Beyond the Bridge
Some houses are like great Gothic novels, complex and confusing, a refuge to hidden emotions. Their presence seems to weigh heavily upon all who enter. Conversation is always in a whisper. Old houses, after all have ways of hearing. Candlewycke was just such a house. It sat quietly, with a physical air of solitude in the woods,on a small hill overlooking a meandering river at the other end of the bridge. The river had a name and like all rivers belonged to many areas. It had a history of its own but none of that is important. The river, as far as the house was concerned was simply a barrier separating the town from the woods. It may has well have been a medieval mote. The bridge however had no name, at least none anyone could remember. It was simply the bridge and it crossed the river at a narrow point following a line that ran from the heart of town to Candlewycke. Few people bothered to cross that bridge. The only thing on the other side of the river was the old house and the woods. Over the years photographers came from the city to take pictures of the fall foliage and the quaint buildings that made up the little town and of course photographs of the bridge. It could have been a historical treasure. Few covered bridges have survived the passing of time and none were as singularly impressive as this one. Oddly enough, the photographers never seemed to get around to taking any pictures at the bridge and when asked later, could only respond with a curious shrug of the shoulders. They simply didn’t know why.
When Candlewycke was built many years ago by a family from Norway, or Sweden it varied depending on whom you asked the town was still new and catered to the local logging industry. The family had a name, but most people just called them the family, as if there were some quality that set them apart from other families, which of course there was but you will have to wait to find out why. You will be impressed though, I promise. Their arrival brought a new wave of prosperity . Times were good. But times change.
The logging industry faded and the town withdrew within itself the way so many small towns do. Soon, they began to draw in tourists who came to the mountains for the air or the leaves or the antiques. Department stores made way for a lot of antique shops; for a while there 12 stores selling antiques on main street. There were only 15 building in town to begin with The town survived on the commercial viability of old things, becoming old itself in the process.
Once a week, the Family would come to town, engaged in private business with the local law firm, which was itself only an extension appendage of the family and of the house over the bridge. They would leave in a crowded station wagon; passing through town, down the road and across the bridge. People stared, asked curious questions and promptly forgot what they were talking about and went on with their business.To say the family was "forgettable" would be an understatement!
The Bridge! We keep coming back to the bridge and we have yet to learn anything about the house. There is a reason. The two are connected in a way that defies logic. Well, if we are to understand anything about the house and the family we must begin with the bridge. Unlike most covered bridges which are built with panels or lattice sections this one was built of individual trees whose branches had been stripped leaving behind straight towering columns, four of them, two on either side of the river to which was added a long roof, sides and a floor of heavy oak planks every inch of which were carved with intricate, figures in the style one might associate with old Norse mythology