At the Base of a Cliff

The church bells echoed off the hillside as passing carriages splashed water from puddles on the cobblestone streets, still wet with yesterday's rain. As the sun rose that morning, with hints of thunder lingering in the sky, and the pews cleared out, the farmers tended to their crops, or at least what was left of them. This storm was quite a shock, but the small village thrived in its wake. It seemed as though nothing could interrupt this world, full of natural beauty and wonderful people. The farmers, the baker, the tailor who had sewn most of the clothes in the village at one time or another. The schoolteacher who everyone loved, especially her students, and the barber with the regal white beard and friendly smile, always telling stories that would brighten your day. Everyone knew each others names, how their children were doing in school, even what they were all doing for dinner. It was quite a close community.

Ah, but there was one man who's name most people didn't know. Who had not been taught by the schoolteacher, and who had not heard a single story from the barber. Who's clothes the tailor had not sewn. Clothes of which thread he wouldn't dare touch. Clothes of the man who lived not more than a half mile from the village square, yet was never seen. Some say he stayed in because he was afraid of showing his ugly face, for the constant shadows in which he dwelt had disfigured him over time. Others said he left early each morning down the road and didn't return until nightfall, sometimes returning uglier than when he left. Other said he was simply dead; killed by his own conscience. While none of these were known to be true, one thing was: the townspeople were comfortable with the distant relationship.

Yet some were not satisfied with his mere absence from sight. It was if they could smell his presence; as if he were a disease thats infection was worse than any flu. While many prayed for him each Sunday, some refused to even acknowledge him, except of course to condemn him. However, as much as they talked, no one dared come a step closer than 30 paces to his door. As far as everyone was concerned, he could rot in peace.

One dark night, however, after stumbling out of the village tavern, the smell of bourbon ripe on their breath, a group of townsmen headed down the road in the direction of his door. They were fed up with the man that plagued their village, and decided that night to do something about it. Just as the men caught sight of his door, they heard it creak open, and saw him emerge. The men were unsure of what to do, having bucked up the courage to walk to the door, but not ever truly expecting anything to come of it. As they watched him shut his door and head up the road out of town, they slowly followed, keeping a good distance behind. They followed for almost two miles until he stopped. Looking over the cliffs on the edge of the village, the man stood, silent and steady, just looking, as if waiting for something. The ground was still wet, and his boots were slowly sinking in the mud, yet he remained.

After what seemed like an hour, the men grew restless. One began sneaking along behind, not knowing what he planned to do, but feeling the animosity swelling inside him. He thought of his children, his wife, the rest of the village, and pondered just how life would be without this curse of a man. Just then, the man moved. The townsmen shuttered and hurried quietly out of sight. The one who had crept around behind felt his heart beat almost double in time, fearing he would be seen. The man struggled to pull his feet from the mud as he began to kneel. To the townsmen, or at least the one behind the man, it looked almost as if he was crying. And being the church-going folk they were, they could have sworn that his faint mumbling was a prayer. It could not be though, for this was an evil man. But the more they listened, the more they were convinced that it truly was a prayer. How could this be? This infuriated the townsman behind the man, and in a moment, he leaped from his hiding place toward the man, who was still knelt, and in a fit of rage gave him a mighty shove. The man lurched forward over the cliff, but was still stuck in the mud. Realizing the consequences of this action, the townsmen fled back to the village. Struggling to hold on, the man dug his hands into the mud and tried to pull himself to safety. Grunting like some frightened farm animal, he gave a final surge, but it was not enough. The mud gave way, heaving him over the cliff to the depths below.

When the townsmen returned to the village, they crept quietly into their houses and into bed, and slept that night as if nothing had happened. Life went on as usual in the village after that, no one the wiser.

The man is something of a myth now, nobody sure if this tale is true. Not sure if anyone had ever tried to help the man who had plunged from the cliffs that night. The story says he was judged on appearance and hearsay, and never had a chance, and the villagers were content with that. Perhaps the man was flawed, yes, indeed he was. He hadn't the resources to help himself, but searched for them until he was finally thrown from the cliffs by the very people who could have helped him. But few had any idea, and most likely never would. And they were content with that.

But the man who was thrown from the cliffs that night, he did not die. He remains, as real as ever, and that is the saddest part of all.