by Ryan Holden
Seasons came and went. The bridge stood through many storms. The fertility of Kirkwall flowed across the bridge. No longer did children go to sleep hungry: food there was, and that aplenty. The wealth and strength of Stromness flowed back. No longer did the old sleep under the sky: they had houses of stone.
But few things stand forever, and fewer still without aid or care. At long last the bridge went the way of this world and crashed. The townsfolk were distraught: no longer was it Kirkwall and Stromness, save in memory and lore. They were one, but one no more.
Many attempts were made to rebuild the bridge. Many attempts and valiant. But the man not thirty of before had left long before his bridge, and none of his workmen had the gift. At length the Master (a new one, for the old one had died in his sleep) commanded that his people no longer try, such was the waste. Some raised piles of rocks in his honor; others cursed his selfish desertion.
The spirit of man turned away to other ends. Bridging the ravine was no longer a possibility: it was a thing unfit, improper, as the folk of old should have known. A woman not eighty whose eyes were bright and many-wrinkled remembered as she sat in her stone house; but few others did.
- - -
“Father, I want to build a church.” A young boy sat perched on a wall beside a man at work. His heels bounced against the stone beneath him.
“A church you say? What sort of church?” the man asked. He was not overly tall but broad shouldered. His hands moved quickly, one holding a trowel, the other a bucket.
“A big one. A big, beautiful church. The biggest ever!” The boy smiled.
“That's a good thing to want, John. But maybe that's not what's needed. Not yet.”
John grew up watching his father build walls. They had the same name, John, and people often called him Little John. But as he grew, it just became John. By that time they were calling his father John Wall, so no one was confused.
When people thought of his father, they thought of walls. He had had a hand in almost all of them: from the walls around the royal cities of Whitehall and Everbay, to the great boundary wall of Skelwick built over many years. Even a wall to hold back the sea in Tankerness.
John always knew he would be a stone mason. There were no two ways about it. When he reached sixteen his father called him aside. “John, it's time to start your apprenticeship.”
John smiled. He had been as good as his father's apprentice for five, nay six, years now, except the Mason Guild did not recognize apprentices under sixteen. The rule was supposed to protect boys against masonry accidents, but unofficially had served to keep boys working for the powerful agricultural guilds that had apprentices as young as nine. Anything that needs to be learned can be learned on a farm, they said. Now he would officially be his father's—
“I spoke with a man today. You know him: the one who sits off to one side at the Guild meetings, in northern dress. He has agreed to take you on.”
“But Father—him? He's not a Master! I thought I would be apprenticed to you!”
“He is a Master, John. Our Guild is not above its rivalries and petty follies, and so it may be years before he is avowed as such. But I have seen his handiwork. You must learn of him.”
“His handiwork? I've seen his handiwork. Putting the quarries in a huff with all his orders. The man doesn't know how to work with what he's given.”
“Yes, he is an amateur with wet work. Does it matter? His apprentice will not need instruction there.” John pursed his lips. John Wall continued. “But he knows dry stone better than any other I've seen. And his creations, John, you should see them! My work is simple: all I've done is lived long at one trade and by fate or chance been in the right town at the right time for projects led by greater men.”
John looked at the ground. “It is decided, then?”
“Yes.”
“What if he does not become master?”
“You will serve him for five years. For the last two, he has agreed you may pick another Master if you will, and not stand in your way as a journeyman.”
Seasons came and went. Though the first year was hard, as John and the northern mason figured each other out, John began to see his father's wisdom in selecting this master. He did not think like the others, nor work like them. Once John accepted this, work became a joy once more.
John found pleasure in friendship as they passed stone from hand to hand or stepped back to look at a section of stonework. Not much was said, nor needed to. During one of these times, though, the northern mason said something of a bridge long ago: about its lines and its curves, its foundation and its trim, its beauties and its strength.
When he had first come south, rumors concerning his skill led to a lord commissioning him for the minor east gate. He finished it according to the terms. But his design did not fit, his being a dry stone arch as compared to the wet riprap of the other city gates, and the work was denounced as unfit, though not quite so unfit as to justify rebuilding it. He received no more commissions and repaired private residences for his daily bread.
John moved to another master for his sixth and seventh year. The northern mason had still not presented a masterpiece deemed worthy, and the other mason had lost his apprentice to the winter chill, so the unusual change was met with less resistance than was expected. The man was no master like his father and John began to hate the work. Any perceived fault was considered birthed from John's pride and judged harshly.
But John survived the two years and, part due to his father's stories, part due to the northern mason's hints, and part due to exasperation with the Guild he left the City to seek his work abroad. He wanted to build a church, at any rate, and his city already had one.
He walked from town to town, doing work he had been doing for years. Replacing broken stone with new, strengthening the walls of homes. He kept his ear open for church work but there was none. In one town, a consortium of merchants hired him to build a bridge. The spring floods had broken their wooden one twice out of the last three years and they had a mind to try something stronger.
He built in the fashion of the northern mason and moved on. More towns, more repairs. He avoided cities after finding that all work went through the Guilds: he was not ready to stand in line for his dole. The next year he built another bridge, smaller than the one before. But the year after that he built three.
His bridges lasted longer than wood bridges, took less stone than those made by others, and were sturdy enough for a troop of heavy horse. Folk took to calling him John Bridger and more often than not, before he was done one project, a messenger had come requesting him for the next.
One year he left off bridge making. No lord could find him. Maybe it was the Mason Guilds calling for their due; maybe it was the death of his young wife in childbirth, I know not why. Many weeks after his latest project John Bridger, arrayed in a green cloak with golden thread, came to the town of Kirkwall.
He walked through the town, eyes catching every gap in the crumbling stone houses. The main street had been paved once, but the cobblestone left jutted this way and that with acute danger for one's ankles. He did not stop.
John Bridger came to the ravine. He saw the pilings sticking out like an old crone's teeth, and cracked paving stone pointing the way to where the bridge of Orkney County once stood.
He spoke with the Master of Kirkwall. There was no money to rebuild, as the town was destitute. Besides, the bridge was a curse, and brought death. John Bridger spoke of the quarry, and of workmen, and of merchants he knew in towns not far south who would help. Still the Master said no.
John Bridger walked back to the ravine. An old woman stood there, leaning on a stick. She took in what little warmth the afternoon sun offered after the morning chill. He walked to her and nodded. She nodded in return.
He left the town and, with a shepherd boy's help, found a path for the long way around the ravine. He spoke with the Master of Stromness and heard much the same. No money. No brid
ge. No writ allowing any outsider to make one.
“It's no use. Nothing that is changed stays. Only what is, will ever be.”
John Bridger left Orkney and never returned.
John Bridger went back to building bridges. He gazed wistfully at churches he saw in the cities he lived in (for yes, Guild or no Guild, lords and mayors wished for his bridges) but he never built a church. He taught everything he knew to a young cousin of his, also named John, and spent his last years, when he could no more than hobble about, sitting at the fire in young John's absence.
Young John grew up and became Master. The land had no more need of bridges, for John Bridger's work still stood and sewed the land together like the thread of a miserly tailor. But Master John knew that what didn't fall under man would not fall upon man, and he crafted rooms of strength for many a lord.
An earthquake shook that part of the land. Buildings fell and several gates broke. The east gate the northern mason had made so long ago did not, and so the apprentice of his apprentice, Master John was given the commission to oversee Burwick's rebuilding, and rebuild it he did.
Before John Bridger died, he was brought to see what would become his Apprentice's greatest creation. The old church, or kirk, as they call it in that part of the world, had fallen and a new one was to be built. People wondered to see the old man's tears when gazing at nothing but an empty work site and a stack of stones. John Bridger knew what it would be, for he had dreamed it, spoken of it, and kindled the same dream in Master John.
Thirty years later, when the name of John Bridger was forgotten, the Kirk of Burwick stood complete.
- - -
Now I remember the bauble: a branch roughly carved in the shape of a man's hand. And well it was but a bauble, for anything carved by the hand of man is a breath of air, and soon passes.
Yet I am Recorder, and nothing that is done escapes my notice. Throughout the land and for centuries, the arches of Orkney county have spread, bringing men together to work and pray and lay their heads down in restful sleep, and I say—well, I am only Recorder.
A Note from the Author
I hope you enjoyed “The Arches of Orkney County.” I greatly appreciate any REVIEWS or REFERRALS you have time to provide for the work. If you're hungry for more, check out my 320-pager:
Tragic events jolt Orion away from all that is familiar in pursuit of a thief, a ring, and an answer. Desolate lands and desperate men bar his quest of a question he begins to wish he never asked. Secrets from his mother's past rise to haunt him: he is accused of the very crime for which he demands justice. Friend after friend fall prey in his shadow. In the murky light of clues left behind, he wonders if he can ever find home.
Experience the adventure at Two Queens. Cheers!
Ryan Holden
avgerini.com