It’s spectacular and terrifying, and it takes all my willpower to look away and keep climbing. I reach the top of the levee just as the water hits, pulling the rock I’m standing on from under me. I fall forward and claw the ground, crawling away from the edge as the water tries to pull me in. When I am safely on dry land, I lie still for a moment to catch my breath. The dirt is powdery and pitch-black. It’s not soil; it’s ash. “Where am I?” I whisper, hoping the voice is still with me. I notice that I’m shaking a little. My hands close into fists as I try to pull myself together.
I stand up and look around. I’m on a flat, featureless plain carpeted with volcanic ash. It’s twilight up here, and I can see all along the wall, which extends for miles. The water has risen to the top of the levee. I stand very close to the edge, catching my breath and marveling at the way the waves flow toward me even though the river’s current should be pulling them downstream. The crests look like claws. Droplets of water fall from the breakers and evaporate on the black ground with a hiss and a puff of steam. As I stand there, I can almost feel the frustration of the water. I watch in amazement as the breakers gather together and build into one tall wave shaped like a crooked arm reaching out for me. I stumble backward as it arches up, poised to crash down and pull me back into the river, but as soon as the wave passes over the levee, the very instant it crosses into the territory of black ash, it turns into vapor. After this final attempt, the water seems to give up. It becomes smooth as a mirror and slides down the levee, off the floodplain, and back into the riverbed.
To calm myself, I close my eyes for a moment and take deep breaths. The river came after me, as the voice said it would, but how could it? A river doesn’t have consciousness. It can’t decide to drown someone, can it? I start to feel overwhelmed by the strangeness of the place. “Hello,” I call out. “River, can you talk? Who was speaking to me before?” No answer comes. “River!” I yell again, this time angry. “Why were you trying to kill me?” The river flows along placidly, ignoring my questions. I stare at it for a long time.
I have no idea where I am, and it’s impossible to go back the way I came. I want the voice to tell me what to do next, but it’s not talking. Everything has gone quiet; even the river moves soundlessly. “Where am I?” I yell, to test my ears, half hoping there is someone within shouting distance. I get no response, but the sound of my own voice is reassuring.
Not knowing what else to do, I turn around and start walking, across the barren landscape toward the slate-colored horizon. The ashen floor is velvet smooth. At first I’m grateful for the softness underfoot, but slowly I begin to notice something strange. The ground is completely dead.
I can sense whether topsoil is fertile just by touching it. It’s a talent Grandfather helped me develop, and my garden has always been healthy because of it. When I sift dirt with my fingers or toes, and examine its color and taste, I can figure out exactly what it needs. But I’ve never felt anything like this before, every vibration of life extinguished and nothing remaining but chalky dust. No wonder it’s a wasteland, not a single living thing in sight. As I walk, plumes of fine powder swirl around my legs like smoke. The black ash sticks to my wet feet. When water falls from my dripping hair, the droplets lie on top of the soot. Unabsorbed, they roll in the volcanic powder like miniature crystal globes.
The rocky cavern ceiling rises precipitously until it disappears entirely. I am walking in open air, under a pale, moonless sky. The volcanic desert is dimly lit by a gray twilight that emanates from the horizon. There are no stars, but in the distance a cluster of electric blue lights glimmers just above the ground. As I get closer, I see a grid of white lines