The Bridge

Written by Mary Holmes

There is a bridge that sits at the far edge of town. It crosses over the flowing river that is too wide to swim across, too deep to stand in, too cold to play in and too poisonous to drink from. Regardless of this, when the sun rises, and its rays strike the top of the rapids, the bridge is surrounded by a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors that last three heartbeats. And every morning, Charlotte Douglas stands at the edge of the woods to watch; just far enough to see, and as close as she dares to get to the bridge.

She can remember her mother, like a ghost standing beside her. Her hair fluttering in the wind as she whispers to Charlotte tales of wonder. Things long since forbidden and forgotten.

If Charlotte closed her eyes tight enough, she could still smell her mother’s rose perfume, the expensive one that her father had given to her as a gift many years ago. The memory of the smell is sweet as it drifts through the air, mixing with the scent of decaying leaves at her feet.

As soon as the sun disappears amongst the clouds, Charlotte takes her eyes from the bridge and returns to the safety of the woods. Her footsteps are quick as she scurries back along the well-trodden path, one she could walk with her eyes closed. Above her head, birds chatter to one another cheerfully.

Pockets of light flitter in from the thick canopy, creating a patchwork along the trail. Charlotte skips from patch to patch, hearing her mother’s voice telling her to stay out of shadows where the mischievous Otherlings dwell.

All to soon Charlotte escapes the cover of the woods and pauses to stand at the top of the hill looking down upon the only place she has ever known. A village of stone, wood and even some precious metals; her eyes wander every inch of it. The short buildings squished together, the few houses that lay on the outskirts.

“Most people love the average beauty of it all and can be happy with a quiet life here.” Her mother once told her. “It can bring you peace if you let it.”

Now as Charlotte looks down at the town, the breath in her lungs gets stuck at the base of her throat, making her eyes water as it slowly chokes her.

She blinks away the tears, then lifts her long skirt and begins running as fast as she could down the hill. The wind thundering in her ears, and the air re-filling her lungs, wipes away all sensation. She stumbles a few times on the way down, but her momentum doesn’t let her fall as she moves faster and faster.

One hand clutching her skirt up to her knees and out of her way, the other arm is swung out like a lone wing that would lift her off the ground so she could soar into the sky.

***

Charlotte slows to a trot as she gets closer to one of the farmhouses that lies closer to the woods then the rest.

Her eyes drift to the patch of land in front of the house that was full of decaying plants. It was a sad excuse for a garden, one that neither she nor her sisters have had the heart to try to bring back to life. Ignoring it and leaving it to die felt more natural to them.

The house is quiet when Charlotte enters. The first room she sees is the empty kitchen. The shutters are pulled tightly shut, dust covers everything, and a lone cracked plate sits on the kitchen table still full of food.

The floor above her head creaks as someone moves around. Charlotte stands in the threshold, sucking in a breath of air. Taking the stairs one step at a time, she counts them in her head.

Seven stairs to the first floor, turn and then nine steps to the attic. She doesn’t turn. Instead she walks to the small window that sits at the end of the tight hallway. Two doors on one side, one on the other. And at the end, beneath the window is the wooden chest.

The chest is a simple thing made of oak wood. It was her mother’s dowry, made for her by her father for her wedding as a parting gift. Intricate roses were carved into the front and sides. Years ago, Charlotte’s mother had made a pillow from red fabric, so that she could sit comfortably and read by the light of the window.

The vibrant red has long since faded to a soft pink. Charlotte’s younger sibling, Katherine Douglas, often sits there, as their mother used to. She often watches the sunrise with a book nestled on her lap. This morning, the already small girl had made herself smaller. Her knees are pulled up to her chest, and her head is sitting atop them facing the window.

Charlotte softly touches her shoulder. “Good morning Kitty,” she whispers to her sibling.

Kitty turns toward her; her small face is red and puffy. Her eyes are a bit swollen and glossy. Charlotte’s chest tightens.

“Is Lily awake?” Charlotte asks her softly.

Kitty shakes her head, then turns her face back to the window.

Charlotte bumps her shoulder, asking, “No book today?”

The young girl sucks in a ragged breath. “Papa said that his bedroom was too cold last night. He needed something to burn.”

Charlotte’s chest tightened even further as she pictures her father bemoaning about the chilled state of his bed as he thoughtlessly throws the precious item into the flames. She thought about sitting next to her sister, about wrapping her arms around her and telling her everything would be okay. But she knew it wouldn’t help Kitty. It wasn’t her arms the girl needed. So instead, Charlotte lightly touches her shoulder and walks away.

Kitty’s twin sister, Lilliana Douglas, is still asleep when Charlotte enters the room. She is sprawled across the bed. Each of her limbs are stretched out to a different corner. Somehow the blankets had made their way to the foot of the bed, barely even in use at this point. Her brown hair is flung across her face, shifting with each breath the girl takes.

Charlotte makes her way over to the curtains that cover the window, flinging them open to let in light. “Time to get up,” she announces to the quiet room.

Lily remains still; her eyes still closed to the waking world. Charlotte tries shaking her. “Come on Lily. It is time to wake up.”

This is received with movement as Lily mumbles unintelligibly and shifts around to lay on her stomach.

Charlotte puts her hands on her hips trying to decide what to do next. She then proceeds to yank her sister by the foot until the girl slides off the bed and onto the floor. This wakes Lily up immediately, and she proceeds to glare at her older sister with sleepy eyes. “It is time to be awake Lilliana!” Charlotte announces.

Lily swats pieces of her hair out of her face. “You are worse than Margaret,” she gripes.

Charlotte throws her an impish smile as she leaves the room. “Get dressed we have a busy day ahead of us,” she calls out behind her.

Charlotte hurries back down the stairs and back into the sunshine outside. Fresh air fills back up her lungs, forcing out the darkness that had accumulated.

Rushing over to the chicken coop, she hikes up her skirt preparing to disturb the ladies. Looking over her shoulder she spots Kitty coming over with a basket, and Lily stumbling out of the house after her squinting at the attack of the sunlight. The twins are so different from each other, like two opposing sides of a coin, but they are closer to each other than Charlotte could ever be to them. She often wonders if they need her around anymore when they have each other. Would they even notice at first if she disappeared?

Turning back to the chickens, Charlotte nudges aside the mothers, who were keeping their children warm and protected, and begins to steal their eggs. Her heart squeezes with each one she takes and hands to Lily, who deposits them into the basket. A few of the chickens’ peck at Charlotte’s hand, like any protective mother should do.

Once the basket is filled, Charlotte exits the coop and dusts herself off. She could hear movement in the small shed that sits at the edge of her father’s wheat field, as the man himself bangs around inside muttering to himself.

Her father used to joke that he talks to himself because having a wife and four daughters under his roof meant he doesn’t have intelligent male conversation to listen to, so he makes do with his own voice. Charlotte’s mother used to laugh it off, but Charlotte never found it funny. It has gotten even less humorous to her as he has taken to only talking to himself these past few years.

Lily glares at the shed as Charlotte finishes dusting herself off. Charlotte didn’t like seeing that mean look in her sister’s eyes. Lily and Kitty had barely seen fifteen winters, yet they know hatred and fear. Even though Charlotte has seen only six more than them, she feels the difference as she stares at the twins. She spreads her lips into a smile for her sisters, gesturing for them to begin to walk, saying, “We should hurry if we want to sell these eggs before it gets too hot.”

***

The town itself sits along one of the most traveled trade routes. It consists of one long cobbled street, with houses of varying shapes and sizes that line each side. There is a bakery that sits at one end of the street, so the smell of freshly baked bread drifts through the street every morning, convincing traders to stop for supplies. Nearly every day the townspeople set up stands to trade goods and stories with each other, and with the travelers from faraway places.

Charlotte and her siblings often venture into the market for the activity of it. Their older sister, Margaret, had married the town’s butcher this past summer, so she spends most of her time amongst the townspeople rather than in the outskirts with the other Douglas girls. This morning, the new Mrs. Thompson is bustling around her trading stand. The wool clothing items she had spent the past days creating are spread out across the wooden surface in a proud display of her skill.

The rest of the towns people are also zipping around when the Douglas siblings enter.

Lily is the first to rush to her older sisters’ side, hands outstretched to caress Margaret’s protruding stomach. “Is the baby moving today?” she asks excitedly.

Margaret swats away her sister’s hands playfully. “Not this morning. And I wouldn’t tell you if he was. That’ll teach you to be more excited to see a baby that isn’t even born yet then you are to see me.” She grouches, softly rubbing her stomach as she does.

Kitty goes to stand next to Lily, her dark eyes focused on the wool gloves on her sister’s table. She touches one, rubbing the material through her fingers. Charlotte silently watches her sisters, smiling at the wonder and joy they each have on their faces. She wished she could capture the moment and frame it.

“Your sister looks like she is glowing today.” A deep voice says behind her, causing Charlotte to jump in surprise.

She turns to see Henry Gilbert Junior standing behind her, with a wide smile on his narrow face. He is standing close to Charlotte as townspeople hurry about them. His chest is puffed out so that she can see the shiny iron buttons that line his emerald colored coat from the base of his throat to the top of his breeches.

Charlotte has known Henry for as long as she has been alive. He and his family’s wealth were a fixture in the town just as much as the bricks beneath their feet. His father’s large funds give him the freedom to speak as he pleases, with the expectation that he will receive nothing but a polite smile in response.

“Pregnancy suits her well.” He continues, his mud colored eyes shining in the sunlight.

“I’m sure her husband would agree with you.” Charlotte responds politely.

“Do you plan to have children?” He asks her abruptly, surprising Charlotte further. She looks at him in confusion. His cheeks turn a bit rosy under her sharp stare. “Sorry, that was rash of me. It’s just that I think you would make a good mother.”

This causes Charlotte to blush, and her stomach to churn. She begins to wonder how she could make her escape from this conversation. “What makes you say that?” She asks politely.

Henry smiles wider at her. “‘Cause I’ve seen how you have taken care of your younger sisters these past few years.” His smile disappears. “I know it was not an easy task for you. I pity your father some days.”

Charlottes stomach tenses painfully. Her eyes flicker around to the rest of the towns people who were bustling about, happily trading goods and services. She wonders how many of them felt the same as Henry. Did they all pity her father? Pity her and her sisters?

She shakes her head and brushes her hands down her skirt to wipe away the thoughts. “It is a beautiful day for the market,” she declares to Henry with a smile, craving a change in topic. “Has your father returned from the north? Does he have any news to share with the town?”

Henry squints at her. “Nothing different from the last time he went north. I’d assume there is still a war happening somewhere.”

Charlotte stretches her smile wider, until her cheeks began to ache, knowing this was the perfect time to make her escape. “Well I hope it ends soon.” She looks away from Henry toward her sisters. “I should probably go help my sisters sell the eggs.”

“Yes, of course.” He says, as though he had just remembered why she was in town. “Will I see you and your sisters at the market again tomorrow?”

Charlotte doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring. So, she tells Henry as much, then turns to join her sisters.

***

After the market they had spent the day with Margaret in her small house that is attached to her husband’s butcher shop. Lily had begged to stay until she could feel the baby move, and Kitty had wanted to read one of Margaret’s books.

The sisters even convinced Charlotte to tell a story about the Otherlings, one their mother had told her years before as they had waited at the edge of the woods for the sun to rise over the bridge. The twins had sat wide eyed, as Charlotte began to tell the story of the lost princesses.

Otherlings come in many shapes and forms, some wicked and some merely mischievous. They live on dreams and whims, venturing to cross the bridge whenever they feel the urge, whether it be every few days or every few years. Long ago, during one of these excursions, they came upon a traveling party that was carrying three daughters of a northern king. They were each heavily protected and equally fair. The otherling group saw these beautiful girls, and on a whim stole them away from their traveling party, and they were never seen again.

When Charlotte finished her story, Lily and Kitty were staring at her wide eyed, while Margaret focused on her knitting with a disgusted look on her face.

“Why did they take them?” Kitty asks softly.

“’Cause that’s what they do to show that they can,” Margaret huffs.

The twins look at Charlotte expectantly, wanting to know if she agrees with the oldest Douglas sibling. Charlotte shrugs, gazing out the window. “Maybe.” Her green eyes became distant. “Or maybe the princesses wanted to go.”

Then the spell was over, the sun had disappeared nearly completely from the sky; and it was past time to return home.

As soon as they entered the house, they could smell the firewood that their father was burning in his room. Walking up the stairs quietly, they each froze at the top of the stairs.

At the end of the hall, there was no longer a chest beneath the window. Instead a pile of chopped firewood is sitting atop the faded red pillow.

***

Charlotte’s eyes are puffy from dried tears when she wakes, and she can barely open them. It is before dawn, so she is quiet as she rises to dress for the day, and creep out of her room. Her bedroom door creaks as she closes it behind her. She pauses for a moment, holding her breath, staring at her father’s closed door. She releases the trapped breath when she couldn’t hear any sounds of movement from behind the door. The stairs crack as she slowly walks down them.

Charlotte jumps in surprise when she reaches the bottom and sees her father sitting at the kitchen table.

Edmund Douglas was not a particularly large man. He was average in nearly every way. Not tall, nor fat. Not handsome, nor ugly. He had a wide face and a large nose, sitting above thin white lips that he keeps pressed together. All features that made him perfectly forgettable.

Contrary to his actions, Edmund Douglas is not a cruel man. He had always attempted to make his wife happy, to give her all he could. It frustrates him that it hadn’t been enough, souring his personality into the cold distant man that was now sitting at the table.

“Good morning, Father.” Charlotte says softly. She moves toward the door with the hope of leaving without further discussion.

“Where are you going?” Edmund asks gruffly.

Charlotte pauses. “For a walk,” she tells him. Her voice still soft. She knows of her father’s distaste for her. She is the one that looks like her mother, while the rest of her sisters inherited his darker features. Charlotte often wonders who Edmund sees when he looks at her, her or her mother.

“Where could you possibly walk to this early?”

Charlotte pictures the bridge in her mind. The beautiful colors that reflect off the water. The silence and the fresh air. “Just to the edge of the woods and back,” she tells him.

He squints at her. “Not this morning. You are going to go to town and assist your sister set up for the market.”

Charlotte looks at the door, the path to the bridge flashing in her mind. “But—”

“Do not argue. I need Margaret’s husband to assist me in the fields today, so you will go into town to make sure his wife has help at the market.”

Charlotte flinches at his harshly spoken words, her mind drifts to the firewood upstairs that used to be a chest. She closes her eyes and nods in agreement. “Of course, Father, whatever you need.”

***

The market is far more crowded than the day before. A large group of traders from the north had arrived that morning, stirring the townspeople into a frenzy as they set out their wares to sell to them. Charlotte’s ears were aching from all the noise, and her mind is still on the bridge. She felt as though she had missed something important by not going this morning.

As Charlotte listens to her sister barter with a trader, to get a better price for a pair of wool gloves, she sees Henry Gilbert and his father conversing with a northern trader across the street. He looks up and smiles at Charlotte, who gives him a small polite smile in return.

“He wants to marry you, you know,” Margaret whispers to her.

Charlotte looks at her startled. Margaret’s green eyes were twinkling in the sunlight. For a moment Charlotte thought she was looking at her mother.

“Who does?” Charlotte asks confused. “Henry?”

“Yes Henry,” Margaret says. Her eyes turn hard as steel. “Kitty and Lily are older now; they do not need you around. He could give you a good life here in town. I think you should let him.” Then her face softens as she turns to converse with a trader who had wandered over to her table.

At the south entrance of town, a buzz of commotion began. Charlotte saw people beginning to push each other towards each side of the street, as the entire town became quieter and quieter. Charlotte hears her sister gasp and sees Margaret wrap her arms protectively around her stomach. Then she sees them.

The three tall figures walking through the street, two males and one female.

“Otherlings” Margaret whispers in fear. “They crossed the bridge.” Her breath is shaky as she inhales and exhales rapidly.

Across the street, Henry Gilbert and his father were standing close together. Both their faces are twisted into a snarl as they stare at the intruders.

Charlotte stomach flutters as she stares at them. She had only seen an Otherling twice before. Once from a distance. The other, when Charlotte was merely six summers old. She had peeked at a male otherling from behind her mother’s skirt. From what she could remember he had been very fair, with hair the color of gold, a sharp face, and cunning eyes. And he had been large.

She had forgotten how large they could be.

The two males are taller than any man on the street, and the female is nearly as tall. She is a fair thing, appearing to shine in the sunlight. The way she moved was almost musical, as she seemed to glide down the street.

Charlotte and the rest of the town watch as the group drifts from table to table inspecting the items on display. Every now and then, an item would catch their fancy and they would toss a gold coin to the seller, who would grudgingly pass them the item in exchange.

As they get closer and closer to Margaret’s table, Charlotte could only watch them transfixed. She knows she should be as disgusted and fearful as her sister, yet she couldn’t help but feel a shiver of excitement. She wonders if this was how her mother had felt the last time an otherling had crossed the bridge four summers ago. Had she also been enraptured by the mystery of them.

They stop at the Gilbert’s table, staring at the jewelry that he makes with the jewels his father brings back from the north. When the female points at a necklace that she wants, Henry Gilbert glares at the group and shakes his head, crossing his arms to appear larger.

One of the males holds out a small bag of gold coins. Henry snubs the bag, but his father snatches it from the air and shoves the necklace at the female hastily.

Then the Otherlings are standing before Charlotte and her sister, staring down at the wool gloves, hats, scarves, sweaters, and cloaks that Margaret had spent days creating. Margaret herself is shaking as she clings to her midsection, staring at them with wide eyes. Charlotte just stares at them.

One of the males looks at the items in boredom. His pale hair looks like liquid iron, and his blue eyes are so pale that they almost appear white. The other male possesses darker features than his companions. He has three silver scars cutting through his eyebrow, stretching down to his sharp cheekbone, like an animal had clawed him long ago with the intent of removing the eye. He stands behind the other two, protectively, with yellow eyes that watch every movement from the frightened people around them.

Charlotte’s mind searches through her mother’s stories as she stares at them. “You’re a Garwalf,” she says to the yellow eyed Otherling.

The group seemed startled by the sound of Charlotte’s voice, as they stare at her in surprise. The female squints at her, “Why do you say that?”

Margaret pinches Charlotte’s arm to keep her quiet, but Charlotte gestures to the Otherling’s eyes. “His eyes. They are yellow like an animal’s are,” she says matter-of-factly.

The female smiles brightly, showing off the two teeth that are slightly sharper than the rest. “What a clever little thing you are.” The Otherling reaches out a hand, picking up a piece of Charlotte’s hair and rubbing it between her long fingers. “What pretty hair you have. Red as blood. It is a rare color on our side of the bridge,” she says.

“It is a rare color on this side as well,” Charlotte responds automatically. She remembers that her mother’s hair had been the same color. It is what drew the Otherling male to her years ago.

The Otherling female laughs softly. “You would thrive on the other side of the bridge.” She looks around the street, at the disgusted looks that the group was receiving. “A life here will smother cleverness and dampen beauty.” She grins viciously, “Do they already have a husband in mind to keep you trapped here?”

Charlotte flinches at her question. Her mind flashes to Henry Gilbert’s wide smile, and Margaret’s words.

The female snickers and yanks on the strand of hair still pinched between her fingers. “Of course they do. Little birds like you aren’t allowed to have strong wings.”

The yellow-eyed one grabs the otherling woman’s arm to get her attention, shaking his head at her once he does. She rolls her eyes, but releases Charlotte’s hair. “Very well, Sterling. Let us return home. I believe we have overstayed our welcome.” She looks one last time at Charlotte, winking conspiratorially. “I hope to see you again, Little Bird.”

Then they are gone as quickly as they appeared. Leaving Charlotte alone with the disgusted looks of the town that are now aimed at her.

***

The sun had not yet set, as Charlotte stood before the bridge. She is listening to the deadly river rushing, and the birds in the trees twittering behind her back. Margaret had ignored her the rest of the day, angered by Charlotte’s recklessness. And Henry Gilbert acted like the rest of the townspeople, keeping his distance and shooting her disgusted glances. Her father had still been in the field when she had returned home, and the twins had gone to visit a friend, leaving the house empty.

She had sat on her bed for hours replaying her interaction with the Otherlings, before she packed a bag and walked to the bridge as if in a dream.

As Charlotte stares at the bridge, she pictures her mother. Remembering years ago, when she had stood at the edge of the woods and watched as Helena Douglas had met up with an Otherling male. Remembering how she had watched as her mother had rushed wildly to the golden-haired Otherling, throwing her arms around him in joy. Remembering how she had called out to her mother, asking her to stay. And how her mother had turned her emerald eyes toward her, smiling happily, before she held her lovers’ hand and crossed the bridge.

Now as Charlotte stands staring at the bridge, she understands her mother’s reckless joy. She could feel the air lifting her hair, letting it float around her. She could almost taste the magic of it all, the wild freedom it contained.

And as the last rays of the sun strike the water, surrounding it in a halo of vibrant colors, Charlotte Douglas abandons her average little life, and crosses the bridge.

---

Mary Holmes is the author of The Bridge. This author wishes their name to remain anonymous. Mary Holmes is a penname they selected to maintain this anonymity. Holmes is currently working on adding more chapters to go along with the teaser piece listed here.