Bridges Ever After

A True Story by Debbie Frost

Perhaps you’ve heard a fairy tale about a kind, beautiful damsel who was swept off her feet by a gallant, handsome prince? Well, this fairy tale is about what happened after that, because it did not, after all, end Happily Ever After. Of course we always want to believe that it does, but nothing is ever really that easy. So, our beautiful Damsel and her handsome Sir were married, and in the years following they had two sons. The first son was named Prince, and the second son was named Fighter.

One day this lovely family set off into the woods to visit Damsel’s parents, who had yet to meet their darling little grandsons. Their castle was a three-day walk from the castle Sir had built for his family (which explained why this was their first trip, because who really wants to travel with two young children? But try explaining that to the in-laws...) On the first day, little Fighter found a small creek running along the path, and spent the entire morning playing in and around it. Damsel was not the least bit concerned about this, for not only had she watched Prince do much the same sort of thing when he was Fighter’s age, but many of the other children along the path that day were doing it as well. Furthermore, Fighter was simply at that age where he was exploring his independence, so such wanderings were to be expected. Damsel kept a close but unobtrusive eye on him, and when they stopped for lunch, she went to the creek to retrieve him.

Fighter, however, was happily engaged in watching a group of dancing frogs on the opposite bank, ankle-deep in the mud, of course, and refused to come to his mother when she called. Damsel was a bit put out, not to mention embarrassed, as he ignored her calls. The other children had all come running when their mothers called – whatever had Damsel done to deserve such a headstrong child? Her mouth tightened and she sighed dramatically. She turned and left Fighter to his play, confident that he would return once he got hungry. But all that afternoon, Fighter continued to walk on the opposite bank of the creek, which had grown quite a bit wider and deeper since they started their journey that morning. Damsel turned to Sir for advice.
“What are we going to do now? I’m going to have to wade half-way across just to get him back here, and we’ll both be soaked!”
Sir just smiled. “You’ve been through this before with Prince,” he replied. “And look how well he turned out! Just do the same thing that worked with him. Fighter just doesn’t want to get wet, so he’s hoping if he waits long enough you’ll go get him and carry him across.” Damsel knew that was perfectly logical, so she tried to stop worrying and simply continued along with the rest of her family – all the time watching Fighter across the creek from the corner of her eye.

By the evening of the first day, Damsel was very upset. Fighter was still on the opposite bank of the creek, which was now close to being a small river, and still showing no intention of wanting to come back across. As they set up camp for the night, she noticed that all the other children had made it back to their families. She tried very casually to ask the other mothers how they had achieved this, but none of the them had done anything very different than what she had already tried several times.
“Why I just waded in a few feet to show him how easy it was!” said one mother.
“I waved his supper in the air and told him if he didn’t come get it I would feed it to the dog,” said another.
A third replied “Oh I don’t put up with any of that – I told her to get her fanny over here or else she’d get the worst spanking of her life!”
Damsel returned to the edge of the water, where she could clearly see little Fighter pretending to ignore her on the opposite side of the creek. Damsel reasoned with Fighter, she cajoled him, she threatened him, she waded in a few feet just to show him how easy it was, and still he refused. When he started to scream hysterically and motion that he wanted to be picked up, she lifted her skirts and stepped up to her knees into the cold water, intending to cross the creek and carry him back by force if necessary.
She had barely reached the middle of the creek, though, when an ugly little man (who may have actually been a troll) grabbed her arm and shouted to her “Where do you think you’re going? If you go over there and get him, what’ll that teach him? That he can do whatever he wants because his Mommy will always come save him and do all the work for him? And what about your other boy? He’s back there being so good, waiting for you to quit messing around with the bad one and come tuck him in and give him his goodnight kiss! What are teaching him, hmm? That being bad and throwing a fit is the way to get Mommy to pay attention to him?”

Damsel was speechless. Of course she knew that Fighter did need to face challenges to learn that he was strong enough to face things on his own, and she knew the rule about ignoring bad behavior, but surely that didn’t extend to leaving her child alone in the woods by himself all night! Her determination wavered as she looked from the ugly little man who sneered up at her, to her little son, who was crying on the bank just a few feet away. Finally she glanced back at the other side and saw that the entire camp was watching her. Blushing, she made frantic motions to her son to come to her, but when he simply screamed louder and stomped his feet, she quietly made her way back to camp. She gave Prince his goodnight kiss and tucked him in, soothing his worried questions about his brother, and spent a restless night waiting for her youngest son to quit being so stubborn and come back to them.

The next morning found them still on opposite sides of the creek, though. Fighter was no longer crying, so Damsel was hopeful that he was done with his little game, but as she left camp, he was still wandering along the other side of the creek. The other mothers along the path sensed her shame.
“He’s just testing you,” one of them said reassuringly, patting her arm.
“Some kids are just stubborn that way,” said another, smiling kindly.

When they stopped for lunch at midday, Damsel was alarmed to see that the creek was now definitely a river – too deep to wade across, with a fast current. Even if he were now willing, Fighter could never make it across by himself.
“Well, what now?” she asked Sir defiantly.
He again smiled at her. “You’ll have to build a bridge,” he said. “You’ve done that before, too, with Prince.”
“Yes, of course,” Damsel replied “but never when Prince was too young to help with the building!”
“Oh now,” reasoned Sir, “he’s not too young or else he would never have gotten himself into this situation! Besides, plenty of other kids his age help with the bridge-building.”
Damsel stormed off – of course, Sir would have to stay with Prince, which left her with the task of building the bridge. When she reached the bank to see that Fighter was standing on the other side, now not only screaming at her, but swearing and insulting her as well, she felt even angrier.
“I KNOW YOU’RE STUCK!” she shouted at him. “You ungrateful.... if you had just come across yesterday like I’d TOLD YOU, you wouldn’t be in this situation! Now we have to make a bridge and it’ll probably take the whole afternoon!”

In fact, Damsel spent the rest of the day and nearly all of the evening starting bridges. No matter what she did, though, Fighter would not start building a bridge on his side. Damsel shouted instructions across to him, she demonstrated how to start, she abandoned several locations for better ones, she reasoned, she cajoled, she threatened. In response, Fighter screamed, then pouted, screamed, threw things, screamed, cried, screamed, napped, and then screamed a bit more just for good measure. Exhausted and completely demoralized, Damsel dragged herself into camp that evening and collapsed into her husband’s arms.
“What am I doing wrong?” she sobbed.
“Nothing,” her husband replied, now sounding worried. “You did everything you could.” The other mothers in the camp had, of course, been watching her efforts closely, and were now listening, and they jumped in and agreed with Sir.
“Yes, yes, you’ve done everything we do!”
“You’ve tried all things we can think of!”
“We can’t imagine why he won’t respond!”
“Are you sure he’s not... well, are you sure he’s normal?”

Later that night, after a very worried Prince had been kissed goodnight and tucked into bed, and after everyone else in camp had gone to sleep, Damsel crept quietly to the creek. She intended to complete the bridge herself while no one was watching – she was so desperate at this point she didn’t care what kind of lesson it might teach her son. She simply wanted him back. But once again that ugly little man (who was probably a troll) stopped her just as she reached the half-way point of the bridge.
“Stupid, foolish woman!” he moaned. “You can’t build a bridge that way! It’ll never work! Everyone knows you have to have at least two people working on a bridge, one on the one side, and one on the other side! You’re going to wind up with an unsafe bridge that’ll collapse and kill you both!” Damsel started crying again as she realized he was right – she had never heard of anyone building a bridge from only one side, and she certainly didn’t know how to do it. She gazed for a little while at her precious son, curled up asleep against a tree root. Then she made her way back to her tent and cried herself to sleep.

The morning of the third day dawned bleak. As Damsel made her way to the bank of the river to check on her son, she realized that sometime in the night she had lost hope of ever getting him back to her side. Some of the other mothers even confirmed the hopelessness of the situation, telling her tales of their mother’s friend’s cousin who had a child who spent his entire life in the attic, watching the rest of the family and sometimes speaking with them, but never coming down to actually join in.
“It just happens sometimes,” one said.
“Yes,” agreed another, “Nothing you can do about it now,” implying, of course, that if Damsel had only handled things better two days ago all of this could have been avoided.
“And really,” one woman tried to reason, “kids like that – so dirty and noisy – aren’t really worth the effort. Is it really that great a loss?”

Throughout that day, Damsel stayed close to the river, which slowly became wider. The banks steepened, and by midday there was a huge gorge between Damsel and Fighter. Damsel continued to keep her son as safe as she could, considering the situation – she was still his mother, after all – and she tried once or twice to start a bridge, but she would quickly stop when it became clear that Fighter wasn’t making any attempts to help her. Mainly she just walked, feeling dejected and quite sorry for herself. She did miss her son. Sometimes she would gaze across the gorge, but the little boy on the other side had been there so long he didn’t even look very much like her sweet, dear Fighter. Was that angry, sullen creature over there even worth all the work it would take to build halfway across this huge gorge? Damsel wasn’t sure anymore.

They had been so slowed down that they did not quite arrive at the castle of Damsel’s parents before dark that evening. They decided to rest and arrive early the next morning instead. Damsel gave Prince, who didn’t even bother to ask about his brother this time, his goodnight kiss and tucked him in, and laid down to sleep. As she lay there, she found she could not get comfortable no matter how much she wiggled and turned. Finally she lifted her blankets and found a little rock. It was blue, and very smooth, and fit perfectly in her palm when she closed her hand around it. It reminded her of Fighter. He liked rocks – no doubt that fascination was what had drawn him to the creek in the first place. She decided to go throw this rock across the gorge to him, just to let him know she was still thinking of him. When she got to the edge of the gorge, however, someone else was already there.

It was an old Lady, dressed all in white, wearing a fancy hat and delicate white gloves on her hands. She was gazing across the gorge at Fighter. She had an odd expression on her face – part joy, part confusion, part deep sadness. There were tears forming at the corners of her eyes.
When she heard Damsel approach, she said quietly “Do you see that beautiful, precious, darling little boy over there? He reminds me so much of my little boy.” Damsel had to look across the gorge to see who the Lady might be talking about, for surely it was not her son – so sullen and angry, mean-tempered and desperately in need of a bath! Yet there was no other little boy around. Damsel looked back at the Lady, but before she could even think of what to say, the Lady continued.
“My little boy’s hair was just like that! And oh, did he love to play by the creek at that age! Seems like he was always at least as dirty as that little boy over there.” The Lady paused, but still Damsel could not think of a thing to say. It was just so odd to hear anyone speaking of her son, who had been supremely unlovable for quite some time now, in such a loving way.
“My boy, he died in the war,” the Lady said, her voice breaking.
“Oh!” Damsel breathed, her heart flooding with sympathy. “I’m so sorry.” She looked down, even more uncertain of what to say than ever. Damsel knew that men often died in wars, and for an instant she thought of Sir. Did this Lady’s son go to fight a war, leaving behind a mourning wife and children? Would Sir do the same?
She asked the first question that came to mind. “Uh... how old was he?”
The Lady’s voiced was so choked she could not speak, so she motioned with her hands how tall her son had been when he’d died – not a grown man, like Sir, but a young boy, no older than Prince. Not a knight fighting in a war, but a victim in a war. Tears began to flow down Damsel’s face, too. She looked up at the Lady, and their eyes met and locked – the young mother and the old mother sharing the secret that only mothers know.

The timeless moment was finally broken by the harsh whisper of the Lady’s voice. “Why?” she asked, so softly that Damsel could barely hear her. Damsel immediately knew what she was asking, but her pride tried to hide it.
“Um, why what?” she asked, wiping the tears from her face and looking away.
The Lady’s tears continued to flow. She did not repeat herself. She simply maintained her gaze, and her intense eyes demanded an answer.
Damsel shifted uncomfortably. “I tried!” she defended, “I really did! I did everything I was supposed to do, I did what the other mothers did, I did what my husband suggested... Fighter just doesn’t... he...” Damsel’s voice cracked as her deepest fear escaped from her heart. “He doesn’t even want to come back!”

Still the Lady said nothing. She simply looked into Damsel’s eyes, tears continuously flowing from her own, down her cheeks and onto her dress.

“I can’t,” Damsel whispered. “I just can’t do it anymore. I’m so tired, it’s too hard – dammit I don’t deserve this!” The last part she screamed, leaning aggressively towards the Lady, who did not move - she did not even flinch.

At last she spoke. “No mother ever does,” she responded. Damsel fell back, stumbling to the ground, too shocked even to cry. Her mouth gaped as she glared up at the Lady.

“Mother,” the Lady said, and though her voice was not loud, it was firm, and it demanded every ounce of Damsel’s being. “You would willingly give your own life for that of your child. Yet you refuse to give up your Pride for the sake of your child? You refuse to give up your Anger? You refuse to give up your Fear?”

An entire minute passed, their gazes locked, before Damsel realized that the Lady was actually expecting her to answer. At first she could only shake her head. Then she stammered “N-no. I-I would.” Her voice strengthened as she said the words. “I would give up those things for my child.” The Lady’s gaze deepened; Damsel felt as though the Lady were reading the truth in her soul. Then the Lady’s expression softened a little, and her lips curled upward ever so slightly, and she said “Mother, your son is there.” One withered hand in its delicate white glove pointed across the huge gorge. “Mother, your son is waiting for you. MOTHER, GO GET YOUR SON.”

Damsel scrambled to her feet and ran to get her bridge-building tools and supplies. She once again began building a bridge, but for the first time, she was not building it with anger, or fear, or shame. She felt only love for her son, and it made the work so much easier. She was almost halfway done when that ugly little man (who was definitely a troll) appeared once more. This time he was so upset he was frothing at the mouth, his words almost incoherent. Damsel looked around for the Lady to help her, but she had somehow slipped away without Damsel noticing. Damsel felt a moment of hesitation – did the Lady believe so little in this cause that she could not even stay to see it through? If the Lady didn’t believe... did Damsel? Then the ugly little man shouted at her again, and Damsel finally saw him for the troll he really was.

Damsel did what everyone knows is the only real way to deal with a troll – she ignored him. He stood behind her for some time while she worked, ranting and raving, and of course, drawing a huge audience. Damsel continued to ignore him, and the audience as well – many of whom still did not recognize the troll for what he was and who often encouraged and agreed with him. After a while though, the troll began to tire and his ravings degenerated. Finally he just wandered off, and most of the audience followed soon afterward.

As Damsel worked, she found herself enjoying building this bridge in a way she had never enjoyed this sort of task before. She was trying new things, using new techniques, and had dozens of ideas for new tools. She had always been taught that building bridges was a chore, but this time it was actually a bit fun. She felt that she might even finish before dawn.

By the time it was past the point of “very late at night” and well into “very early morning,” Damsel was becoming tired – she had spent the past three days walking, after all, and a lot of that time working on bridges to boot. So far she hadn’t stopped for a break, not even for a drink of water. Just when she was beginning to think she would have to stop, she heard footsteps behind her. She looked up to see Sir, watching her with a cautious expression on his face, a glass of water in one hand and a ham sandwich in the other.

“I’m not stopping until I get my son,” she told him defiantly. He smiled and shrugged in a non-committal sort of way.
“Okay,” he said, and offered her the water. She took a drink.
“I know you think it’ll all turn out okay no matter what I do, but I’m his mother, and at this age, I still know what’s best for him, dammit!” Sir shrugged again.
“Okay,” he said, and offered her the sandwich. She took a bite.
“I wuv you,” she told him with a full mouth. He kissed her cheek.
“I love you, too.”

Damsel was over two-thirds of the way done with the bridge when it began to get light outside. She had a moment of despair when she realized that she was not going to make her goal of finishing before sunrise, but she brushed it aside as she remembered that was not the point. For the first time in hours, she looked up to see what Fighter was doing. He sat near the edge of the gorge, shyly stealing glances at her. She asked, with no expectations, if he would like to help. He jumped up, screamed “NO! I HATE YOU!” at the top of his lungs and ran off. Damsel smiled, shook her head and sighed, and went back to work.

It was nearly lunch time when Damsel realized she was almost out of tools. Having anticipated a problem earlier, she had already borrowed what tools she could from Sir and any of the other mothers who were willing to offer them (few though they were). She had used her best ideas and her good ideas and even tried some of her truly-awful ideas (with interesting results). The fact was she simply did not have all the tools she needed to get this job done.

As her last tool cracked and broke, Damsel began to wail in despair – this time she had truly done everything she could, had given it everything she had, and it was just not enough. The gorge was too wide. If only she had finished one of her earlier bridges instead! Her tools would have been enough to complete a smaller bridge, but the gorge was now too wide and deep.

Then Damsel felt a light tap on her shoulder. She turned and saw Prince standing beside her.
“What do you need dear?” she asked, trying to steady her voice and wipe away her tears.
“It’s okay, Mommy,” Prince said as he bent down and gave her a hug. As he rose he placed something heavy in her hands. “You can use my tools, too.”

Prince stayed for a little while to help her get used to the new tools, some of which she had never even heard of, much less used. Once she got the hang of things, though, she asked him to go and let her finish her work alone. She was getting close now. When she looked up at Fighter, she could see the color of his eyes, staring out from under his lashes as he pretended not to be watching her. On a whim, she laid herself down at the edge of the bridge and reached her hand across. She fully expected him to run away again, or at least scream at her. As she lay there, eyes closed to ease the vertigo, the wind blowing at her hair and skirts, she felt something lightly brush her fingers. She opened her eyes and saw Fighter, tightly grasping a tuft of grass and leaning out over the gorge to try to grasp her hand.

Damsel’s heart leapt with renewed hope. She was nearly there! She hammered down the last few boards as quickly as she could. When she finally placed the last nail, she felt her body go limp with relief and exhaustion. Then her little boy flung his arms around her neck and wrapped his legs around her waist and somehow they were both laughing and crying at the same time. Oh, how could she ever have forgotten how wonderful this little boy was? How could she ever have considered leaving him over here? He was filthy, and sometimes rude, and often lost his temper, and he occasionally screamed swear words even Sir had never used, but he was her beautiful, perfect son, and she loved him, and she would truly give anything for him.

Rejuvenated, she stood with Fighter still in her arms and carried him back to the other side. Sir and Prince joyfully ran to meet them halfway across the bridge. As they finally sat together as a family on the same side of the gorge once again, the Lady approached them. She did not speak, but merely held out a closed hand to Damsel. Damsel held open her palm and felt something drop into it. The Lady, smiling, turned and walked away. Damsel opened her hand, and saw the smooth, blue rock that had kept her awake the night before. She had forgotten about it. She must have dropped it sometime the night before.
“Ooo, Mommy,” Fighter cried. “That’s a pwetty wock! Can I have it?”

Damsel grinned and hugged him tight. “Of course you can,” she replied, “I brought it just for you.”

Did they live Happily Ever After? Of course not.
But they did Remember Ever After that no matter what, everyone in the family sleeps on the same bank at night.
And Ever After they built lots and lots of bridges, in lots of new, exciting, crazy ways.