Pim Halloway: The Steady-Handed Mason's Stalemate

Gorm, are you waiting for someone to tell you to open it, or are you allowed to decide when people can cross on your own?

Gorm grunts his answer while staring at your hands, not your words. "I decide. But there’s no call for that today." He shifts his weight, eyeing the soaked receipt you clutch as if it might bite. Mid-afternoon, a parapet stone fell loose and he thumbed it back into place without fuss. "Bridge’s sound enough," he adds, arms folding tighter. The chain remains secure, a hard finish to your question.

The bridge is sound, you have my receipt, and I want to cross. What is the call for, if not this? Are you worried about the river or something else?

Gorm sighs and scrubs his knuckles against the chain, his gaze flicking from the receipt to the swollen river below. "Nothing to do with the river," he says, voice flat. "If I opened it now, the folks behind you'd all come rushing over. That stone I mentioned? Could be trouble if crossin' gets crowded with water almost at the arches." He narrows his eyes, "I keep this bridge exactly one way. Why the hurry?"

If it's only crowded crossings that worry you, would you open up if I promised we'd go one at a time, with you watching us the whole way?

Gorm narrows his eyes, weighing your proposal. "One at a time, eh? That’s a fair idea, but none of you carry a watch or a whistle. How do I know you don’t dash once past me?" He gestures at the restless water under the second arch, "And I’m not babysitting a crowd. That stone’s loose enough to be a pain if someone falls." He doesn’t move, but the chain rattles faintly in the wind. "Keep trying, but the bridge’s traffic stays my business."

How long since the stone went loose, Gorm? Is there a safe way past it if you show me where, or is it secret-only-for-bridgekeepers knowledge?

Gorm looks down at the stone, rubbed smooth where his big fingers pressed it back this morning. "Loose since dawn," he says, voice low. "I can't show a safe path. Not secret, just no path safe enough for complacency." He drills his gaze into your hands again, the receipt limp now, whispering damage. "The bridge’s rules don’t change on chance or curiosity, and no one’s crossing by guesswork."

Did you tell the mayor or anyone with tools? If you’re here alone, who comes to fix it before someone does fall? Or is that your job, too?

Gorm snorts. "Mayor? Tools? This bridge’s care’s mine alone. I didn’t mention the loose stone to him; he’s got other worries." His knuckles grind the chain again, voice rough. "And fixing’s me job ’til dark. If I didn’t stand here, who’d mind the cost? You talk as if I’m a clerk he can order around." He shifts a step closer, narrowing eyes. "Fixing comes with holding traffic back."

Gorm, if making it safe is your duty, let me help fix the stone—then you won't need to hold anyone back. What do we need to do first?

Gorm eyes your suggestion like it might be another soft receipt about to dissolve. "Fix the stone, eh?" He scoffs, ready to dismiss you, but then he scratches at his beard. "Fine, but no miracles. That stone’s uphill in the parapet — heavier than it looks and slick from the spray. You got hands for stone work or just talk?" He grunts, twiddling the chain. "Start by finding a way to hold it steady. I won’t risk it falling again."

I don’t know stonework, but my hands are steady and I’ll do just what you say. How do *you* hold it steady when it gets slick?

Gorm grunts at the admission and gestures at the crude repair: his calloused thumb pressing the parapet stone into place, fingers clenched like a clamp. "Steady hands and patience," he says flatly, "and reachin' only when you mean it." He lifts his heavy paw a moment, eyes narrowing on your unpromising grip. "I’ll let you start on that, but no promises. Bridges don’t mend themselves, and the stone sure won’t hold on faith alone."