Long Gone Man by Phyllis Smallman

of trees. She backed quickly away.
    â€œShouldn’t there be a fence or something to keep people from falling off? All this would do is trip you. Scares the hell out of me.”
    â€œJohn didn’t want anything to interrupt the view.”
    Singer inched a bit closer, fascinated but repelled at the same time. She stretched her neck to look over the edge. She was looking down on a narrow channel that ran between Glenphiddie Island and a smaller island, light dancing on the water and sailboats skimming across the strait to the next island. Singer backed away from the wall as Lauren joined her.
    The wind caught Singer’s hair and swirled it around her face. She brushed it back with both hands, holding it in place. “The drop pulls me, makes me feel like I want to try flying.”
    Lauren hugged her arms to her chest. “The Cowichan people have a myth that they fell from the sky.” She turned away.
    Singer eased farther away from the edge and turned her back on it. “You gonna stay here?”
    â€œI don’t know yet. That depends on Janna. She owns Syuwun now.”
    â€œStrange name, how did Johnny come up with it?”
    â€œIt’s a native word, a Cowichan word, meaning spirit song, a ceremonial song sung out of grief for a loved one.”
    Singer gave a soft gasp.
    â€œAre you all right?” Lauren reached out a hand. “You seem,” she searched for the words, “well . . . are you all right?”
    Singer nodded and looked back at the house, which sat on a small point of rock, jutting out above the landscape. Unlike the front of the house, which was made of logs, the back of the house was all glass. “This wasn’t what I was expecting. I thought the whole house would be made of logs.”
    â€œA crazy house, just like its owner, partly a fort and partly made of glass.” Lauren headed down a path after her dog, calling, “Missy, come back here.”
    Singer started to follow but hesitated. “What’s that?” She pointed to a set of stairs leading to a small, wooden structure.
    Lauren followed Singer’s pointing finger and said, “A gazebo.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s a kind of pergola.”
    â€œOh. Thanks for clearing that up.” Singer went to the stairs and cautiously descended the five steps to a steep path leading down to the weathered structure below. Singer hesitated, trying to judge how dangerous the rock-strewn path would be. If one of those stones rolls . . . she didn’t want to finish that thought. A rope, strung from tree to tree, was the only thing protecting her from a fall, the rope and a strong grip. She reached out with both hands, pulling on the rope and testing it before she started down the path. Each foot was placed carefully and checked before the other was raised. But her fear didn’t end at the bottom of the stone stairs.
    Half of the shelter was built beyond the rock it perched on, slung out over emptiness. Singer crept to the outer balustrade, afraid that a heavy tread would shift the whole thing and send it plummeting into the abyss. She clung to the railing and extended her neck to peek over the side.
    â€œHoly shit.” The words were mixed equally with terror and awe. “That is one scary drop.”
    Beyond the railing was a sharp, hundred-foot drop onto the winding road below, and beyond that was a dream-like vista over the countryside. Silver roads, with tiny, toy-like cars, cut through green patchwork fields and led to the town of Kilborn.
    Singer glanced back up at Lauren, who was standing at the top of the stairs with her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her jacket.
    Singer eased away from outer edge of the structure. Carefully moving out of the small hut, she climbed halfway up the path before she lifted her head and said, “You were here last night, weren’t you?”
    Lauren had her hands out of her pockets now. She surged forward, her body