“And so, the first toll was birthed and paid.”
A man stares at a bridge, and a bridge stares back. The air comes alive with energy, crackling at the weight of each gaze, each side of the argument.
“I really wish you would stay,” the bridge whispers as the man paces its length.
“A bridge. I am arguing with a bridge,” the man mutters as his hands drag themselves down his face. “I cannot expect you to understand the choice I have to make,” the man uses a tone the bridge has never heard before, at least not from him.
“I am alive enough to understand that what happens here today will affect more than just you.” The bridge’s eyes squeeze shut in an attempt to hide the pain. “I can see what this becomes, and I don’t want to lose you.”
“I have heard the warning, I really have,” the man assures the bridge, his friend. “I just cannot seem to make myself care… not enough to stay.” His arms fall to his sides as his footsteps halt entirely. The forest lies in eerie quiet as one man’s decision slams itself into reality.
The man straightens, “You won’t lose me, I promise, but I have to go.”
“Please don’t,” one last plea to save him.
“I have to… I cannot withstand the pull.” He finds the bridge’s eyes once more. “It’ll just be the once and I will keep my promise, but please also keep yours. Everyone will need the light.” With that, the man looks away and his feet begin a journey the bridge cannot follow.
And so, the first toll was birthed and paid.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
~
Unfortunately, the man went and came back, unable to keep his promise amidst the draw of the toll, losing himself one selfish desire at a time.
The bridge had spoken true. His gaze never once strayed from the silhouette of that man, his dearest friend. He watched as the man stopped singing one lonely note at a time. He stared as the man, his man, forgot with every journey.
There was no reprieve for the bridge; not even when his eyes became a waterfall into the easy moving stream below, nor when there was nothing left but the dense canopy surrounding him, nor when the man he once knew like a brother vanished entirely.
All at once, the world caught up, like a string pulled taut. The silence of the hidden garden, once beloved, now was unbearably loud. The beam of the sun was now too bright; suffocating.
The bridge never did see that man again. In fact, everything changed after that.
3 years later
“Grief and logic do not go hand in hand…”
A little girl is secretly friends with a bridge. She believes that her Ma will think she befriends imaginary creatures. Yet, she is blissfully unaware of Ma’s own broken friendship with him.
The girl skips up and leans against the bricks with a cheeky smile accentuating perfect dimples. Morning dew soaks the hem of her dress as she hums a quiet tune. The bridge does not speak, cannot speak, though his eyes form words where intonation lacks power.
Wherever she is, there his eyes are too.
The little girl finishes her song and shouts wildly, “Guess what, Uncle Bidge? I am five years old today! Ma says I’m a big girl.”
She does not miss the sparkle in those all-seeing irises. Of course he knows what day it is. He could never forget the birthday of his little ball of sunshine, a great light indeed.
Unseen eyebrows raise in silent question as if to ask, “Any great adventures planned?”
“Oh yes, Uncle Bidge.” Her lips curl into the most brilliant smile the bridge has ever seen. “My Ma says I’m finally old enough to see my Pa.”
The bridge’s grief for the girl overpowers any logic. He knows she cannot be saved from the truth to come, but that does not stop another hairline fracture from spreading within his heart. Just as it did not stop the crack directly beside it from forming after he couldn’t save the man. Grief and logic do not go hand in hand he decides, as he begins to discover the only thing within his power to help.
His eyes find the girl’s declaring in their silent nature, “I’m here when you need me, I will be the one that stays.”
So, the bridge and his girl sit in each other’s company, enjoying the innocence of life for what will be the last time.
~
It would be mere hours before the bridge sent his little girl home to her Ma, and thus her Pa, where she would discover a beautiful memorial for his life before the toll.
Each of those moments were as precious as life itself for the bridge, like a promise being fulfilled. Uncle Bidge took advantage of each one, keeping watch over the girl until his own solidity got in the way.
Even then, the girl frequented his dreams along with a man where an alternate reality offered gifts of life. In that realm the man chose himself, chose his wife, chose his daughter. The daughter had the same eyes as the man. A similar laugh bubbling out at every joke the man told.
Unfortunately, every good dream is eventually overtaken by reality. At daybreak, Uncle Bidge stepped out of a dream and into a nightmare. In this world, that little girl did exist, but that man did not choose himself. He instead chose one selfish desire after the next, paying each toll with another piece of his soul. The man lost himself beneath his very own nose, unaware of the consequences until it was far too late for him and for those that loved him. No, he did not choose himself nor his wife or daughter. So the bridge would.
In every way he could, he did.
5 years later
“For the toll was surely an ever-adapting thing, wholly dependent on which victim it had its sights set on.”
A village used a bridge, against that bridge’s better wishes. The toll gossip had become a living, breathing thing throughout the neighboring villages, creating a stirring of sorts. A pot stirred is a mess in the kitchen. In the same sense, was this.
Men and women came by the droves, each yearning after something different, yet receiving consequences much the same. They offered up their own payments to atone the toll, to acquire their pleasure. They came and went much like that man, and much like that man, their end result was the same. The only real difference became the lack of argument from the bridge, as the bridge was still mute. Mute and unfortunately used.
The villagers did not know the bridge. They could not see the warnings in his eyes or the rigidity of his stance. They could not understand his silent mutterings as the girl, his natural translator, did.
Even still, the bridge protected that girl. He hid her in his underbelly as the people approached. The bridge protected her ears from the gossip of the toll as it grew further than just the nearest village. He sent the winds of the garden and the wings of the birds to drown out the noise. As long as she was with him, the bridge’s eyes belonged to her.
Ma was not under that same protection, as she had placed a boundary. A line of despair and anger that she could not cross because of the man and his choice. It was another burden the bridge must bear, to hold the guilt for another. It was another grief to hold closely in hopes that Ma might not break. The bridge would have done more, had he not been steadfast in body. That is yet another dream the bridge might frequent later. Not a reality, though.
Ma never did come around that bridge, though the villagers did come around that Ma. She heard of the toll time and time again through the eyes of those that pursued it, the same toll that took her husband away piece by piece. Ma watched as others fell to the trap of their own making. She witnessed them vying for the very thing that was destroying them, unable to surrender the chase, the high, the desire, nor the grief. For the toll was surely an ever-adapting thing, wholly dependent on which victim it had its sights set on.
Ma observed the lights going dim in her neighbors’ eyes, the vanishing to come soon after. She noticed her own eyes grow colder after every life she saw given. This was her own burden, their toll now left for her in the bone-deep sorrow she carried. Not many understand the life of the one left picking up pieces after someone they love diminishes to dust. Ma forgave that bridge then. The toll was simply a curse not many could withstand. She now understood after seeing each choice of the village, after observing each slow decay of a soul once known.
Ma saw herself in the few left behind. She was spellbound to the misery, to the watching and despair. That, perhaps, was her final undoing. Ma could not witness another heart break with her own torn to pieces. The toll had taken everything, other than her daughter. Yet, that little girl would eventually not be enough to tether Ma, as her strength was all but gone.
~
In hindsight, Ma’s downfall should have been more noticeable, but grief is tricky like that. It is the deadliest of the toll’s armory, the silent killer, a parasite feasting on the innermost being. Unfortunately, Ma had fallen prey to the greatest predator, and she was not aware until its teeth were sunk in.
2 years later
“His voice, or lack thereof, was too small compared to that of the toll’s. It had a hold and the victims would not let go.”
A twelve-year-old sprinted up to a bridge, “Uncle Bidge, Uncle Bidge!”
The bridge just smiled, knowing she could hardly contain her excitement as a five year old, he expected nothing different now.
She beamed, “My Ma is on her way to see you!” She only felt the coming together of her worlds, a seam where a chasm had been.
For the first time, she did not notice Uncle Bidge’s hesitance. The translator forgot to listen for herself. Hope does have its own funny way of drowning out reality.
The bridge viewed Ma’s approaching steps. She was not hesitant, as one would have thought for a reunion of a friendship once broken. No, she entered the garden with meaning under each step. The closer she came, the more her husband, his man, drifted into the bridge’s mind. Curiosity drew Uncle Bidge’s eyes to Ma’s, and fear at what he beheld in them had him turning away, back to the girl, his light.
“Bridge,” that woman stated matter-of-fact.
“Ma,” the bridge seemed to reply.
Ma looked down sheepishly. “I have come to offer amends firstly. I now understand that it is impossible to give aid where it is unwelcome. My husband’s choice was not yours, I am sorry.”
The bridge only looked at his girl.
“Secondly, I have come to ask of you the same of which my husband did.”
Pure shock had the bridge finally acknowledging the woman. He met steely eyes, rather than the warm ones known from long ago. Everything had changed since then.
“Yes, I know of your promise,” the woman replied to the obvious question.
Ma’s words hit the bricks with a ferocity to shake mountains. The bridge knew what that meant. For himself, another burden, for the girl… Well, he could not think of that now. Not as the most pressing concern was Ma. The bridge was taken back to the memory of that promise he made. It was the day the toll emerged from the decision of that man, and he dreaded what was to come.
His eyes begged, followed, and begged some more as Ma made her way to the toll.
“Please take care of her.” She whispered, hoping the wind would ensure its delivery. Even still she knew the bridge would be able to protect her little girl in ways she never had. The bridge was stronger, more steadfast than she. Ma understood that truth.
The bridge released a cry so silent, it rattled the forest. Ma could not, would not hear him. Just as that man had not, and those villagers had not. His voice, or lack thereof, was too small compared to that of the toll’s. It had a hold and the victims would not let go.
Unfortunately, the bridge and that giddy twelve-year-old became witnesses as Ma surrendered to the toll. Ma had been halfway gone before the choice was ever hers anyway.
That twelve-year-old instantly became an orphan; an uncle, now a father of sorts. It was the first time the bridge could not protect his girl. When he finally locked eyes with the devastation in hers, well, everything had changed again.
5 years later
A bridge fathers a girl.
That seventeen-year-old loves to gab even more now. It had become a way of survival after Ma. She spun stories that welcomed escape and healing to all who would hear.
Soon, the bridge became known less for the toll and more for those adventurous tall tales. His girl, his pride and joy, was rewriting grief not just for the village, but the entire kingdom. The toll had taken more than its fair share in those years of tribulation. Now, the girl was giving it back one scene at a time.
The garden grew to encompass the bridge in a hug most deserved. The forest was occupied and peaceful yet again. The wind blew not to protect ears, but to cool faces in the midst of laughter. The birds sang the man’s song. All together, the dancing of feet and twirling of dresses was brought to life once more.
Happy.
The bridge was happy.
5 years later
A daughter marries her love beside a bridge.
“Papa Bidge, do you give this woman away?” asks the priest.
The bridge simply looks upon the love-infested eyes of his little girl, now a woman. He sees the adoration of the man she chose and that bridge seems to say, “Yes, I do.”
Upon those unspoken words stood a stirring once again.
5 years later
A wife has babies who grow to be children.
A bridge stands alone.
5 years later
The children befriend a bridge.
That wife, his girl, was much too busy now for stories. As they tapered off, so did her visits to Papa Bidge. He was no longer lonely though, not now that he had grandchildren to play with. The miniature translators were more adventurous and outspoken than even his girl had been, which meant protecting them was a feat worthy of song.
As the storyteller drifted away to her own responsibilities, the toll crept closer and it was greedy for debt owed.
2 years later
His woman had chosen a man and that man, after some time, became weary of choosing her back. The bridge was left to pick up the pieces after another loss doled by the toll.
This is the second time the bridge could not protect his girl.
1 year later
“A debt that started with one man, trickled to so many others, eroding with interest the farther it went.”
“Grandpa Bidge, Grandpa Bidge!” Little seven-year-old feet stampede through the garden.
He recalled another little voice that ran up to him unabashedly.
“Guess what, Grandpa Bidge?” The boy shouted as he finally reached his destination.
That bridge smiled, a little more weary now that life had aged him.
The boy exclaimed, “Ma is coming to see you at last!”
That bridge drew in a shaky breath. The miniature translator missed the cues.
Papa Bidge watched as his girl, that mother, walked tiredly through the garden. His eyes belonged to her alone.
As she approached, she unraveled a web of lies the toll had spun and told of visits the toll had made to her when the bridge was not there.
This would be the third time the bridge could not protect his girl.
As her story came to an end, the bridge realized a finality lay there. His girl, now a woman, meant for this story to be her last. The toll had convinced her she was much too tired to go on. Papa Bidge had done well with her, and Grandpa Bidge would do well with the others. It was time for her to pay the debt owed. A debt that started with one man, trickled to so many others, eroding with interest the farther it went. So, she would pay it, the toll promised it would stop with her. How could she not pay it?
That bridge looked at the only light he had left, his girl, for what felt like the last time. He couldn’t speak, but there were no words adequate enough anyway. He would lose her.
The bridge went back in time to those dreams turned nightmares. A man befriended a bridge. That man exchanged promises with the bridge, then betrayed him. The woman hated the bridge. She forgave the bridge, then left his girl all alone. The girl loved the bridge. She grew up and changed the bridge. Now, she too would leave.
Panic erupted as the bridge looked at his girl’s children playing. He could never erase the memory of the eyes he looked into filled with shock and grief. The eyes of his girl as she watched her Ma pay that toll. The bridge could not do it again, he simply would not let her children follow the same path.
His girl began to meet the toll halfway.
One step.
Then two.
Three steps atop the bridge.
“I have come to pay the toll my Pa himself began. This ends here.” She was so brave, yet so tired.
His girl.
His girl.
His girl.
“NO!” A shout like thunder erupted from that bridge. His voice was as real as the girl herself. The mute spoke with the voices of every generation that had been lost to the toll, behind him. It was a rallying of lost and found to save his girl.
He would keep his promise to that man and his wife.
At first, it seemed as though the forest had simply gone still. Then, the sun itself seemed to shy away. The girl knew something was incredibly wrong when she felt the earth shake. Except, it was not a shifting of the earth, but of the very brick she stood on. The bridge, he would keep his promise no matter the cost.
He revealed the cracks he had long kept hidden; each one received for a soul he had lost to the toll.
The cracks fanned out creating a web of soon-to-come destruction.
One brick fell, the girl gasped.
Two bricks fell, she searched frantically for the eyes she knew best, which were already trained on her.
Three bricks, four bricks.
The girl did not run. She remained steadfast as the bridge had taught her.
This time the bridge would ensure the protection of his girl. His memory fell to a moment when one little girl lay hidden in his underbelly. Would this become a dream or a nightmare? He could no longer tell.
Then all at once, with no further warning, that bridge collapsed into himself, taking his girl with him.
5 years later
The girl’s children befriend a garden.
Their footsteps lay a foundation for future gatherers, saying, “Tread this way,” or “lightly here.” Each trail winds itself to the same place, a placard in the center where the flowers bloom brightly. This placard lies where that bridge once stood, three of his very own bricks supporting it. Inscribed upon it is a declaration for all to adhere, “Keep your promise, never lose sight of the light, protect it at all costs.”
The bridge did indeed keep his promise to that man and that woman. His eyes never wavered from the light. Not even as the last brick fell. Not even as the bridge took that toll for himself. His sacrifice to protect the light, his girl, will never be erased. I will not allow it.
Some stories I have spun to entertain, others I have spun to heal. Yet, this account is no story. It is the true life of a bridge and his girl, as it should always be. It remains the only lament I will tell from now until eternity.
My own story.
For I am the daughter of that man, and that bridge. Yet, I choose to live only as his girl.
My Bidge was the only one to choose me, to choose all of us. Now, we must choose ourselves.
“Everyone will need the light.”
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Gracefully Broken 