Dob Yarrow: The Soggy Receipt: Honour vs. Reputation

I hold up the soggy receipt. “Gorm! This says ‘crossing,’ not ‘standing ominously beside a chain.’ I paid for the deluxe version.”

Gorm peers as theatrically as his broad face permits, counting each crinkle in the soggy receipt like a sacred text sullying. "Deluxe, eh? One crossing for one person, deluxe or not. Ferry brother's business roars downstream; he sets prices by the splash and shouts, not by fancy words on wet paper. You think I ignore that?" He taps the chain with a grimy claw. "This river, this chain, and my patience run low together."

Then open it before your brother can boast he carried every customer Gorm left shivering on his own bank.

Gorm snorts theatrically, the chain jangling like an angry cat in his grimy hands. "Open it? Without good cause? If I wanted to toss coins into the river, I'd work my brother's ferry downstream. You waving a soggy receipt won't drown that truth. Besides, fancy words won't hold back rising water or my rules." He leans in, eyes on your hands rather than your words.

I spread my empty hands. “Gorm, if you’re waiting for a bribe, I can offer only this: five witnesses to your excellent customer service.”

Gorm's eyes flick down to your empty hands, then up again with a theatrical sigh that could have flooded the bridge alone. "Five witnesses? I suppose I could chain myself to those words, but what are they when my brother's ferry's ringing the till downstream? Your audience, while impressive, won't stop the river or open these lockjaw chains." He strokes the chain like a miser with a coin he doesn't trust.

I point to the grandmother. “Name the rule that makes her your brother’s problem, and I’ll announce it loudly downstream.”

Gorm’s lip twitches as he tilts his head toward the grandmother, then back to the river hacking its way past the chain. "Rule, you say? There's no writing scrawled for grannies on receipt paper. She belongs on the bank, not under my chain. But go on, make a public decree — I’ll enjoy the echo. Just don’t expect it to loosen these links. Words don’t pay tolls, and my brother’s ferry doesn't lend me coin with a smile." He taps the chain again, impatience like a drip.

What good cause opens it, Gorm? Name one, and I’ll produce it with alarming sincerity.

Gorm folds his arms with the flair of a man declining a second helping of stale bread. "A good cause? That'd be the bridge's safety, the water's threat, my honor and your receipt all in concert. But today, my brother's ferry purrs like a cat full of cream, undercutting any reason to risk my chain. You want this chain loosened, you need a cause that costs me more than my brother’s success." He leans slightly, voice low: "Surprising sincerity doesn’t count; prove the cause."

I raise the receipt. “Five witnesses: Gorm says the bridge is unsafe—yet leaves a paid grandmother stranded beneath it.”

Gorm blinks at your accusation, then scoffs, "A stranded grandmother won’t sink the bridge nor fill pockets like my brother’s ferry does. You want to balance safety and tolls with family drama? You want me to decide between river’s roar and one stubborn receipt? Ha. I’m chain master, not mediator of misplaced compassion." He glances at your hands again, unimpressed.

I shout downstream: “Gorm’s bridge is closed—ask his brother why the ferry suddenly costs more!”

Gorm glares downstream where you shout, his expression souring like a week's-old stew. He grunts, then with a heavy sigh fettered in melodrama, unclenches the chain enough for the carter, the two women, and the grandmother to stumble across the bridge before dusk gobbles the light. "Fine," he rumbles, "but this theatre cost me coin and reputation. No encore." The bridge creaks open. Progress ends here.