Edgeland was built in a low place, over ancient middens and sacred burial sites. It lay low in the land, and had once been at the end of the land, a small peninsula trailing off to a few little islands stretched out in a row. On the far side of the last of the islands was a massive stone column in the shape of a giant walking out to sea. In your mind you still heard the pounding of the giant’s footsteps. This place was always a stepping stone. A way station.

Perhaps Edgeland retained a sense of the tide or a memory of a distant time when legendary creatures crossed over from here. Perhaps at one time, it had been an island in the chain too, for it had a mysterious way about it at night, as if spirits stilled milled at the shore awaiting the light of the moon for another transit to a more distant place. Perhaps in its own right it was a place of power.

It had an subtle atmosphere of excitement. The people who lived there were meek and quiet and anxious for a good night’s sleep at the end of a hard days work, but the ever-present background pounding & hum of spirit power worked into their brains and their dreams and their days and left them uncertain, distracted, and weak.

It drew in lost souls from miles around. It was the closest thing to a spiritual vacuum that the still living could find. Their faint, tattered souls dragged their bodies to this place in search of rest and their feet sank straight into the ground when they first arrived, found a place to crash, and headed to the bars, the brothels, the streets, and the alleyways. Their spirit still tugged west.

These living dead prowled the streets day and night, still anchored to their leaden bodies, unable to move, to leave, to find some other place. This was a trap for the injured, the slow, the curious, and the desperate who needed or trusted too much and could not shake or evade the power that pulled at them.

In their dreams, they dreamed of waiting, or of travel, or of preparation. They awoke un-rested and uneasy. During the depression, men built camps here, and during the war, thousands were swept up and moved to camps far inland.

Edgeland resisted wealth and power. At one time, the wealthy forced themselves upon it, and built their houses there. The city was built at its edge, but in short time, the wealthy moved away to a newer part of town and the city grew away from it, and it reclaimed its poor and its lowlife for itself again.

Limnality

Consider the stone giants stepping from island to island with the constant rumble of thundering footsteps – they too, face an edge and yet pass through, fierce like lions pounding through a gate.

Beyond an edge is a chasm.

To reach the other side, you have to give up your foothold on solid ground.  The greater the chasm, the greater the leap required.  It is required.  It is frightening.

Is it a leap or a walk across a bridge?  The sensation is of walking across a bridge, and then letting the tethers to it fall once you are across the other side.  It tears away as you let it go.  It is frightening.  Once you are on the other side, you are committed to that viewpoint, that cause.  Perhaps this is the edge we wander, poking away, sticking sticks into the gulf, probing for solid ground or perhaps, a bridge to the other side.

This bridge we cross when we change our minds, our beliefs, our perceptions.  We take flying leaps to the other side and leave our baggage behind.  We pierce the edge.