Sect Year 1 · eleventh month · night of day 12 · the eighteenth life: the rope over the Hannet gorge, her eighth year
“Walk the rope with the child on your back.”
“Plain Ear.”
The drums had stopped. Idra was eight.
She stood at the foot of the painted tower with the rope-line knotted at her waist, the double knot her father tied for children and for money. She looked at the far post the way he had told her to. It stood a long way off, on the other side of the gorge, a red tower with white stripes and a lantern hung from its top. Between her and it there was nothing but cold air and one grey rope that dipped in the middle and came up again, the way a line of washing does. Just then, the wind has got into it.
The fair had gone up over the gorge in a single afternoon. There were torches on poles along the near edge, and their smoke lay flat on the wind and stung her eyes. There were farmers in their winter coats, women with babies in shawls, a man with a tray of ginger cakes who had been calling his wares since the light went. Boys on the wall shouted for the walk. Under the smell of pitch from the rope and the smoke from the torches, the river moved far below, black and loud. Every so often a gust brought its noise up over the…
