(WP) Call of the Bridge Man
Everyone knows The Bridge Man, that ghostly entity that waited to guide souls across any bridge that existed. Sometimes he was met with fear, and other people spoke of him as a guardian, a deity of protection and safety. Every young child has heard of The Bridge Man; in our culture, he was like a benevolent Grim Reaper.
Our grandparents and parents paid tribute to him, and his brothers and sisters, the gods of the earth, the sun, the sky and the stars, with food, coin, shiny bolts of cloth, and small idols made by my father, a woodworker.
My grandmother swore that I was the first person in the family, aside from herself, to receive the gift of the Sight. I didn’t think that it was much of a gift, though I never said so in front of Grandma. I was walking to the market, a basket of fruit and vegetables bouncing painfully against my hip. I tried to ignore the cacophony of the spirits around me, some fully realized and others wispy and insubstantial, reminding me of the smoke from our cook fires. So many voices, so many thoughts, stories all tangled up in colorful, fraying threads, and nearly impossible to ignore.
“Cassandra!” A high, female voice broke through the din, and my childhood friend, Diane, pushed her way through the crowd, all sharp, pointy elbows and bright eyes. She reminded me of a bird, especially when she spoke.
“Where are you going?” She asked, wrapping an arm around my free one.
“I need to sell the fruits and vegetables that were left over from the harvest,” I replied, and we walked together; I was comforted by her warmth, and her clean, sharp scent.
“There’s going to be a celebration tonight,” Diane murmured, her smile bright and mischievous. “Father is going to bring visitors for us. Outsiders. There will be stories and dancing and feasting!”
I wasn’t surprised; Diane’s father, the village elder, took any opportunity to celebrate: a birth, a marriage, a bountiful harvest, rain after the dry season. “I don’t know if I can come,” I said, shrugging. My parents were conservative even by our village’s standards. My mother was a high priestess serving the goddess of the stars and sky, Fiora, and the only reason she’d been able to wed my father was because of his status as one of Diane’s father’s advisors. She and my father both frowned upon frivolity, however small.
Diane chattered on, and I took my basket, holding it above my head before I got to my stall, marked with my grandmother’s symbol: a moon and sun, two halves of each of the celestial bodies’ smiling faces.
It was almost the end of the evening when I saw him: The Bridge Man, clothed in a dark robe. His face was hidden, but I knew him immediately: my blood chilled and my teeth chattered. I looked around me, and realized that no one else could see him.
I could feel his presence in my mind, and his voice was both young and ancient: Come to me, child of the Sight, and I will show you a bridge unlike any other you’ve ever seen.
**
