The Glass Crossing at Cape Veridian

Fiction

The iron bit into the glass with a scream. It was a high, thin sound. A sound that promised a long fall. Kael didn't look down. He looked at the sail. The silk snapped in the salt wind. "Keep your weight centered," the guide barked. His voice was like gravel. Elian felt the vertigo hit. It wasn't a gradual thing. It was a sudden drop. The ocean wasn't water anymore. It was a window. Miles of translucent sapphire stretched below his boots. He could see things down there. Great, slow shapes that didn't swim. They drifted. Why did we come this way? "The crossing is shorter," the guide replied. He didn't turn around. He just leaned into the curve. They hit the shatter-zone. The sound changed. The screech became a chatter. The glass here was thin. It looked like a frozen lake in a bad winter. It looked like a lie. Elian stopped. He felt a vibration in his skates. A hairline fracture blossomed beneath his left foot. A spiderweb of white against the deep blue. "Move," the guide ordered. The glass groaned. It was a deep, visceral sound. It felt like the world was splitting open. Elian pushed off. The metal scraped. The friction burned through his leather soles. Who believes in the safety of a surface you can see through? The wind shifted. The sail lurched. Elian nearly tipped. He saw the void beneath him (a hungry, silent thing). He gripped the guide's shoulder. "Don't touch me," the guide snapped. "Balance is a solo act." They glided. They scraped. They survived. Cape Veridian waited on the horizon, a jagged tooth of rock in a sea of crystal.