The Bridgemaker

“You’ve got mail again, Seymour,” Marv said to me as I walked into the post office. 

I sneered, wiping at my dripping nose. “Who from?”

Marv’s bushy eyebrows lifted over dull eyes. 

“Who do you think?” He said, offering me a damp scrap of bark from the pile on his desk. 

I grimaced and took the note from him, shoving it into the pocket of my drip coat and making my way into the back room. Persha bleated angrily at my ankles. She hated it when her fur got wet. Which was ironic, since she always seemed to walk under the lamp posts that dripped the heaviest. 

In the back of the post island was a pile of linen wrapped parcels. In the doorway, I scanned the floor for a moment then cursed, bending over to pick up a small handful of limp packs. They made an unsatisfying thump as they hit the wall.

“Hey! If anything breaks I’ll make you replace it!” Marv called from behind. 

“Where’s my package, Marv?” I shouted back. 

I knew my boss was sending me another job on that note and I didn’t have my new shipment of cable rope. At this point I’d be on my back up back up rope. I didn’t have any backups after that. Persha snacked on a wayward package as I stepped over her. Eyebrows pinched, I rounded the corner to confront the postmaster.

Marv had his arms crossed over his bulging stomach defensively. 

“Ain’t my problem we’re backed up,” he grunted. 

I rolled my eyes. 

I didn’t have time for this. If any jobs come after this last one, I’ll just decline and figure something out. I clicked for Persha and shoved my way out of the door before Marv could follow up with his usual string of excuses.

Over my shoulder, I couldn’t help saying, “This was one of my first islands, you know! I had a nasty habit of tying loose knots, so maybe watch your footing on your way back! This could be the day my knot finally slips.” 

The cool air of the night was closing in on us now, but the fog hid any moonlight that might have otherwise lit up the path. In the distance, I could make out the hazy pinprick of my dinghy's lamp, roped to the pier.

'This could be the day my knot finally slips,' the words came back to me as we reached the worn posts holding the wooden slats taut.

Take your own advice, old man, I grunted to myself as I eyed the creaky bridge in front of me. I gritted my teeth and started down it, gripping the thick rope handles to steady myself. 

“After forty years? Not a chance, geezer,” Marv said after me, voice faint. 

“Ropes fray, Marv!” I threw over my shoulder. “And I haven’t been getting my shipments to keep up with the maintenance!” 

When there was no reply, I smirked. 

It fell when I tripped over Persha, who glared up at me and burped. Dumb old goat. One day she’ll be the death of me.

My ire faded as I inched forward, glancing down at the ocean thousands of miles below. Most people considered doing it bad luck, but I had years and years of bad luck behind me without once glancing down. 

Not that there was much to see anyway. The view was dark and riotous, roiling from the heavy winds. The black water yawned up at me from thousands of feet below. 

A chill ran up my hunched spine.

“I’m serious this time Persha, I’m quitting!” I grunted at my goat as I stared down into the water.

She looked over her shoulder and sneezed, unamused. My scowl deepened. 

I tore my eyes away from my death with a wet sniff. Most of my bridgemaker friends eventually succumbed to the waves. Either by a malfunctioning skiff or self-inflicted tendencies. Hovering in the open air thousands of feet over an undeniable end does things to the human mind. It stiffens the body like rigor mortis, or makes you hallucinate about falling sensations and wobbling boats. Numbs the sensations in your hands and feet. They call it ‘the skiffs’. 

Most of the younger bridgemakers find the name funny. 

Old coots like me find it painfully ironic. We all come across coworkers frozen and wailing like babies at some point, feet inches from the edge, leaned over the railing of their ships. Those encounters tend to scare the untried more than any ghost story ever would. The skiffs end up turning all of us into salt-dried living corpses.

The skiffs are also part of the reason why you never see men my age as bridgemakers. Most in the profession get worn by years of staring down at their death and give up. Whether that meant retiring or jumping.

I never jumped because of my goats. Unfortunately, I also never retired. I can’t pay for my goats without an income. In all actuality, I don't consider myself a bridgemaker by trade anyway. My real profession is tending to my goats. Or goat, in this case. 

Persha’s job is to keep me on my toes and remind me that she’s meant to be eaten. 

Persha belched at me, making me smile.

She was never good at her job.

As we reached the docking island, the first of the lightning crackled through the air. Early again, eh? I cursed and dove into my boat, wrapping my arm around my goat’s neck and hoisting her into the dome cover. 

Electricity licked along the insulated railing of my ship as we huddled under my tarp dome. The hair on the back of my arms and neck stood straight up. Persha moaned in distress and spit up some of her canvas dinner. I wrapped my hands around her floppy black ears and hunkered down. Thunder boomed and cracked around us, rattling my teeth. 

Poor timing, but that tended to suit me. 

The wind picked up, sending a wave of moist air into our haphazard shelter. More electricity zapped at my unprotected hand. I grimaced, shaking out my fingers. Eventually, you get used to the small electrical burns, like an electrician. You have to, since you can’t avoid them. Not that it stings any less.

It’s not supposed to be that way normally. Drip coats as a bridgemaker are supposed to be lined with insulation for safety. My coat was never as insulated as it should’ve been forty years ago, let alone now. The only new things my boss supplied his employees with were voyage goats. ‘Voyage goats’ are meant for eating on long trips, since any stored food spoils easily in the constant mist. 

‘Death’s demned bad for business’ was my boss’s motto, and the only reason why he kept up with the goats at all. 

As both a vegetarian and a difficult bastard, I redubbed my goats as my travel companions. I made sure to update my boss on my goat farm’s status whenever I had the humor for it. It's still a farm of one, though, so it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it sounded. 

Not that Mr. Cormack ever cared enough to remember he had living, breathing employees.

At the reminder of my difficult boss, the commission note poked me through the thin fabric of my drip coat. I pulled away one of my hands and pressed Persha’s head against my chest to keep her ears protected. With the other I rifled through my pocket until I found the note. Picking at a splinter with my teeth, I squinted down at the smudged words.

Big one off Parshack Point. Been four hours. Southwest.

– C

“Helpful,” I said. 

With a scowl, I split the wood in half and offered it to Persha. 

As she lipped at the offering, I pulled my hands away and patted the ground around my hips. I had a few minutes before the next wave of cracks and I needed those moments to find mine and Persha’s earmuffs. Makeshift, of course, since I’m ‘not supposed to be out in thunderstorms’. 

Locating Persha’s under her furry rump, I secured the lumpy scarf around her head and tethered her ragged rope collar to the mast as the hair on my neck crackled with the next incoming round. Persha stared up at me with liquid eyes. 

With a pat on her head, I crawled out from under the shelter. Crouching to avoid being tall, I scuttled across the deck to my rudder where I had stowed my bag with my own earmuffs. I slapped them over my ears just in time for the lightning to strike a light pole on the post master’s island less than a hundred yards away. My hair stood on end and the ship rattled. 

Slipping my goggles from around my neck to situate them on my face, I stayed crouched and made my way back to the mast. Persha bleated loudly at me while I unraveled the ropes securing the power sail down. 

“Just my luck,” I muttered to myself as the next lightning strike hit the middle of the bridge. 

I couldn’t go back to my home island until this land sighting was investigated. I’d missed plenty of potential islands by making a decision like that. Growling under my breath, I forced the sail open just in time for the lightning to strike it. The wood beneath my feet hummed and warmed with the energy the sail channeled into the motor. I turned to Persha and patted her on the head again. 

“Looks like we’re in business, little miss,” I shouted over the thunder. 

Straightening now that the lightning was directed at the sails, I went to untie the anchor from the docking island. When we began to drift free, the boat wobbled. It wasn’t supposed to do that, but a new boat wasn’t any more feasible than a new dripcoat was.

Logically, it was time for retirement. Retirement to a nice acre of goat farm. In my dreams, I would have at least fifty. 

What a joke.

Tightening my hands around the rudder, I sniffed and pulled the boat around in the direction of the main island outcropping. What did the note say? Was the island southwest? 

Over my shoulder, I asked, “Hey, Persha! I don’t suppose you remember what direction the island was spotted in?” 

Persha didn’t say anything back, so I assumed that meant she didn’t. 

“Aw, whatever,” I said dismissively. “I’ve gotten this far already.”

I tilted the ship toward some of the farther outcroppings. You never find new islands in the direction of the bigger populations, unless they’re broken off from the islands themselves. You get no profit from already discovered land.

It was safe to bet I’d be heading to the outskirts of the Archipelago. 

The air around me darkened the farther away from land we sailed. The air grew colder, heavier. Dewier. When the first of the condensation started dripping down my glasses I knew we were in trouble. 

Cursing under my breath, I dropped to my knees and scrambled around under the deck for my extra rope. Grabbing it, I wound it tightly around the rudder and the railing to keep it on a steady course for the nearest island. There was supposed to be one a mile or two away in this direction. If I was wrong, we were as good as dead. 

How many times does that make this? Five? Ten? One hundred?

I jumped to my feet and slid across the slick deck towards the mast, hoping I’d make it in time. A gust of wind whooshed overhead. The ship wobbled so hard I slipped and hit the ground just as the first raindrops landed on the deck. Pain shot up my side. Maybe one of these days my hip will just shatter. 

I cursed again and pulled myself onto my bruised knees, crawling under the shelter with Persha, who I untied from the mast and held tight. 

The rain hammered against the tarp, buckets and buckets of rain. I squeezed Persha. We didn’t often get low-hanging storms, but when we did they normally turned catastrophic. Flash flooding, broken roofs and windows, snapped ropes and stranded islands. 

A puddle of water creeped its way into our shelter, dampening my jeans and making Persha snort in disgust. I pet her head to calm her. I wasn’t afraid. I was ready to succumb to whatever death these skies deemed me worthy of. I just hated the idea of not knowing what would be coming. 

A shrill whistling noise filled the air and I felt my face drain of color. 

“No,” I whispered. 

That was the typhoon alarm. 

Behind us. 

We’d missed the island. And we were about to enter a damn typhoon.

Scrambling for Persha’s leash, I reached behind me and wrapped it around the mast once, twice, three times. I had to think quickly. If we were lucky, we might be able to hit a small outcropping on the edge of the Archipelago. The boat could take most of the damage for us. Or drag us into the sea. But either way, being away from the ship would not be safe. 

I used the last few feet of rope to tie a knot around my torso. Then, with a yelp from my disgruntled companion, I wrapped both my arms and legs around my goat and squeezed for dear life. 

The first of the winds hit us like a howling beast. I could feel it stampeding, rampaging across the deck. It picked up anything I hadn’t tied down and threw it, crashing and booming, overboard. It yanked up the edge of our tarp and flipped it against the mast, baring us to the full force of the wind. The gale hit me in the face like an avalanche and pinned me to the wood. 

I gasped for breath as the wind stole it away, clinging tighter to my quivering animal. My vision went fuzzy from lack of oxygen, but I found I could breathe if I kept my nose and mouth inside my color. Persha’s head was turned away from the torrent. 

A current hit the broad side of the dinghy, swinging us wildly to the left. My head slammed against the wood.

Just my luck. I thought to myself as my vision faded. Just my luck. 

We careened around for what felt like hours as I struggled between unconsciousness and wakefulness, desperately holding onto Persha’s warm body. The wind came and went; icy rain splattered nonstop over the deck. My drip coat was a pitiful barrier between it and my skin.

When will this be over? I demanded, shivering. Just drop us in the sea already. 

As if some higher power was answering my thoughts, the deck dropped. We were going down fast. My stomach swooped and I bit on my tongue to hold back my cry. Persha’s scream pierced the air. 

The rain let up as we dropped closer and closer to the ocean. What a way to go. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the end. 

We tumbled, spinning. 

I could feel the end drawing near.

I could picture the sea reaching for us, ready to collect his dues.

If only I’d quit sooner. 

The boat careened across a hard surface and splintered. My teeth cut into my tongue with the shock, and this time I really did feel something crack in my hip as we careened to a stop. Persha squawked and writhed in my arms. 

My breath seesawed in my chest, pain making lights spark behind my eyelids. Was that dirt I was smelling? What the hell is going on?

The sound of wood cracking cut through the air and I gasped as the deck beneath us shifted. We shifted to the side at an alarming angle. We weren’t out of the woods yet. My arm shot out from beneath us and I scrambled at the ground, gripping stones and grass to try and tip us away from danger. It was futile, I could feel it. 

We’re not going to make it. 

But damn if I wasn’t going to try. My roar was whipped away in the dying wind, and with one last gigantic heave of my body, I felt the boat lean toward land.

The mast split completely and fell forward, dragging me and Persha with it. I could feel the rest of the boat falling away beneath us to the ocean. I had to brace my elbows against the ground to keep the mast from rolling onto us. It teetered but held firm on the grassy edge of the island. Persha moaned and fought my embrace, butting her head against my chin. I trembled with adrenaline.

We were safe. 

For a moment I laid there, stunned. Persha relented and settled in, too. My heart gradually stopped racing. The rain stopped. 

After a lengthy rest, I pushed myself into a sitting position and numbly untied us from the mast. Persha trotted away the second I’d released her, sniffing at the ground with curiosity and complaining about the water. My old body ached as I stood to assess our surroundings, my hip shouting at me the loudest.

I blinked once as sunlight broke through the mist of the clouds, making the dripping foliage glow. 

My jaw dropped.

In front of me was the largest expanse of meadows and trees I’d ever seen, rain-flattened clover stretching for miles. In the far distance was the craggy outline of a mountain range, lightning licking its highest peaks. We were standing at the top of a grassy knoll. And below us were hundreds of goats, fat and grazing lazily on the rich clover. 

My knees gave out as Persha scrambled down the hill. 

“Well, damn,” I whispered, pulling off my earmuffs and goggles. “It’s about time.”

A genuine smile broke my face in half. I shook my head, laughing in disbelief. 

“It’s about damn time.”