Manuel

Jerry Foster was wide awake. He could tell from the gentle sounds of the farmhouse that dawn some hours away. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep.

The room was almost entirely black, although he’d left curtains open. Jerry rolled over and began fumbling with his clothes. He went to the living room and turned on the TV; staring uncomprehendingly at the screen. Then, wrapping himself in a sweater Helena had knit him, he slipped through the door. Helena had always said night walks were the best thing for insomnia. The TV’s light spilled out the window into the yard: it would be nice to hear voices when he returned.

The darkness was near complete. Jerry sighed. Several times he tripped on weed tussocks and roots as he crossed the near field. How many years now since he’d sown it?

For a time he stood by the edge of the dusty track that passed for a road. It was barely visible in the gloom and seemed already to have lost the warmth it had absorbed during the day. Vaguely, he recalled the first time he’d driven Dad’s old wagon down the track, the first time he’d brought Helena to the farmhouse. The bounty they and the boys had loaded in the truck. With a sigh, he put the homestead, with its sagging roof and empty barn, behind him and sauntered toward the bridgehead.

 

The singing of water, swollen with spring freshets and echoing up the ravine walls, told Jerry he was nearing the bridge. It seemed closer than usual: time was, he and the boys had grown barley right up to the bridgehead. Now faint furrows were the only token of their labours.

The familiar creak of planks under leather shoes was just audible over the sound of the water far below. The old man stopped in what he thought was the middle of the bridge. What light there had been was gone.

Jerry stared into the blackness. The yawning emptiness extended itself toward him, inviting him to dive into its perfect, forgetful simplicity.

He stood for a long time, listening to the thousand voices of the giddy water where it played and splashed among the ancient pylons. The county would never repair them, but the boys had promised to come up from Capital City to help replace the rotten stanchions next summer.

“Just a few months, old girl,” Jerry whispered. “Then you’ll be right as rain.”

For a time he looked wistfully into the gloom. Occasionally he thought he could see the water glitter, but perhaps his eyes were just playing tricks.

On the far cliff something rustled. A stone came loose. It clicked on the scrapes and ledges before splashing into the flow: a hollow plunk washed downstream.

The sound was well known. Jerry and Helena had often taken the boys to drop fieldstones off the bridge. Were the stones still down there, smothered by the icy rush? Slowly rounding into sedimentary oblivion? Their particulate carried to the sea with a million million others like them? One day, thought the old farmer, this river, this same river that has enriched the soil for thousands of years, will carry my bridge, my farm, my ancestors, even Helena and me, out to sea and bury us in the depths.

Blackness welled up from the chasm. Jerry leaned over the wooden railing. The image of himself careering into that soft, all-enveloping blackness flashed before him. His hands trembled. He set a foot upon the railing. The bridge itself seemed to sway and groan. The planks creaked.

Jerry waited… nothing. He turned back to the blackness. Then-

“Are you alright?” The voice was firm yet concerned: strangely foreign, yet easily comprehensible.

“Huh?”

“I said, are you alright?”

“Huh? Who goes there?” Jerry realised his face was wet and quickly wiped his cheeks with a grimy sleeve.

“I do, I suppose. But now that I’ve answered your question, you ought to answer mine. Are you alright?”

Jerry stared into the darkness. He couldn’t make out the figure.

“Where are you?”

“Right in front of you.”

“How’d you get here?”

“I walked. …are you alright? It’s awfully late to be standing alone on a bridge.”

“I just came out for some air,” Jerry gruffed, pulling himself to his full height. The direction of the voice suggested a shorter man, someone who was no threat. “What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for lost sheep. I’ve been looking for three days. Have you seen any strays?”

Jerry shook his head. “Not on my farm. Who’s lookin’ for ‘em?”

“You mean, what’s my name?”

“Sure, we’ll start there.”

“Manuel.”

“What kinda name is that? You from down south?”

“You could say that.”

“‘Kay, well, I’ll let y’know if I see anything.”

Jerry was not much for conversation and speaking to a shadow was even worse. He looked back into the blackness swirling beneath the bridge.

“Do you live nearby?” asked Manuel after a time.

“Just over there,” Jerry waved into the darkness. Manuel seemed to understand.

“You mean the run-down looking place?”

Jerry flinched. “That’s the best dern farm in these parts. Time was it grew the finest barley this side of Saint Louis. But that was…” he trailed off.

“I’ve heard of Foster Farm, but not for some years.”

Jerry was silent. The swirling pitch clawed at him. To enter that simple, all-encompassing darkness, to fly through it…

“Do you need a farm hand?”

“Huh? What kind of a way is that to find work?”

“Conversation is an odd way to look for work?”

“No- I mean…I thought you had work.”

“I do. But I was only hired for the one job… and you just said you needed hands.”

“Did I?”

“Not in those exact words.”

Jerry peered into the river chasm. He thought of the overgrown barley-field, the mouldering byer, Helena’s now-weedy garden plot. “Can’t pay till harvest.”

“I can wait.”

“Never met a jobber who’d wait for pay.”

“Fair enough, but you’ve probably never met anyone on a bridge in the middle of the night either. You could use the help, I could use the work, and we could both use the company. Roving is lonely work”

Jerry gazed into the ravine. The darkness was receding. He thought he could make out the dim form of the escarpment.

“Alright then. You come by Foster Farm when you’re done finding your strays, and we’ll talk.”

The two stood in silence for a long time. Jerry half expected to hear Manuel creaking away, but the other seemed content to wait beside him, listening to the giddy water.

 

*                      *                      *

 

Constable MacAlistair looked at what had been the bridgehead. “What happened?” he said, pulling out his notepad.

“Uh, well, the lower stanchions were pretty rotten,” said the sergeant on duty.

“How d’you know?”

“One of the boys pulled up part of a beam,” he gestured to an eight by eight lying some way off. MacAlistair kicked it. The wood grains came off in his boot tread.

“Shoot, it’s pretty far gone. Anyone injured?”

“No one’s reported.”

MacAlistair glanced around. “Who lives there?” He pointed to a derelict farmhouse on the far side of an overgrown field.

“According to the locals, that’s Foster Farm. No one’s home, but the TV’s on.”

Down in the ravine the river splashed and laughed over the rocks, slowly carrying the remains of the bridge out to sea.