It was early afternoon, and we were taking our usual walk along the river. The sky was thick as cream, the sun a muted disc somewhere behind. When we arrive at the strip of sand leading up to the bridge, I see a small group in the distance. As we get closer, I see that it is a man and two young boys. They are setting up fishing poles.
Around us, the tide is rising rapidly. Boats that only moments before sat with their bellies on the bedrock began to float. I hear a loud squawk and then a splash, and turn to see a sleek brown duck flapping wildly, a silver fish squirming in its beak. The two boys by the bridge yelp in surprise, hoping they’d be just as lucky.
Ever been fishing? my companion murmurs, hand slipping into mine. Once, I reply. Years ago. I threw out the line just like they told me, but afterwards, I couldn’t find it in the water. Then I realized the hook was lodged in my thumb. So deep inside the flesh it didn’t even hurt. But I cried anyway. From the shock, I guess. Then I held up my left thumb to his face. Look closely, I said. You can still see the hole. There: it’s small. I see it, he says, pressing his lips to the faded scar.
More yelps. The boys were throwing bait at each other. One was dressed in blue, the other in yellow. The man is laughing. Now that we are closer I see that his hair is thin and white, his skin stained and folded. He is too old to be their father, I realize. Perhaps their grandfather. We are halfway to the bridge.
A couple walks by, offering a brief greeting as they pass us. They are wearing matching sweatshirts with the name of the town printed on the front. I wonder if they are tourists or locals. When they step onto the small wooden bridge, it immediately begins to rattle. The woman grabs at her lover desperately. He puts an arm around her and they walk across together, slowly. It is a very short bridge, only a few paces across, but famous for being rickety, earning it it’s name: The Wiggly Bridge. Just before the couple steps off on the other side, the boy in blue jumps onto his side of the bridge and begins to bounce up and down. An enormous rattling fills the air, thundering across the river, sending a fock of geese squawking into the sky. The woman shrieks and trips over herself, nearly falling, but her lover catches and steadies her. Then he glares at the boy. The boy falls silent, but his brother is giggling loudly. The grandfather says hastily – Sorry! – and they all turn back to their fishing poles without another word. The couple disappears into the woods beyond.
Let’s get across quickly, my companion says. I nod. We approach the fishermen warily, hand in hand. I keep my head down, but he is glaring at them. They don’t seem to notice. I think I got one! the boy in yellow cries. He is struggling with his pole, which is clearly too long for him. Reel it in! says his grandfather. We pass them without incident, and step onto the bridge. It shifts unsteadily from side to side underneath my feet. As we cross, the rattling intensifies, until everything else around me is drowned out: the cries of the birds, the rush of the river, the yelps of the boys. Nothing but the thundering of the bridge, an earthquake suspended over water. In my terror I let go of his hand, and although I am aware of his presence somewhere behind me, suddenly it is just me and the bridge. I stare at my feet, clad in pink flip-flops and silver toe rings shaped like shells, placing them one in front of the other. Almost there, almost there, I breathe.
And then it happens. So quickly that it is over before I even realize it.
A piercing shout. Then another. Then – I think – my name. Annie. ANNIE.
I spin around. In front of me, from far to near: the narrow strip of sand with the tide closing in. The two boys, their grandfather beside them, their eyes now changed. Was it fear? The bridge, rising up around me like a skyscraper, now still and soundless. The closest image is of him: face twisted in terror, shouting my name. Annie. ANNIE.
The last thing I see: he turns towards me, face contorted, ducking on instinct. Behind him, there is something like lightning. And I know, I know inside me that thunder will follow. But it is too fast. Listen: it is already here. The whistle of the line whizzing through the air. Another shout. Look out! Something wrapping around my skull. A sharp crack as it whacks the bone. Thunder in the air, lightning before my eyes.
Then silence falls again. I close my eyes too, and darkness follows.
