text: He walked in line. He wasn’t leading, or following, but was firmly planted in the middle of the whole procession. He was calm, at ease, even, but the parade was anything but lighthearted. They grew closer. He could see it in the distance, the bridge where he spent much of his youth. The bridge where, as a boy, he waded into the slow, muddy, brown waters where his father fished for that night’s supper. The bridge, old and tall, covered in moss, yet still standing after centuries, was getting larger by each step. No one knew when, or who, or how the bridge was built. The village was just happy to have the bridge, for, while the water at the edge of the river was calm, towards the middle it became deep and treacherous. A jagged canyon underneath pulled a current strong enough to tear apart the foolish would be sailor’s raft. The bridge spanned the danger and allowed the village out into the forest on the other side. They started up the cliff. The bridge spanned what seemed like half a mile, impossibly long and impossibly tall, jutting out from cliff to cliff, towering above even the village’s highest cathedral spires. The parade continued. Marching up the emerald hill, closer and closer to the bridge. Somber faces gazed ahead, step after step. The whispering began. He looked around, taking in the hills, and the cliffs, and the bridge, and... and the people. The people who came to watch the parade. Tents were scattered among the rolling hills, little dabs of color in the sea of gently swaying emerald green. From the trees hung lanterns, ready to be lit as the celebration spilled into the evening. He had seen it before, as a boy, though never from the parade. He’d never imagined he would be the center of attention. But here he was. He stepped onto the bridge’s worn stone roadway. A horse trotted from the center of the bridge towards the parade. The spectators quieted. The clack clack’ing of the horse’s shoes echoed. He took a long, slow, deep breath in. “Rope!” The rider cried into the silence. Two soldiers from the rear of the pack brought forward a long coil of wrist thick braided cotton yarn. “Tie it to the pillar!” Ordered the rider. Her eyes scanned the procession. Two soldiers, a color guard, a drummer, a man, hands bound and ankles shackled, two more soldiers, and a priest. The soldiers finished knotting the fraying rope around the stone. They coiled what they could next to the short stone railing and looked to their captain. The rider rode closer to him. He locked eyes just briefly, then looked to the ledge, then back to the captain. “It’s time.” She told him. “Very well.” He walked to the ledge, the priest trailing along, praying, speaking to their gods, seeking his passage into the next life, bartering for him. The two soldiers uncoiled enough rope to slip a noose around his neck and help him up the ledge. He looked around at the bridge, admiring the stonework, taking in the intricate designs, and looking for new patches of moss or ivy he hadn’t seen before. “Villagers!” The rider started, her voice carrying over the hills between the campfires, “as you know is our way, we shall let the bridge decide his fate! For he shall fall and hang, or this bridge give way, and the river’s shore waters will be his savior.” The soldiers pushed. He fell, rope frantically uncoiling behind him. Thoughts of crumbling brick and mossy pillars filled his head. Sky, water, sky, water, sky is all he saw as he tumbled through the air, speeding towards the river. But a bridge that old doesn’t just fall apart. The rope went taut. The people cheered.