Raven's Bridge

“Hurry up,” he said, “We’re almost there.”

She huffed and puffed up the hill, smiling all the time. When she was next to him, he put his arm around her waist and their eyes met for a second, but then they looked around to take in the surroundings. It was the peak of an autumn afternoon, and the light and the leaves were golden. The forest was old and heavy. Everything glistened from the recent rain. Below them, a forest valley lay open.

They were wearing warm sweaters and rain jackets, carried sturdy backpacks with extra socks, ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and a thermos of hot coffee each. It was their second trip together.

”The bridge is just down there,” he said, “And if it isn’t, we’re lost.”

They walked the ridge, he lead the way. They looked under their feet, careful not to trip or slide down.

”I don’t mind getting lost,” she said. “I love being in a new city and not knowing where I am. I sometimes take a few turns without paying attention, like, you know, on purpose.”

After about half-hour, they reached the bridge. It was really old, wide enough for two people to walk arm in arm. “Back in the day, you could probably walk a horse or a pack mule across,” he said. Then he pointed at the old wooden sculptures at the top of the railing. There were eight, badly worn by the weather across the ages. “These are the raven statues that this bridge is named after. Nobody knows who made them."

"They look nice. I would like to have something like that in the house. Although you can hardly tell it’s supposed be a bird. It’s like a lump of wood.”

They walked to the middle of the bridge holding hands. They stopped to admire the valley below.

”I wonder if the artist knew,” she said, “That they will wear out like this. I wonder if he thought they will outlast him, but still one day they will disappear.”

He shrugged. He was looking at a couple of deer in the valley below. They were making their way through the thick undergrowth.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk