The duel returns! (The Bridge at The End)
Seventeen years later, there he was. Seventeen years of studying in old, dust-ridden libraries, of wrangling himself into private collections, of chasing curators and collectors for the briefest glimpse of an artefact. Seventeen years of backstreet deals, leads chased into smoky bars and towns where a dead rat was a week-long attraction, of near misses by anything from knives to artillery shells, and it lay before him. Gazing upon the sand-swept stone with eyes near-blind from sun and books, his thoughts were drawn back to the words that had brought him here, after all these years.
“And thus with mine owne eyes havve I seen the bridge the Fire-Worshippers call Chinvat and the Mohammedans call Assirat, being the Bridge at the Ende of the World.” There followed a description of the bridge, but as is the case with things that men waste their lives on, precious little on where it was. This had discouraged him at first, but the thought of it, a work left behind by a God to guide his creations onward into the Beyond seeped slowly into his mind. Before long, it had blossomed into an obsession, drawing him from book to book, chasing oblique references across pages and borders, learning a dozen dead languages in the process. For half his life, he had journeyed, seeing endless bridges of every shape, size and colour, dotted across half the world. And yet, none lit in him the fire that every mention told him would burn in his soul if he looked upon this near-mythical bridge.
He felt it now, certainly. A warmth sizzled through every cell in his body, igniting his heart with something like love, his head with a deep sense of accomplishment and peace, and even, to his discomfort and embarrassment, his groin with a fierce hardness. The bridge, as his eyes saw it, did not seem much, roughly made of raw, uncut stone, but the more he looked, the more met the eye. The bridge itself was made from a single, seamless stretch of stone, while the pillars seemed to fall forever into the blackness of the ravine it crossed, while the other side of the chasm toyed with the eye and draw it away.
He breathed deep, nostrils catching something sweet from the other side, and then began the slow climb up the ramp to the bridge itself. There he stood for a moment, looking out across the length, shaking slightly as the formerly broad bridge seemed to dwindle to the breadth of a plank. He mentally shook himself and swung his leg forward, almost overbalancing as it stopped dead, muscles unable to cross the line from ramp to bridge. Suddenly, three ethereal figures seemed to spin themselves from the air, the sand and the bridge itself and blocked him with peacably raised hands. Somehow, without mouths or words, they conveyed that it was Not Yet Time.
The man gaped for a moment, but after another gesture from the guardians, turned and stepped slowly back down the ramp, the creatures dissolving back into the air behind him. As he sat down at the foot of a nearby boulder, he shrugged to himself. He could wait. After all, he had everything he wanted right here.
“And thus with mine owne eyes havve I seen the bridge the Fire-Worshippers call Chinvat and the Mohammedans call Assirat, being the Bridge at the Ende of the World.” There followed a description of the bridge, but as is the case with things that men waste their lives on, precious little on where it was. This had discouraged him at first, but the thought of it, a work left behind by a God to guide his creations onward into the Beyond seeped slowly into his mind. Before long, it had blossomed into an obsession, drawing him from book to book, chasing oblique references across pages and borders, learning a dozen dead languages in the process. For half his life, he had journeyed, seeing endless bridges of every shape, size and colour, dotted across half the world. And yet, none lit in him the fire that every mention told him would burn in his soul if he looked upon this near-mythical bridge.
He felt it now, certainly. A warmth sizzled through every cell in his body, igniting his heart with something like love, his head with a deep sense of accomplishment and peace, and even, to his discomfort and embarrassment, his groin with a fierce hardness. The bridge, as his eyes saw it, did not seem much, roughly made of raw, uncut stone, but the more he looked, the more met the eye. The bridge itself was made from a single, seamless stretch of stone, while the pillars seemed to fall forever into the blackness of the ravine it crossed, while the other side of the chasm toyed with the eye and draw it away.
He breathed deep, nostrils catching something sweet from the other side, and then began the slow climb up the ramp to the bridge itself. There he stood for a moment, looking out across the length, shaking slightly as the formerly broad bridge seemed to dwindle to the breadth of a plank. He mentally shook himself and swung his leg forward, almost overbalancing as it stopped dead, muscles unable to cross the line from ramp to bridge. Suddenly, three ethereal figures seemed to spin themselves from the air, the sand and the bridge itself and blocked him with peacably raised hands. Somehow, without mouths or words, they conveyed that it was Not Yet Time.
The man gaped for a moment, but after another gesture from the guardians, turned and stepped slowly back down the ramp, the creatures dissolving back into the air behind him. As he sat down at the foot of a nearby boulder, he shrugged to himself. He could wait. After all, he had everything he wanted right here.