The Only Way Down

On the sixth morning Polly heard hooves again, but slower this time, and in a line rather than a herd. A rider came down the sandy track on a steady grey horse, with three quiet visitors riding behind him. He wore a wide-brimmed hat against the sun, and as he passed under the swallow nests he lifted a hand to them, the way you greet neighbours.

The young mare from the running band explained it to Polly. He is Diné, she said, and his family farms a field further up the canyon. Almost nobody comes down here without somebody like him. You need a permit and an authorised guide to walk this floor, and there is exactly one trail on the whole rim that a visitor may take by themselves.

Polly, who had spent five days flying wherever she pleased, felt slightly embarrassed. That is not a rule about visitors, the mare added, seeing her face. It is a rule about houses. There are farms and homes and family land down here between these walls. You would not walk through somebody's kitchen just because the door was open.

The line of horses went on up the wash and around the bend, and the sound of them faded into the rock. Polly stayed where she was for a long while, on a warm ledge above a small green field, thinking about the difference between an empty place and a quiet one.