(no subject)
The Bridge of Lost Stories
You, dear reader, from the world of free stories, may find it almost impossible to imagine the life of Amelia Gardenwood - the only daughter of the chief bridge-builder in the New Londonian Republic, where stories were forbidden. You see, until the day the Gypsies came, young Amelia had never even seen a picture of a book.
The Gypsies first arrived at the gates of the citadel on an otherwise innocuous Sunday afternoon, three weeks after Amelia’s twelfth birthday - not, of course, that Amelia had been permitted to celebrate such an occasion. The arrival of the caravans to the plains outside the city walls gave rise to a peculiarly understated disquiet - the Gypsies were the most feared of all peoples, for it was through them that the books had survived, and books were the source of all heinous things. Whispers soon crept along the cracks in the streets of the New Londonian Republic: keep your children inside, the murmuring said - beware, for the monsters have arrived.
Amelia had never been one for staying inside. The moment her father left for work (he had recently been commissioned to build a new Bridge of Sighs), Amelia began to scheme. She knew that if she clambered down the apple tree outside her father’s window, she could scuttle down the back-streets all the way to the great wall. She surmised that she was unlikely to be seen by any human eyes, but, nonetheless, she armed herself with a slingshot and a pocket of rocks - just in case. (You may or may not care to know that half-way between the window and the wall, Amelia mistook a cat for a spying boy, and shot it in the face with a pebble.)
For the first time in her life, Jay had been forbidden from entering a city. They were not intending to remain here long, her mother had said, for the people of the Republic were the most dangerous of all. Jay and her brothers were, therefore, under strict instruction to remain within the confines of the camp. This was not an edict that Jay felt particularly inclined to obey, and within hours of arriving at the forbidden city, she was creeping through the grass with an apple in one pocket and a book in the other.
Jay found the culvert by accident. Tiptoeing along the edge of the wall on a quest for the perfect reading spot, she tripped on a deceptively large tussock and landed upside-down in the well-concealed ditch. There was a moment of silence and then...
“Who are you?”
Jay swore, and then blushed. She sat up and stared through the grate. A strange face peered back at her. “Are you a savage?” Jay asked.
“No!” The face on the other side of the wall leaned back for a moment. Then it said, “I’m Amelia.”
Jay continued to stare - she had never seen such a fiercely ginger tangle of hair before now.
“Don’t you have a name?” The Amelia-face asked. Then, since Jay remained silent, she said, “Are you a Gypsy-monster?”
Jay shrugged. “I’m Jay,” she said. “And I’m not a monster if you’re not a savage.”
“What you doing here?”
“Reading.” Jay held up the book.
The Amelia-face frowned, and wrinkled her nose. “What’s that for?”
“It’s for keeping stories,” replied Jay.
Amelia leaned right up to the grate. “You can’t have stories,” she whispered. “They’ll hang you alive if you say a story here.”
Jay told Amelia not to be so utterly silly - then, after a momentary consideration, she asked whether Amelia would like to hear a tale.
Amelia shrugged, and then acquiesced.
Thus it was that Jay began to read in the city where stories were lost. She told of princesses and frogs, and of battles and love. She told a story of stray children, of gingerbread kingdoms and poisoned drinks. In a single page, she swept from the gardens of a great glass palace to the coffin of a lonely witch. When darkness fell, and Jay could no longer see the words, Amelia begged her not to stop.
“I must,” answered Jay, “but here-” She passed the book through the bars of the little drain. “Keep it.”
Amelia protested this, for the keeping of books was a hangable offence. In any case, as she told Jay, she couldn’t read.
“So learn,” Jay whispered through the culvert, “And hide it well.”
Amelia knew something about her father’s bridges - a fact that set them apart from all others. What she knew was that they were always hollow, and if you removed the correct brick, you could slip inside. She had asked her father about this once, and he had given her a complex and uninteresting explanation that related to the quality of sound when hoofbeats crossed the bridge at dawn. Amelia much preferred to think of such hollowness as a hiding-hole. It was here that Amelia hid the first book. The following morning, the gypsies had moved on. The snide street whispers turned to expressions of relief. Amelia remained silent on the matter.
It was almost exactly a year before the gypsies returned to the Republic, and when they did, Amelia crept down to the culvert with her slingshot and pebbles.
She hid the second book beside the first.
The New Bridge of Sighs stood for sixty-seven years and forty-two days before it collapsed. At the moment of the fall, an old woman had been standing beside a precariously placed brick, a book concealed in her pocket, beside a slingshot and a handful of stones. It was to be, if you are interested, the four thousandth book concealed in the bridge. The actual moment of the bridge’s death was swift and underwhelming - a fleeting rush of dust and air, and the benign rustle of a million scattered words.
The rest of the city simply walked on by.
This week's entry was written as an intersection with the wonderful and talented frecklestars.
Her piece, may be found here, and you should absolutely go and give it a read.
<3
Read the rest of Cemetaria:
The Graveyard: One | Two | Three | Four | Five
The Library of Myths: The First Myth | The Second Myth | The Third Myth | The Fourth Myth | The Fifth Myth
The Traveller's Tales: One | Two | Three
The Second Library of Myths: The First Myth | The Second Myth | The Third Myth | The Fourth Myth | The Fifth Myth
Tales from the Twin Glass Cities:
On the Bridge, by Beldar | The Straw that Stirs the Drink
Tales from the Storybooks:
Not a needle but a drink by Frecklestars | The Bridge of Lost Stories
You, dear reader, from the world of free stories, may find it almost impossible to imagine the life of Amelia Gardenwood - the only daughter of the chief bridge-builder in the New Londonian Republic, where stories were forbidden. You see, until the day the Gypsies came, young Amelia had never even seen a picture of a book.
The Gypsies first arrived at the gates of the citadel on an otherwise innocuous Sunday afternoon, three weeks after Amelia’s twelfth birthday - not, of course, that Amelia had been permitted to celebrate such an occasion. The arrival of the caravans to the plains outside the city walls gave rise to a peculiarly understated disquiet - the Gypsies were the most feared of all peoples, for it was through them that the books had survived, and books were the source of all heinous things. Whispers soon crept along the cracks in the streets of the New Londonian Republic: keep your children inside, the murmuring said - beware, for the monsters have arrived.
Amelia had never been one for staying inside. The moment her father left for work (he had recently been commissioned to build a new Bridge of Sighs), Amelia began to scheme. She knew that if she clambered down the apple tree outside her father’s window, she could scuttle down the back-streets all the way to the great wall. She surmised that she was unlikely to be seen by any human eyes, but, nonetheless, she armed herself with a slingshot and a pocket of rocks - just in case. (You may or may not care to know that half-way between the window and the wall, Amelia mistook a cat for a spying boy, and shot it in the face with a pebble.)
For the first time in her life, Jay had been forbidden from entering a city. They were not intending to remain here long, her mother had said, for the people of the Republic were the most dangerous of all. Jay and her brothers were, therefore, under strict instruction to remain within the confines of the camp. This was not an edict that Jay felt particularly inclined to obey, and within hours of arriving at the forbidden city, she was creeping through the grass with an apple in one pocket and a book in the other.
Jay found the culvert by accident. Tiptoeing along the edge of the wall on a quest for the perfect reading spot, she tripped on a deceptively large tussock and landed upside-down in the well-concealed ditch. There was a moment of silence and then...
“Who are you?”
Jay swore, and then blushed. She sat up and stared through the grate. A strange face peered back at her. “Are you a savage?” Jay asked.
“No!” The face on the other side of the wall leaned back for a moment. Then it said, “I’m Amelia.”
Jay continued to stare - she had never seen such a fiercely ginger tangle of hair before now.
“Don’t you have a name?” The Amelia-face asked. Then, since Jay remained silent, she said, “Are you a Gypsy-monster?”
Jay shrugged. “I’m Jay,” she said. “And I’m not a monster if you’re not a savage.”
“What you doing here?”
“Reading.” Jay held up the book.
The Amelia-face frowned, and wrinkled her nose. “What’s that for?”
“It’s for keeping stories,” replied Jay.
Amelia leaned right up to the grate. “You can’t have stories,” she whispered. “They’ll hang you alive if you say a story here.”
Jay told Amelia not to be so utterly silly - then, after a momentary consideration, she asked whether Amelia would like to hear a tale.
Amelia shrugged, and then acquiesced.
Thus it was that Jay began to read in the city where stories were lost. She told of princesses and frogs, and of battles and love. She told a story of stray children, of gingerbread kingdoms and poisoned drinks. In a single page, she swept from the gardens of a great glass palace to the coffin of a lonely witch. When darkness fell, and Jay could no longer see the words, Amelia begged her not to stop.
“I must,” answered Jay, “but here-” She passed the book through the bars of the little drain. “Keep it.”
Amelia protested this, for the keeping of books was a hangable offence. In any case, as she told Jay, she couldn’t read.
“So learn,” Jay whispered through the culvert, “And hide it well.”
Amelia knew something about her father’s bridges - a fact that set them apart from all others. What she knew was that they were always hollow, and if you removed the correct brick, you could slip inside. She had asked her father about this once, and he had given her a complex and uninteresting explanation that related to the quality of sound when hoofbeats crossed the bridge at dawn. Amelia much preferred to think of such hollowness as a hiding-hole. It was here that Amelia hid the first book. The following morning, the gypsies had moved on. The snide street whispers turned to expressions of relief. Amelia remained silent on the matter.
It was almost exactly a year before the gypsies returned to the Republic, and when they did, Amelia crept down to the culvert with her slingshot and pebbles.
She hid the second book beside the first.
The New Bridge of Sighs stood for sixty-seven years and forty-two days before it collapsed. At the moment of the fall, an old woman had been standing beside a precariously placed brick, a book concealed in her pocket, beside a slingshot and a handful of stones. It was to be, if you are interested, the four thousandth book concealed in the bridge. The actual moment of the bridge’s death was swift and underwhelming - a fleeting rush of dust and air, and the benign rustle of a million scattered words.
The rest of the city simply walked on by.
This week's entry was written as an intersection with the wonderful and talented frecklestars.
Her piece, may be found here, and you should absolutely go and give it a read.
<3
Read the rest of Cemetaria:
The Graveyard: One | Two | Three | Four | Five
The Library of Myths: The First Myth | The Second Myth | The Third Myth | The Fourth Myth | The Fifth Myth
The Traveller's Tales: One | Two | Three
The Second Library of Myths: The First Myth | The Second Myth | The Third Myth | The Fourth Myth | The Fifth Myth
Tales from the Twin Glass Cities:
On the Bridge, by Beldar | The Straw that Stirs the Drink
Tales from the Storybooks:
Not a needle but a drink by Frecklestars | The Bridge of Lost Stories