The Keeper

The man hesitated, teetering on the brink of the crevasse. Hardly a foot of space lay between the wall and the drop-off, and the abyss loomed stark before him. Could he make the leap? Was it even possible? If he could not – if he fell to his death below – he condemned everyone above to an icy demise. He was the only adult left who knew how to do what needed to be done. The plague had taken many lives over the last year, and the only other Keeper who remained was but a child. Yet the ancient knowledge had been passed down from one Keeper to the next in preparation for this moment, and it was his duty to do what must be done. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. But perhaps, it would be the last for him.

A Keeper had been chosen from every generation, ever since the Great Cataclysm. And every Keeper was carefully selected for their dexterity as much as for their competence and retention of facts. As soon as they were identified, as young children, the Keepers were taken away from their compatriots to the Underground, where they learned the way to make the Machine run, as well as the way to avoid the dangers that lay upon the Path. But this was a new danger. More of the ledge had crumbled since last a Keeper had traversed the Path, and the man felt uncertain. The question rose unbidden in his mind once more: Could he make the leap?

The man backed up to the wall, leaned forward, stepped heavily to the edge and leapt, pouring every ounce of his strength and will into that moment, into that foot, into positioning his body to soar through that blackened void and painfully grasp the crumbling rock wall on the other side. His fingers burned from the effort of stopping his fall, and he grunted as he pulled his body up and onto the ledge beyond. He had made it. That was all that mattered now. His mangled fingers, the throbbing in the bones of his hands, the scratches up and down his body from where it had impacted the wall – none of that mattered. Only the Machine.

The Machine stood before him now, dark and foreboding. His training made this part easy. He let his eyes roam over the ancient artifact until they landed on a broken wire, two parts dangling separately, the metal sparkling bright with the reflected light from the mirror he shined upon it.

He knew what he must do. In one fluid motion, mastered through years of training, he twisted the wires together. His body went rigid as the connection was made, and he saw only a blinding light before his consciousness mercifully left his body. Many miles above him, every voice sang out as one in a resounding cheer, oblivious to the smoking corpse below, one more nameless hero, lost beneath the earth.

Author's Note: I originally wrote this story as an entry to a microfiction contest. The rules stated that the story had to be 500 words and end with a "shocking twist." I believe I satisfied those requirements.

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