I stood, looking across the bridge. Such a strange place sat at the beginning and the end of it, I couldn’t help but wonder where it came from. The moon sat full and still in the sky. With a small ember of curiosity and perhaps, hope, I stepped forward. Te cold, soft breeze against me, hugged my arms and drew tight my green wool coat. My eyes widened and with each step the place grew stranger and stranger.
At the beginning of the dark-wooden bridge I came across soft lights, hanging down from renaissance themed theater booths. Men and women stood regal in motley attire, reciting sonnets or bestowing some old, flowery monologue. The floor of every booth was covered in soft, beige sand and the painting in the back was always that of what looked like a New England beach, but from a child’s fairy tale. What was even more curious was the crowd who leant ear to these actors. Surveying a group, I would see everything from plump, rich women – full of pomp and covered in jewels, to thin and wayward homeless men who, despite their appreciation for the arts, never quite made it through the requirements of life.
As I stepped further toward the bridge, I noticed one last booth. It had the same look to it as the others had, but nobody was watching the single little girl on the stage. She stood with her back pressed against the wall, far stage-left. Dressed in what one could assume were once rich, lacey garments she dutifully recited her lines, filling in for the absent actors when their parts came up. Her voice was small, almost blending in with the soft, gypsy melodies that lazily blew across from the other side of the bridge.
I crossed the bridge. On either side, people leaned on the railing; sipping drinks, conversing in low murmurs, and regarding the night sky. Their quiet talk was not that of gossipers or schemers, but of those who are content in their temporary world, eager for nothing, and enjoy the gift of good company. When I reached the far end of the bridge I found an open spot on the left, and I peered over. The water of the vast inlet that connected to the sea past slowly underneath, and a single, black catfish swam sideways in the current. A greenish glow came up from the sandy floor and I stood, taking it all in.
After what felt like hours, I walked to the other side of the bridge. A small market place ran its tempting fingers through my hair, each shop front sporting some never-before-seen once-in-a-life-time thing. Finally I came across one store, and because of its beauty I entered. It had a high, dome ceiling with two beams running through it. The entirety was tiled in small, paper squares colored like old sandy cobblestone. The shop glowed with an inner light of which I couldn’t find the source.
“May I help you today?” inquired an old, curly-haired woman. I barely regarded her.
“Oh, no thank-you. Tell me, how long have you worked here?”
“Oh” she chuckled “not but three days. I heard of the work Monday, worked Tuesday, and here we are on Wednesday”. She smiled again.
“Do you have to put the ceiling back together again every time you move the store?”
“Really, child, I don’t know. I’ve worked here but three days. Now, is there anything I can help you with?” unsatisfied, but not at all upset I answered “No, no thank you. I really have not interest in this….stuff.” I said, motioning to the pastel silk shirts. She walked away and I left the store.
I found myself again at the booth where the young actress had been. It was closed down now, thick curtains, one red and the other deep purple, hid the stage from sight. I felt pity for the girl. She really wasn’t that bad at recitation and, surely it doesn’t feel good to have no one take interest in your play. I knocked on the wood frame and after a few minutes of banging and the sound of pots falling, a dirty faced old man peeked out from the left side of the curtain.
“What you want?” he asked. His accent spoke of an old and poor district of England.
“Well, I was hoping to congratulate your daughter on her performance. It was really quite good.”
“Ha” the man laughed “Pretty funny, what wif me not ‘aving a daughter ‘n all.”
“your granddaughter, then?”
“Nah.” He turned his head over his shoulder “Oi! Bring out Broodertrude!” again, after a few minutes of crashing around, a hand produced a small, blue parrot. I looked at the parrot, then at the man. “Broodertrude?”
“That’s her name, ‘innit.” He said. “She never brings in any money wif ‘er plays ‘n such. You can have ‘er if you want.”
“But, wasn’t it a young girl who gave the recital?” I asked. The old man grinned. He twiddles his fingers above the bird and made a rather wobbly whistle, and a ‘poof’. Then he whispered “magic, son.” He closed the curtain abruptly and left me listening to his hearty laughter and a parrot on my shoulder.
“Well, Broodertrude” I said as she regarded me with curious, beady eyes “I guess well go on home.”
I awoke.
