The edge of the world

Vincent made a sharp turn, causing the car to sway along the rocky road.

“You could at least slow down,” Amaia complained. “This road is full of bends.”

Vincent grunted.

“You wanted to make this trip, don’t tell me how to drive my car.”

“I’ve no idea why you agreed to come if you hate it so much,” she replied.

They had spent the entire two-hour journey arguing. It was a fact that they could not coexist in the same space for even a single day. Once again, Amaia was reminded of the reason they had divorced.

Even so, they had lived together for too many years to ignore the fact that he was the only person she trusted with this endeavour. And he was the only one who could more or less understand the reason behind her determination to make this trip because… well, they were colleagues. Or rather, they worked in the same profession.

Both were journalists. Vincent worked for an agency, whilst Amaia was independent. Part of their separation stemmed from the fact that she had always preferred more original stories and never waited for someone to dictate what she could write or investigate, nor where she should go in order to find her story. Unlike Vincent, Amaia’s mind was inquisitive, the sort that threw itself entirely into whichever case currently obsessed her.

Despite their marriage having failed, the two still maintained the same code of collaboration and turned to one another whenever it came to exclusive details or sharing certain information about their cases, without the risk of leaking valuable information to third parties.

And this exclusive story was one of them.

The city of Joreppe had always been known for the unusual, very deep, dry sinkhole situated on its outskirts. It consisted of a great chasm into which streams of water flowed before disappearing into a barely visible depth below. That two-kilometre-wide hollow had fascinated geologists and scientists for decades.

It had become a tourist attraction for both locals and international visitors. Streets, buildings and houses were abruptly interrupted by this geological phenomenon, therefore many of the surrounding homes had been abandoned due to the risk of collapse. Restricting access to the edges, several yellow tapes stretched across the entire diameter. Police officers and security teams patrolled day and night, controlling the crowds.

No one knew exactly how the sinkhole had formed, nor what lay at the bottom.

It was known that the climate in the area was drastically different from that of the rest of the city. At times, a thick fog would rise from the depths of the pit and settle across the entire district. At other times, heavy snow would begin to fall from those clouds, or hail shaped like tiny daggers.

However, it was not only the climate that had changed in this part of Joreppe, but also the behaviour of its people.

There had been numerous cases of disappearances and suicides involving people who had last been seen standing at the edge of the sinkhole, or hurling themselves directly into it.

There were testimonies from people claiming that, at certain hours of the day, one could hear voices and whispers coming directly from below. Psychologists and other mental health experts attributed all of this to the trauma caused by the environmental impact to which generations living in the area had been exposed, resulting in a variety of mass-experienced symptoms.

Nevertheless, entire communities still inhabited this place and, thanks to tourism, the economy provided no reason for people to leave. The authorities did everything possible to sweep the disappearances and deaths under the rug so as not to damage the city’s popularity.

And what did Amaia have to do with any of this?

Weeks earlier, she had been working on a report concerning the death of a young man near the sinkhole in Joreppe, and part of her task had involved reporting what the locals had to say about the matter. But she always ended up hearing the same answers:

“We’ve no idea what could have happened.”

“Strange things always happen around here.”

“Young people these days are always getting themselves into trouble.”

Until one day she spoke to one particular woman, who told her:

“We’ve spent centuries warning Joreppe. The Edge of the World will end up swallowing everyone.”

That woman belonged to the Nøri community, one of the indigenous groups in the Joreppe area. Anyone familiar with history knew they had been the first inhabitants of those lands, making them the only people who still preserved the myths and legends of the place.

The Nøri were not social outcasts, but with globalisation and the gradual integration of other international populations over the centuries, the size of their community had diminished from a large population to only a few generations living near the district of Tegara, directly opposite the eastern side of the sinkhole — precisely where Vincent and Amaia were heading.

“It’s not enough for you to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, you’ve got to drag me into it as well,” Vincent muttered through gritted teeth.

Part of the city could already be seen in the distance.

“Sticking our noses where they don’t belong is literally our job,” Amaia shot back. “You’re just jealous that your useless agency doesn’t have you working on interesting cases.”

“Here we go again with the same damn nonsense,” he muttered irritably. Raising his voice again, he added, “I vastly prefer my work, where all I have to do is report important and relevant current events, not cases that even the authorities themselves don’t want investigated. You’re risking a sanction against your licence, and you’re dragging me down with you.”

“You could’ve said no,” Amaia replied simply.

For a moment, their eyes met and lingered there. But Vincent looked away, returning his attention to the road with a frustrated sigh.

They arrived in Tegara at midday. The road led directly into a wooded area. Numerous houses and buildings stood amongst tall pine trees and crisp, clean air. They parked in an open space where the other tourists had also left their cars.

The two got out of the vehicle and walked along the trail, following the other visitors towards the cordoned-off area from which part of the sinkhole’s edge could be seen.

Pushing her way through the crowd, Amaia reached the front row near the police barrier, with a direct view into the dark depths of the enormous pit. Vincent stepped beside her, following her gaze. He, too, could not hide his fascination.

“It really is a bottomless pit,” he remarked.

That unfathomable void seemed to stare back at them in deafening silence. No sign of life emerged from it; nothing could be perceived within that endless darkness. Streams from the streets poured into its depths without producing any sound of impact. Even so, tourists watched in awe, taking photos and videos.

The two moved away from the local attraction and walked in the opposite direction, towards Tegara’s famous travelling fair.

Anyone who visited Joreppe because of the sinkhole could not leave without visiting the fair. Established and organised by the Nøri community, it consisted of travelling stalls selling ornamental pieces, clothing, jewellery and traditional handmade Nøri products. They were considered distinctive symbols of the city and were popular souvenirs.

Surrounded by the bustling crowds and the warm hues of gold, red and brown, Amaia asked for the name of her contact at every stall she passed. Everyone she questioned directed them further along the fairgrounds.

When they finally reached a stall selling hand-carved wooden sculptures, Amaia recognised the woman serving her last customer.

“Niza Tala,” she called.

The woman looked up, recognising her voice from the frequent telephone conversations they had shared over the previous weeks. She smiled whilst murmuring a few words in the Nøri language.

“What did you just say?” Vincent asked.

Niza answered without hesitation:

“The overcurious foreigner.”

***

Now seated in Niza’s living room with cups of coffee in hand, the woman answered Amaia’s questions patiently. Amaia had placed a recorder in the middle of the table so as not to miss a single detail.

“The council does not allow us to share our theories,” the older woman said.

“Which are…?” Vincent prompted.

Niza looked at him with little enthusiasm, fully sensing the scepticism radiating from him. Amaia gestured with her hand as though telling her to ignore him.

“Is he your husband?” Niza asked.

“We’re divorced,” the journalist replied.

“Understandable,” Niza stated, as though confirming her initial suspicion. Vincent’s expression darkened further.

“The hole in Joreppe is what our community describes as the Angel’s Bed,” Niza explained. She paused dramatically before adding, “The place where, thousands of years ago, a Fallen Angel fell.”

Neither of them said anything. Niza continued:

“The hole has done nothing but deepen more and more over time. It may even reach the centre of the Earth. What it does is absorb all the energy and vitality of this place. It needs souls, and every year it draws in more and more people.”

“Until what happens, exactly?” Amaia asked.

“Until it destroys everything in its path.”

Vincent could not help laughing at the absurdity of it all. He said:

“Look, I’ve read about the Nøri community and how, in the old days, you people supposedly sacrificed virgins from every family to this mythical entity so it wouldn’t cause floods and all that sort of thing.”

“That is a story spread by the settlers,” Niza emphasised, unable to hide her offence. “They were not sacrifices. Nor were they virgins, and they were not always women. We had designated individuals who could descend to the bottom and appease the Angel.”

“Appease it?”

“Keep it weak and asleep,” she clarified. “But our access to the sinkhole has been restricted by the authorities and by the commercialisation of the site for tourism.”

“Wait a moment,” Amaia said, trying to process what she had just heard. “Are you saying there’s a way into the pit?”

Vincent stared at her incredulously.

“Seriously? You’re not going to ask about the mysterious suicides or what the hell it means that this hole’s existence supposedly threatens to destroy everything?”

Niza rose to her feet, tired of discussing the matter. Whilst clearing away the empty coffee cups they had all used, she explained:

“This is not the only Angel’s Bed on the planet. There are many others — more hidden, more remote, usually beneath the sea. But this one is exposed, and humans have far greater access to it, which irreparably influences both their minds and the environment around them. We can do nothing except warn those willing to listen. It would be far better if all of Joreppe were abandoned.”

And with that, the visit came to an end. That afternoon, the two left Niza’s house and returned to the fair.

Walking aimlessly through the crowds, Vincent said to Amaia:

“Well, there you have it — an urban legend about a geological phenomenon no one can explain. I hope it was worth the time we wasted coming here,” he added disdainfully. “You don’t even have anything to report about the suicides. You haven’t interviewed any families or witnesses.”

Amaia stopped abruptly and turned to face him, pointing a finger at him.

“This is why we don’t work together anymore, and why we’re not together anymore,” she said, gesturing between them. “Don’t tell me how to do my job. I want to write about that sinkhole, Vincent. And if you’re tired of following me on this trip, then leave me. But I’ll get to the bottom of this with or without your help.”

After several seconds, Vincent rolled his eyes.

“I really hope you didn’t mean that last part literally.”

They returned to the cordoned-off edge of the sinkhole as dusk began to fall. They moved to the point furthest away from the public, though police officers still patrolled the area occasionally.

Above them, clouds had spread across the sky, from which delicate snowflakes drifted down.

The atmosphere there felt heavy. No birds sang; the trees and their leaves stood perfectly still. The darkness of the abyss seemed to offer them a silent, sinister invitation.

Amaia stepped closer to the edge, entranced by the strange magnetism in the air. She could feel the embrace of arms that were not truly there wrapping around her skin…

In that instant, everything around her became an endless, eternal silence. A knot of despair lodged itself in her throat, the desperate urge to scream coupled with the certainty that it would be utterly meaningless. She felt a deep longing for the sun, the air, fresh grass and the moon.

“Amaia.” Vincent grabbed her arm, his voice filled with confusion. She snapped out of her trance and looked down at her feet, realising how close she stood to the precipice.

She was terrified. In those endless few seconds, she had experienced what it must feel like to exist at the bottom of that darkness.

Those emotions were not her own, yet for a moment she had wanted to leap into the void and reunite with whatever had projected such feelings into her mind.

Had Vincent felt the same thing?

Amaia saw him return her stare with the same dazed expression. All the sarcasm and irritation had vanished from his face. He could feel it in the air as well.

Without another word, the two of them left and headed back to the car. Vincent kept a firm grip on Amaia’s arm, as though afraid she might once again fall under that sinister influence.

The journey back was silent. Neither of them had any coherent thoughts they could put into words. That night, Vincent slept in Amaia’s flat.

A month later, he contributed to the final article she published.

In the piece, Amaia described the origins of the sinkhole from the Nøri perspective. She spoke of how the community had been ignored and pushed aside from matters concerning the very land they had inhabited for a hundred generations.

She defended the right of the elders to restore the designated guardians. She demanded that the authorities pay attention to the imminent danger faced by anyone walking near the pit at certain times of day, when the atmosphere seemed calmer and more stable. She wrote about the climatic changes affecting the area.

She warned that something terrible was about to happen.

And finally, she spoke of the one who had fallen there long before humanity had ever set foot upon those lands. Of how, after millennia spent isolated there, it still continued gathering every soul it could to satisfy its loneliness.

Months after the article’s publication, the earthquakes began.