Falcon Ledge

By Emily Grant

My father said I’d find my inheritance in the cliffs.

We walked there many chilly evenings before he died. I loved the mighty crash of the ocean against the white rock walls below us. So majestic and haunting.

I always had a feeling this captivating place had something to do with my father’s occupation. He never hinted at what kept him away from me much of the time—only that one day I might follow in his footsteps—but now that he’s gone, I’m about to find out.

My heart pounds as my bare feet carry me up the familiar cliffs. Why am I so afraid? My father was a good man: loyal, sensitive, and kind. Do I fear learning something that will change how I feel about him? Why he came home each day so weighted and weary?

“Maura,” his dying voice had rasped a few days ago. “You’ll be faced with a difficult fight—and an important decision. I trust you.”

His words fly away on the wind as I reach the top of the cliffs and walk along the edge. I wish I could hear his voice again, but the calming sounds of the ocean are close enough.

The letter in my hand directs me to Falcon Ledge, a breathtaking point my father showed me once, years ago. I remember it vividly—a single falcon soared all around us on the ocean breeze. I’d never seen one before, as our island hosts mostly seagulls, and I haven’t seen once since. Here, my father first told me my favorite legend—about the Death Whisperer. The person with an assignment from the Maker Himself, who goes with an ethereal falcon to the site of each person’s death to gently draw them past the veil of the living. The Death Whisperer brings comfort and peace, and the falcon carries their souls to heaven. Each island in our ocean has its own Death Whisperer, and I always wished, yet feared, to see ours.

As I approach the ledge now, a faint cry echoes from below, and a great gray bird bursts up from beneath the ledge. Startled, I stumble and fall backward.

The falcon slowly circles me, and chills run through my body. An eerie shift in the air makes me feel as if I’ve traveled to another world.

“Did you know my father?” I should feel silly talking to a bird, but I sense that I’ve found what I’m searching for.

The falcon lands a few feet away, peering at me with one somber eye.

“You know he’s gone, don’t you?” A tear runs down my cheek. “And why he sent me here.”

With a haunting cry, the falcon takes wing and resumes gliding around me. A rush of wind blows my hair back from my face. Suddenly, a cyclone of colors and images are swirling all around me. It’s hard to focus with the wind burning my eyes, but soon I realize—flying around me are visions of death. People dying in all sorts of ways—some peaceful, some gruesome. I scream, trying to block out the images, but they won’t go away.

“Stop!” My eyes burn with wind and tears. “Why are you doing this?”

When I think one more second of this torture will rip me apart, the images stop. The air stills, but my soul feels heavy. Through a sheet of tears, I watch the falcon land and drop a small object before me.

I pick it up—a pendant on a chain with two words engraved across its crescent moon shape. Death Whisperer.

My breath catches in my throat as I begin to understand. I know the legend by heart, but I never dreamed it might be about my own father.

He was the Death Whisperer. And now that he’s gone, the title goes to me.

My stomach churns. I don’t want this responsibility. My father explained it’s a hard job—though I didn’t know at the time that the stories he told were his own. He visited each fading soul, from old people ready to say goodbye to infants who would never get the chance to learn their parents’ faces. It all makes sense now, why Father would come home looking emotionally drained and sometimes get up and leave in the middle of the night. Death is unpredictable.

We seem untouched by tragedy in our quiet little pocket of the island, away from villages and people, but now I understand why we’ve always stayed here. Such a taxing job requires solitude to fill one’s mind with hope and love again.

The falcon still stands before me. I imagine it bearing a light-filled soul to heaven on its wings. And I realize just how important this job is.

Death is scary. Though the Death Whisperer is only responsible for ascending souls, there’s no telling how much pain—physical or otherwise—each one might have dealt with just before their death. They need a comforting presence to pull them into the light.

That’s what my father has done all these years.

I slowly nod, my lip trembling. “I’ll do it.” Swallowing, I look into the falcon’s eyes. “If you’ll help me. Show me how to be a Death Whisperer that would make my father proud.”

As the falcon spreads its wings, I catch a twinkle in its eye. My pendant lights up, and when I look at it, my face reflects clearly back at me in its surface. A silver glimmer ripples from one end of the pendant to the other, and I get the feeling I’ve just been sworn in.

I stand and watch the falcon soar over the cliffs. My heart pounds, but peace settles in my soul. And I can feel my father smiling down on me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Grant doesn’t remember the first time she wrote a story, but she’s never looked back. Though her main focus is on novels- mostly fantasy- Havok recently helped draw her back into the wonderful world of short fiction. She loves coffee, rainy days, superheroes, and candles, and while she currently lives in Missouri, she hopes to somehow live in the Shire one day.

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