Fire pt. 1

Red stood at the lip of the crevasse, thrice as deep as it was wide, the ancient rock unevenly weathered. It stretched as far as his failing eyes could see, a wound gouged into the Earth doomed never to bleed nor heal, the desert winds blowing across it in a cacophony of depthless sorrow. Adorned in little more than rags and a worn leather satchel, his skin as burnished as the desert sand and his face a sea of creases, he was almost indistinguishable against his surroundings. He leaned slightly on a thin length of petrified wood, a testament to days long-past when the land was a lush forest teeming with life, seemingly in deep thought.
It will not do to doubt it, a voice within him whispered, you are here and it must be done.
It sounded, as always, distant and hollow - like an echo of a memory long dead. He glanced down at his shadow for a moment, which seemed to shimmer unnaturally in the blazing sun. Were he to place his hand within it, he knew that despite the heat of the day his hand feel the bite of winter. He returned his gaze to the crevasse.
No matter the source, the words were sound. He would finish what he started.
Shifting his weight from his walking stick, the straggly wanderer swung himself over the edge of the chasm and began his swift descent into darkness.
At first it proved to be a simple task, as hand-holds were aplenty, but as he neared the bottom of the gorge they became scarce. At ten paces or so from the bottom they simply ceased, years of hard weathering suddenly giving way to smooth, untouched stone. It was as if the wind avoided this place, indeed, he could no longer hear its howls which had been raging about him a few minutes before. The light, too, was fading – he could only just make out the bottom from his position.
Best leave an anchor, the voice advised. Reaching into his satchel, Red pulled out yet another length of the same petrified wood, this one shorter and sharpened to a point at one end. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and then the familiar sensation of numbness spreading across his arm. Gritting his teeth in an awkward grimace that was somewhere between pain and exhilaration, he drove the spike of wood directly into the stone. The rock shuddered slightly, but the wood did not splinter. It had been driven deep, and would remain there until he no longer had use for it.
Quickly now.
Using his non-affected arm to hold onto the anchor, he reached into his satchel once again – this time he drew forth rope. He quickly tied a strong knot around the anchor, and, making sure it was secure, gripped the rope and slid the rest of the way town.

The bottom was different that what he had expected - different, perhaps, than what anyone would have suspected. It was not rock, but mud which squelched slightly under his moccasins with every step. Here and there, fragments of what looked like animal bones gleamed like stars in the looming darkness. The feeling was returning to his arm in a painful rush of pins and needles, causing him shrug his shoulder almost involuntarily every few steps.
His beliefs, then, were true. Life was returning to the desert, but from what source? Surely this was no natural phenomenon.
        Suddenly he came to a point where the wall of the crevasse had collapsed; there looked to be a pathway leading into further darkness. He took one step forward and felt something hard squelch in the mud underfoot. Pausing, he reached down and picked it up.
A human skull.
You have your answer, wanderer, he heard the voice cackle, its raspy laughter ringing in his ears.