She heard a low rumbling as she walked along the cliff top. It sounded like thunder, but came from deep below, a guttural sound, almost like the Earth was groaning. There was a shudder and a loud crack as rock splintered. Grass twisted beneath her feet and the pathway crumbled to nothing. She stepped onto icy air, then she was falling; her backpack scraping against rock, its straps catching on roots and jagged stone. Wind snatched her hair. The sandy shore, littered with clumps of rock and jumbled shells, drew closer. She wondered if it was the last thing she would see.
When she was a child, she collected shells like treasure. She remembered a queen conch that she’d carried from a distant beach. Every time she wanted to hear the waves, she’d held it to her ear, comforted by the gentle swish. Her bedroom held shelves filled with glistening razor clams, ridged limpets, pretty cockleshells and periwinkles in different hues, olive-green, deep red, primrose yellow and delicate pink. Cockleshells were her favourites. She distracted herself from the drop, trying to remember every tiny detail of them; their delicate fan shape, the pattern of fine lines etched in burnt umber on their backs, and the smoothness of the inside where she liked to rub her thumb. If only she was safe in her childhood bedroom now, admiring the cockleshells and conjuring the roar and hiss of the sea with the conch shell.
Tree roots caught on her clothing and slowed her descent. Then a sudden jerk halted her completely. The puffy fabric of her jacket had snagged on a jutting rock and she dangled, legs swaying like a hanged man. She looked down. Midway between her and the sandy floor was a ledge. Was she brave enough to unhook herself and jump? She hardly had time to consider it, before the flimsy material that was holding her tore free. A long second later, cushioned by her coat, she landed on the overhang below. Bruises blossomed on her arms and thighs where she’d been hit by stones and muddy tussocks. Her shoes were gone. Shakily, she crawled to the edge. The ground was further away than she’d hoped, but she eased herself over the side and clung with her fingertips until she had the courage to let go. In the cove below, she found a creamy cockleshell. The smooth inside was soft against her thumb. Fear left her.
Gulls swept low, looking for fish. She trailed the edge of the sea, her shadow stretched long. A finger of platinum sunshine shone through a break in the grey clouds. It glinted on the waves, lighting a path right across the indigo expanse. Ribbons of kelp nestled at the water’s edge, their brown fronds quivering with hopping sandflies. The tide hushed softly, like the sound from the conch shell. Wet sand sucked at the girl’s feet. Dark footprints faded and flattened to smoothness behind her. It was as if she’d never been there.
