“Then it’s even stranger that no one’s guarding this place,” Emma said darkly. “I don’t like this at all.”
“I don’t either,” I said. “But I don’t see any other way across.”
“I might as well get it over with,” said Addison.
“We’ll come with you as far as we can,” said Emma.
“I appreciate that,” Addison replied, sounding somewhat less than extremely intrepid.
The bridge could be sprinted across in under a minute, I guessed, but why run? Because, I thought, a line from Tolkien materializing in my head, one does not simply walk into Mordor.
We started across at a brisk pace, murmurs and muted laughs following us. I glanced back at the squatters. Certain we were about to meet some grisly end, they were shifting around, angling for good views. All they needed was popcorn. I wanted to go back and pitch every last one into the boiling river.
In a few days we’ll have their drippings. I didn’t know what that meant and hoped I never would.
The bridge steepened. An encroaching paranoia was making my heart beat double time. I felt sure something was about to swoop down and we’d have nowhere to run. I felt like a mouse scurrying toward a trap.
In whispers we reviewed our plan: get Addison through the gate, then fall back to the shantytown and find somewhere unobtrusive to wait. If he hadn’t returned within three hours, Emma and I would find a way in.
We were coming to the crest of the bridge, beyond which I’d be able to see a small section of the downslope that till now had been hidden. And then the lampposts shouted:
“Stop!”
“Who goes there!”
“None shall pass!”
We stopped and gaped at them, stunned to realize they weren’t lampposts at all but desiccated heads impaled on long pikes. They were horrible, skin drawn and gray, tongues lolling—and yet, despite not being attached to throats, three of the heads had spoken to us. There were eight altogether, mounted in pairs on either side of the bridge.
Only Addison seemed unsurprised. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a bridge head,” he said.
“Go no further!” said the head on our left. “Almost certain death awaits those who cross without permission!”
“Perhaps you should say certain death,” said the head on our right. “Almost sounds wishy-washy.”
“We have permission,” I said, improvising a lie. “I’m a wight, and I’m delivering these two captured peculiars to Caul.”
“No one told us,” the head on the left said irritably.
“Do they look captured to you, Richard?” said the one on the right.
“I couldn’t tell you,” said the left. “Ravens pecked out my eyes weeks ago.”
“Yours, too?” said the right. “Pity.”
“He don’t sound like any wight I know,” said the left. “What’s your name, sirrah?”
“Smith,” I said.
“Ha! We don’t have a Smith!” said the right.
“I just joined up.”
“Nice try. No, I don’t think we’ll let you through.”
“And who’s going to stop us?” I said.
“Obviously not us,” said the left. “We’re just here to forebode.”
“And to inform,” said the right. “Did you know I took a degree in museum studies? I never wanted to be a bridge head …”
“No one wants to be a bridge head,” snapped the left. “No child grows up dreaming of becoming a bloody bridge head, foreboding at people all day and having your eyes pecked out by ravens. But life doesn’t always scatter roses at your feet, does it?”
“Let’s go,” muttered Emma. “All they can do is natter at us.”
We ignored them and continued up the bridge, each head warning us in turn as we passed.
“Step no further!” shouted the fourth.
“Continue at your peril!” wailed the fifth.
“I don’t think they’re listening,” said the sixth.
“Oh, well,” said the seventh airily. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
The eighth only stuck out his fat green tongue at us. Then we were beyond them and cresting the bridge, and there it came to a sudden end—a yawning, twenty-foot gap in the place where stone should’ve been, and I nearly stepped into it. Emma caught me as I reeled backward, arms pinwheeling.
“They didn’t finish the damned bridge!” I said, my cheeks flushing with adrenaline and embarrassment. I could hear the heads laughing at me, and behind them, the road squatters.
If we’d been going at a run, we wouldn’t have stopped in time and would’ve pitched right over the edge.
“Are you all right?” Emma asked me.
“I’m fine,” I said, “but we’re not. How are we supposed to get Addison across now?”
“This is vexing,” said Addison, pacing along the edge. “I don’t suppose we could jump?”
“No chance,” I said. “It’d be way too far, even at a full run. Even with a pole vault.”
“Huh,” said Emma. She looked behind us. “You just gave me an idea. I’ll be right back.”
Addison and I watched as she marched down the bridge. At the first head she came to, she stopped, wrapped her hands around the pike it was impaled on, and pulled.
The pike came out with ease. As the head protested loudly, she laid it on the ground, planted her foot on its face, and gave a mighty yank. The pike slid free of the head, which went rolling off down the bridge, howling with rage. Emma returned triumphant, stood the pike at the edge of the gap, and let it fall across with a loud metallic clang.