heard he might be sporting some extra coins, and were naturally outraged to find him penniless. They dug their heels into the rose, pushing it deep into the dirt as their leader vented his frustration on Conroy’s nose. His blood smeared the gravel on the road, but he did not feel the physical pain, having finally turned himself off from the world.

                       He didn’t immediately return home, but instead found himself at the edge of Dulcer’s Canyon, staring down at the trickle of water that had once been an all-conquering river. He wasn’t sure at what point he clambered down the path cut into the cliff, but suddenly finding himself next to the stream, he fell to his knees and held his head under the water, shock welling through him at the bitter cold. He considered staying there, letting the icy eddies lull him into oblivion, when a twinkle of light struck his eyelids with a brightness that penetrated his skin. He pulled his head up, gasping for breath as water cascaded down his face and neck onto his flannel school shirt. Feeling slightly more settled, he turned to look at his would-be-savior. He fell back in surprise, quickly getting to his feet and running a few more steps away before stopping. Why was he running? He touched his nose where the blood had been. What did he have to be afraid of anymore? He turned back and walked toward the rift suspended ever so slightly above the stream. It looked like the air itself had cracked and a shard of it had been removed. It was tall and wide enough for him to step through if he wished and the edges looked like melted silver that had hardened into a jagged frame, reflecting the late afternoon sun in all directions. Holding his hand up to his eyes, he came within a foot of it and peered inside. A different landscape met his vision; a wasteland of cracked earth with twisted remnants of trees jutting out like the arms of the dead begging for relief. But all of this was in the periphery as his focus was drawn to the old man slouched against a rock. His face had cuts and scrapes all over it, and with his scraggly graying beard, his face reminded Conroy of the old photos he’d seen of gold prospectors. Only, despite his unkempt appearance, this man was clearly one of means. He was wearing a black suit and white shirt, which had come untucked, and lying next to him on its side was a top hat.

           The old man seemed to sleeping, though it was possible he was dead. Conroy considered running back for help when the old man stirred, coughing up flecks of blood onto his shirt and spitting the rest out into the dustbowl that surrounded him. He felt around for his hat and put it on his head before looking around wildly. Spying Conroy, he visibly relaxed, though after taking in his disheveled clothes and wet hair, he shook his head in disapproval.

           “Oy! You, boy, come and help an old man to his feet.” The words had meant to sound commanding, but came out wheezing instead.

           Conroy stared at him, unmoving, wondering if he were some ghoul his pa used to tell him about before shortly before he died.

           “Now look here,” continued the old man, “I don’t have the time for you to be dumbstruck. I need to get to a doctor,” he managed to say between breaths. “My motor carriage is only a short distance from here. With your aid, we should be able to make it.”

           Conroy finally found his voice, dragging it out from the depths of uncertainty. “What’s a motor carriage?”

           “Are you dumb, boy, or are you just playing the fool? Now, come on, come on.” The old man leaned forward, reaching out his arm, when he suddenly cried out in pain, grabbing at his chest.

           “What’s wrong with you?” asked Conroy.

The old man grit his teeth as he sucked in his breath. “Never you mind what’s wrong with me. Just get your spindly legs over here and help me up!”

Conroy looked around, and, not seeing anyone else nearby, decided he was tired of being beaten and talked down to. “I think you’d best change your tune, old codger, because there ain’t no one else round here to fetch aid.” Conroy pointed to the scarred edges of the rift. “‘Sides, how do I know you ain’t the devil in disguise wanting to pull me down into hell with you?”

The old man reacted as if he just noticed the rift, his eyes widening. He turned his head slowly around, comprehension dawning on his face. He looked back at Conroy. “What’s your name, boy?” he whispered.

But Conroy wasn’t taken in so easily. “Names cost money. You got any coins in that fancy coat of yours?”

The old man didn’t move for a moment, but eventually rummaged in his pockets and found some. He threw them at the boy, but as they passed through the rift, they turned into small nuggets of silver and copper.

Conroy picked them up and held them out in his hands. “What am I gonna do with this?” He let them drop into the stream. “You gotta try harder than that.”

“Darn it, boy, this ain’t a game we’re playing. This is life or death, and I did my part. Now tell me your name!”

Conroy backed up a little. “Woah, hold on there, no need to get your breeches all twisted. I’ll tell you if it’ll calm you down. My name’s Conroy McFabb.”

The old man grabbed his hat and crushed it in the dirt, the rage in his eyes evident for miles around. “You best not be lying to me, boy, or you’ll regret it.”

“I ain’t lying to you. My name’s Conroy, and I live up the top of the canyon. And ain’t nobody else lives round here ‘cept the Walters, and I’ve never known them to play nice with any well-to-do city folks, so why don’t you tell me what it is you’re doin’ out here.”

The old man froze in place, his eyes flickering in thought, before they softened.

“I’m sorry, Conroy, for being so hard on you. You see, I fell onto this here rock and there’s a pain in my chest, and well, as you can hear, it’s getting a little difficult to breathe. So, I’m asking you, one kind stranger to another, if you’d help me.”

Conroy sized hum up, wondering if he should do as he was told; as he was taught to do by his parents and teachers and priests. “I have one question for you, rich man, and if you can answer it truthfully, I’ll help you as best I can.”

The old man pursed his lips, but nodded. “You’re a real shit-heel, but very well. What’s your question?”

Conroy pointed at the rift. “What is this?”

The old man answered as best he could, but Conroy shook his head. “There ain’t nobody gonna find you down here, devil man. May you rot in hell.” Conroy ran back to the cliff side and climbed back up, scuffing his shoes and tearing his school clothes beyond repair. His mother clouted him round the head for the worry she’d put him through, but he forgave her. Later that year, they moved to the city where she took on the role of governess, giving him access to a life he might never had had otherwise.

Fifty-two years later, after a late theater showing, he found himself driving along an old familiar stretch of road in one of those new fancy motor carriages. He’d had a few drams of whiskey and had finally found the courage to return to the spot where he’d seen the devil. The path down the cliff was now surrounded by handrails and electric lights, and he had no trouble getting to the bottom. The stream was gone, having completely dried up a decade earlier, so there was no chance of overly spoiling the shine on his shoes as he trekked over the gravel to where he recalled last seeing the rift. He had once thought it all a dream, but there it was, the entrance to hell glowing in the air. He stumbled over to it, ready to have it out with the devil once again, only to find a bleached skeleton in his place, the metal underwiring of a hat perched atop the skull. Suddenly overcome with the thought that he’d let someone die, he fell to his knees and proceeded to throw up. Finally struggling back to his feet, tears streaming down his face, he stumbled toward the rift, tripping over his fancy shoes as he did so. He got back up more slowly this time, the searing heat and light from the sun surprising him, as it had been dark only a minute ago. He picked up his top hat from the dried-up ground and held it in front of his eyes as he stared at the wasteland surrounding him. Suddenly as frightened as that fourteen-year-old boy facing his bullies, he turned to run back to the rift, but it refused to grant his wish, shoving him back into the rock behind him.

He woke suddenly, coughing up blood as he did so. He glanced around, eventually focusing on the young boy in front of him. Taking in his disheveled clothes and wet hair, he snorted in disapproval. “Oy! You, boy, come and help an old man to his feet.”

And when he came to realize the truth of what had happened, he changed his final answer, hoping that someday the boy on the other side would come to accept it.