Dob Yarrow: The Showboat Drowns

I hold the soggy receipt up like a badge. Gorm! I read the small print. Copper paid, crossing owed. Says so right here. Legally you are my bridge now.

Gorm snorts, arms still crossed like the bridge's eternal sentinel. "Legally? My bridge isn't a contract to be read aloud, Yarrow, and my word's the keystone here. That's not how this toll works." He glances at the grandmother, nodding once as if that settles some stubborn debate inside him.

Keystone! Good one. Okay, new bit. I turn to the crowd. Gran, he keeps looking at you. I think he fancies you. Gorm, is the bridge shut for LOVE?

Gorm's gaze flicks to the grandmother, not with warmth but a rough recognition. "She's the one who taught me my letters, and still, I reckon she's forgotten tougher days than yours." He snorts again, arms rigid. "Love? Don't drag some soppy notion into bridge tolls. The bridge's shut for reasons that don't care for your gossip." He tightens his stance, unamused by the crowd being used as bait.

She taught you letters! Perfect. Spelling bee, right here, at the chain. Gorm versus Gran. Loser opens the bridge. First word: RECEIPT. Silent P. Go.

Gorm stares at the grandmother, scowling like spelling bees debase the very stone of his bridge. "That's a sordid waste of time, and I've no taste for lost schoolyard tricks," he says. "Make me open your poor, damp scrap now, or the bridge stays as shut as your riddles." His eyes flick from the receipt to the water rising, clearly unimpressed by your dramatics.

Fine! I unfold the receipt with huge ceremony and read it like a royal decree. One copper. Paid. Stamped, G. Underbeck. The crowd gasps. Do it, crowd.

Gorm grunts, narrowing his eyes at the precious reading ceremony. "You squawk it all you like. This bridge ain't your potted history lesson, nor your stage prop." He steps so the rising water splashes his boots, glares at the crowd, then back at you. "But I see the name stamped. I never broke my promise over a stamped scrap. Your audience is as eager as they've always been to cross."

Never broke a promise over a stamp! Watch this. I press the wet receipt to Gran's forehead. Stamped. Carter. Stamped. Now they are all on my ticket.

Gorm scowls long enough to wet his own lips, then shakes his head. "You can't stick my mark on folks like they're toys, Yarrow. The receipt binds me to one crossing, one soul, not a parade of pilgrims. You think I could print tickets for the river, too? This stunt's clever, but it doesn't make water dry." He shifts his weight on the splashing stones, eyes cold as the dusk.

One soul! Great. I bow and hand Gran my receipt. My crossing is hers. She goes over, chucks it back, carter goes, chucks it back. Infinite bridge.

Gorm's glare cracks like a dry twig underfoot. "Passing the mark from soul to soul is a dance I've never led, and I won't learn now." He snatches the receipt mid-throw, damp and crumpled, and lets out a weary sigh. "Your fancy loop humors me less than the water's tongue licking the stones. I want a weight behind words, not children's tricks."

Weight! Say no more. I lie face down across the chain like a sandbag. Gorm, you hold my ticket, so you carry me over. Gran, climb on. Giddy up.

Gorm snorts, clearly unimpressed with your tactics and the soggy receipt now useless in his hands. "Carrying souls across on a whim? That's not bridge work, that's circus. I built that bridge, forty years this summer, with my letters learned from Gran herself. If you think tossing me about like cargo gets you across, you're forgetting the toll's my trade, and no one's crossing tonight but on my terms." He tightens his grip on the chain and looks to the darkening sky. "The light goes, and so does your chance. Keep flapping, but the bridge stays shut."