In the morning shadow of the Mountain that Slows the Dawn, a young man stands on the edge of a red roof and takes off his boots, letting them drop to the cobblestones two stories below.
       Rowland wonders: how many times has he stood on that exact spot, breathing deep and collecting courage? How many times laughing and arrogant? How many times?
       Boys and girls, and grown women and men, too, have died on The Five Bridges, the fall to cobblestones far with no net but the festival day crowds. Each step one step closer to freedom, to escape, not just from this mountain town but from this planet. A place in the Grand Cirque, the pride of Spaceport, could lead to performing on the cruising ships that travel the galaxy.
       Maybe it would be smarter to wait for festival day. "Mountain goats" like him-- would-be acrobats from the smaller mountain towns-- hike in to take the challenge, and talent scouts from Spaceport make the perilous drive up for one day of the year. But he is ready now. Rowland pulls from his vest pocket a pair of thin leather slippers, warm as his own skin, and puts them on. They are the most valuable things he owns, paper-thin kidskin sewn by the same goat-herding family for generations.
       In the pre-dawn silence, he flips a weathered switch on the red rooftop, and a holographic image of a face appears and speaks. "Welcome to The Five Bridges! You are facing Bridge One. This bridge was last cleared. . . 30 days ago. Your statistical chance of death is. . . 19%. Do you accept the risk?"
       "I accept the risk, Judge."
       "Please state your full name for the record."
       "Rowland ib Rawlin."
       The first bridge across the town square is wood planks laid over two close-set chains. A beginner's path, on a good day. He knows to be professional and not take this easy bridge for granted. He takes a moment to examine the bridge, shaking his lantern of glowworms for stronger light in the gloom. The planks are dark with the night's dew but not shiny, not slick. The chains are not dripping. The bridge smells like oil and paint and wood, no mold creeping in, no rust.
       He moves slowly and methodically across, cold seeping into his feet through the thin leather soles as he maintains the central path that keeps the bridge from flipping. He does not look down.
       He steps onto the orange roof and touches the string of goat bells that hangs at the peak of the roof, sending a tiny clatter of sound across the large empty courtyard. No one sees, no one expects anything, no one will find his body until the morning market unless he screams as he falls.
       The face hologram appears on the edge of the roof and speaks. "Welcome to The Five Bridges! Congratulations on passing Bridge One! You are facing Bridge Two. This bridge was last cleared. . . 64 days ago. Your statistical chance of death is. . . 27%. Do you accept the risk, Rowland?"
       "I accept the risk, Judge."
       The second bridge is two thick taut wires-- one to walk on, one higher to hold on to. He was six years old when he saw a man die on this bridge, eight when he first crossed it. He paces the rooftop. The supporting chain is the perfect height for a child, but dangerously low for a tall woman or man, making a comforting child's support into a deadly adult weakness. Gita fell here, the last time she tried the bridges. She could not give up safety for freedom.
       But he has seen it before, felt it before, how to give up the handhold for the upright posture that allows better balance. So many times that his feet remember every step across.
       He sets his lantern down now on the yellow rooftop. Someone will come and claim it, like he did. Either at dawn when they find him on the cobbles, or next festival day.
       The face hologram appears and speaks. "Welcome to The Five Bridges! Congratulations on passing Bridge Two! You are facing Bridge Three. This bridge was last cleared. . . 97 days ago. Your statistical chance of death is. . . 44%. Do you accept the risk, Rowland?"
       "I accept the risk, Judge."
       Looking at the third bridge, he checks the connection between the yellow roof and the single heavy chain. Not a drop of dew has settled on this chain: it is laser-etched to repel water, and incredibly slick. One summer Rowland 's brother bet away every coin they both had on walking this chain, and after a year of healing and wandering he had returned to lose his life there. Today those memories seem far away, farther than even the star-cruising ships wander.
       As Rowland approaches the bridge, he realizes his shoes are damp now. He sits, knees wide, and sets the soles of his feet together, then wraps his hands around them to warm his feet and dry his thin shoes. "Not going anywhere with wet shoes, little ones," his mother would say if the festival day was rainy. She always carried her sons' wire-walking slippers in a pocket that lay against her belly.
       When his feet are warm and dry he faces the bridge again. He fits his toes to the heavy links, testing the chain with his weight. His slippers hold well as long as he can feel the edge of each link between his first two toes. He ignores the increased height. A slip on any of the bridges can be fatal, at every step the falling distance to the cobbled square grows. Rowland walks--thinking of the horizon-- to the green roof.
       The face hologram appears again. "Welcome to The Five Bridges! Congratulations on passing Bridge Three! A recording of your performance is being sent to the talent scouts of the Grand Cirque. You are facing Bridge Four. This bridge was last cleared. . . 1,349 days ago. Your statistical chance of death is. . .78%. Do you accept the risk?"
       "I accept the risk, Judge."
       The fourth bridge is a single steel slack wire, hung at a looser tension and with a strong tendency to swing, demanding a different balancing effort-- to move the wire instead of moving over the wire. Close to the goal it crosses over the fifth bridge, which he knows is now putting off a distracting glow and a balance-challenging magnetic field.
       How many died here? Soren, Colinna, Azure, Jorge, Tilda and her mother, that stranger with the good woolen coat, and his own father-- long ago before either of his sons were old enough to remember him. To Rowland it feels like all his friends who didn't die here, he lost anyway in the fall that shattered his ankle. Even Gita, who swore she would wait for him, didn't. His mother died while he was recovering from surgery. The wire seems to shake from ghostly hands.
       But the ghosts don't stop him from placing his foot on the swinging wire. He controls it before committing his full weight, then starts to walk. Every step he tests the motion of the wire, keeping it under his body, concentrating on sensation, feeling for the pain in his ankle that will doom him. But it holds, he holds, he walks onto the blue roof and doubles over, gasping for air.
       The Judge's face appears and speaks. "Welcome to The Five Bridges! Congratulations on passing Bridge Four! A recording of your performance is being sent to the talent scouts of the Grand Cirque. You are facing Bridge Five. This bridge was last cleared. . . 21,270 days ago. Your statistical chance of death is. . .98%. Do you accept the risk, Rowland?"
       "I accept the risk, Judge."
       The fifth bridge is a flat smooth chain, also slack. "As thin as the gold necklaces of the richest ladies in Spaceport," as one of the talent scouts put it. It crosses under the fourth bridge, rising to the final, highest purple rooftop. White stunning energy crackles through pre-programmed sections along the chain, and a surge sometimes runs down its length.
       "Are you sure you accept the risk, Rowland?" The holographic face is frowning seriously, warping and enlarging as it leans in towards him.
       Rowland blinks at the question. He pants from exertion. He has never stood in this place before. There are no memories.
       He sees the town from a new vantage point. The buildings are still dark in the shadow of the mountain, with lights only showing in the windows of the inn nearby. The sky is lightening, becoming pink, giving golden edges to the roofs, the bridges, the cobblestones.
       "I am sure, Judge."
       Rowland kneels to examine the bridge. The connection to the roof is secure but complicated, no doubt allowing for the chain maximum swing. He puts his left foot out, finding the balance of the delicate swaying chain, testing that the tiny thing will take his weight.
       A door opens on the main street. Rowland breathes deep and looks down.
       Gita, whose face has taken on the hard false smile of the innkeeper's wife, throws a bucket of water into the street, then looks up. She sees him on the edge of the blue roof. She stands frozen a long moment, her eyes wide in horror. The she runs towards the square, her eyes never leaving him, waving her arms in denial, the bucket falling. Her mouth moves, silent at first then bursting out "No, no, no!" She races into the square and stumbles to a halt, hands coming up to cover her mouth.
       Rowland looks at his right foot on the edge of the blue roof. At his left foot on the fifth bridge. He looks at Gita and sees also the street behind her.
       Lights are appearing at house windows, and people are opening their doors to investigate the noise.
       He puts his whole weight on his left foot. Holds a moment then steps forward with his right foot, the chain swinging wildly as he struggles to find the balance. He brings the chain under control. He does not look down. He looks up, up at the bridge full of crackling white stun zones, rising to meet the roof above. He takes a long step, clearing a glowing stun zone.
       Voices rise in the street, familiar voices. Someone is standing with Gita, and Rowland hears her voice but can't tell if she is talking or sobbing. All his willpower is in his feet, in the strong healed ankle accepting the work of moving the chain.
       The townsfolk gathering at the far edge of the square, as if keeping their distance, are a blur of color at the ignored edge of his vision. He sees only the purple rooftop and the chain of the fourth bridge blocking his path, with a glowing stun zone directly underneath.
       He hesitates at the chain crossing, the slack chain swinging under him. He sees the move that will work. He feels what his feet must do, and they respond.
       He turns his body sideways to the bridge, focusing on the motion of the chain. He makes a very long step over the glowing stun zone, his arches taking his weight on the line, and ducks under the fourth bridge. The watchers gasp.
       The slack chain wavers as he shifts his feet and his body facing front so he can move forward again. Rowland hears the townsfolk entering the square, humming the festival opening day song. He knows he can't look, but he starts to smile.
       As he starts to walk up the chain again, a surge starts at the top of the chain, moving quickly down toward him.
       Rowland watches as the stunning wave approaches.
       He feels cold and sick, frozen in place, his strength gone.
       His mind is blank.
       His feet shift as his body aligns with the chain again, and he jumps over the energy wave, landing with one foot facing front and one supporting him sideways across the bridge chain.
       The chain swings, and his arms beat the air desperately searching for balance. The voices below sound like snakes hissing and gasping in terror.
       His forward foot comes off the bridge, and he slams it back down.
       The chain whips wildly, thrashing, leaping like it will come out from under him, then slowly it stills. Rowland moves quickly across the remaining distance, stepping up onto the purple rooftop.
       There is a bell on the rooftop. Rowland has never seen it. He has never heard it.
       He takes hold of the clapper string and rings the bell, and sits down, listening to the sound echo across the square, across the valley. Gita and the others are silent, listening. A very old man sits down, clutching his chest.
       The Judge hologram appears. "Congratulations on passing Bridge Five! Rowland ib Rawlin, a recording of your performance is being sent to the. . . Master of the Grand Cirque." The face smiles and vanishes.
        He sinks to an exhausted slump and looks down at the small crowd of townspeople. Some are laughing, some shouting their congratulations. Gita is crying, but a real smile has found a place on her face, like he hasn't seen in years. Rowland sits in the bright sun of dawn, by the bell, in a new place.