Pim Halloway: Negotiation: Don’t Try This at Home

I hold out my receipt. “Gorm, what did my copper buy this morning, if not a crossing home?”

Gorm eyes the receipt like it owes him money. "That copper bought you a crossing in the morning," he grunts. "Not the flood-swollen afternoon." Then, apparently for practice, he adds, "My brother's ferry downstream is outpacing me today, but that doesn't change the toll. You think waving paper beats the river?" He folds his arms anew, immovable as ever.

No. What part of this bridge is unsafe, Gorm? Should we wait here, or run for your brother’s ferry before dark?

Gorm scowls at the question like it just kicked his favourite rock into the river. "Unsafe? The bridge is the bridge, the river is the river. I don't answer riddles. But if you don’t want to wait, run for my brother’s ferry as you say. It's faster these days, and the river won’t wait for anyone." He shifts his weight but doesn’t unchain the barrier. "Your call."

Gorm, did you shut the bridge because it is unsafe, or because your brother’s ferry needs fares?

Gorm stiffens at the mention of his brother’s ferry, eyebrows knotting. "Neither," he snaps. "My brother’s doing well, you say, and I’m glad for him. But I shut this bridge because I've chosen to. Because the flood’s not story enough?" He taps the chain with a knuckle as if it were the finest wood puzzle. "The toll’s my trade, and trade means choice. The river’s no excuse, nor is kinship." That’s four years stored in his silence.

Then why choose to strand us, Gorm? What did the grandmother and the cart women do to you?

Gorm snorts, as if the grandmother and the cart women owe him a reason for the river’s mood. "They did nothing," he says flatly. "Stranding isn’t punishment. It's order. The bridge stands forty years because I say who passes when. Your receipt changes nothing for those awaiting. If you want them across, find a bargain worth my chain." He glances once at the rising water, disinterested.

What bargain will open it, Gorm? I have my hands, my word, and this receipt. Say plainly what you want.

Gorm’s gaze narrows, calculating like a mathematician counting stones in a bog. "Hands and words aren't coin, and your receipt isn’t a pass for a party. I want what makes opening this bridge better than refusing it." He scratches his chin thoughtfully. "Something that doesn’t involve my brother’s ferry, or me regretting the river’s choice after dusk."

What would make you regret opening after dusk—damage, death, or lost authority? Give us rules, and we will obey them.

Gorm taps the chain again, deadpan: "Regret? Not damage nor death—those won't bind my choice. Authority, yes. If opening dims my standing, lets the bridge’s order slip away, I backdown. Rules? Don't come with ink or edge here. I’ll hold to one: the crossing mustn't tip me into folly by sundown." His glare pins on you, the chain's weight in his grip chillingly final.

Gorm, open the chain and order us across one at a time. We will obey. That makes the bridge’s order yours, not ours.

Gorm squints at your promise like it’s a fancy joke he’s politely not laughing at. "Crossing one at a time," he repeats, then smirks, "That opens the gate for you only. The rest can stew alongside the river’s rising tantrum." He flicks the chain in dismissal and folds his arms again, satisfied with his stubborn masterpiece. "Bridge’s order remains mine, as ever."