Many winters after The Fall, a girl grew up among the people. She looked like them, she talked like them, she sang and danced and played like them. She even felt the same way as them--happy and sad, joyful and angry. Every year when her tribe made their sad, silent march to the tree at the edge of the cliff, the girl walked with them, tears streaming down her face as she bowed her head in agony and fear. Every year, she knelt near the tree and relived the events of The Fall, which became a legend and a warning that the old women told the the youngsters as they played with sticks and rocks in the dirt.
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Once, in the early ancestral light, before humans had grown afraid, a man left his tribe one day and walked to the nearby edge of a canyon. He often went here to watch the eagles circle above in the hot blue sky, and to dangle his legs over the edge and look down, down, down at the tiny ribbon of blue so far beneath him.
As he was walking one bright morning, he noticed a large, heavy tree growing crooked, out into the air on the edge of the cliff. One limb, heavy with thin, elongated leaves and sweet green nuts, swung out over the edge of the canyon, just out of reach. The man had never seen such a tree, so he looked at those dangling, tantalizing morsels and scrambled right up the trunk and out onto the branch, edging out onto the limb and over into the long drop down to the canyon floor.