The Bridge To Nihon (BOOK ONE)

Chapter 1 - The House at the Bridge

Bridges are meant to be crossed, aren't they? 

And yet, the bridge in the village where Sofia lived was never crossed, not by herself nor by anyone she knew. Bridges unite, yes, but first, there must be a division. In this case, the division ran so deep that the bridge might as well not have been there.

The land beyond the bridge was called Nihon, and this side of the bridge didn't have a name, because it was the world people lived in, and what is all around does not need to be named, it just is. The people in Nihon probably had a name for it. But on this side, people didn't find it necessary to know it.

Next to the bridge stood an old house. In fact, it was so close to the bridge that they even shared a few stone blocks, and the house was a part of the bridge to the point that, if the bridge would crumble, the house would surely perish, too. But the old bridge was sturdy and solid, and it had that timeless feeling that gives some people the creeps and some people solace.

This was where Sofia lived with her Aunt Sybil and Uncle Tomas. It was the only home she knew. At least, it was the only home that she could remember, and the routine of the house was ingrained in her like a kind of useless muscle memory.

Every morning at daybreak, Aunt Sybil climbed to the top floor of the house where she spent most of the day. She was the Guardian of the Bridge, and she took this duty as seriously as she took everything else. Sofia's aunt was a sharp and intelligent woman, which showed in her face that looked as if it had been carved from a particularly unyielding block of marble. Even her body was lean and angular as if a firm hug would be painful for the hugger and unwelcome for Aunt Sybil who preferred interactions to take place at a safe distance, at least one arm's length.

Sometimes, Sofia made attempts to interfere with her aunt's routine, or to become part of it, so far without success.

"Aunt Sybil," she would say in her most innocent voice. "I brought you a cup of coffee and a pastry."

Aunt Sybil would fix her with a piercing stare that Sofia was never able to return.

"Sofia, you know that I drink precisely one cup of coffee in the morning and that I simply abhor sugar. Go play outside."

All day long, Aunt Sybil would sit on a chair with a high back and wooden armrests that stood close to the window. There was a little pedestal for resting her feet, and a jug of water for when she was thirsty. Everything was ready for a day without events. On the windowsill lay a leather-bound ledger with a little lock, and every morning and every evening, she opened the book, turned to the page where she had previously left off and noted the time and date and the events of the day. A cast iron bell hung in the window. In case of sudden danger, it would fall to her to toll it as loudly as she could.

And every morning and every evening, she wrote with neat, small letters that nothing had happened. Not in as many generations as were still around to tell stories had anybody ever heard the toll of the bell which would announce that the bridge had been crossed.

There was a library to keep Aunt Sybil company, and each day, she chose another book to read, from science to astronomy to the fine arts, which was why she was so smart. When she came downstairs to join Sofia and Uncle Tomas for dinner, she was even better educated than she had been the day before. Sofia would ask her about it, but Aunt Sybil was usually too tired to pass on much of her newfound knowledge. Dinner would go by to the sounds of Uncle Tomas gulping down a liquid with a deceptively bland color that didn't fool anybody because its bitter smell hung in the room like a dusty cobweb, or maybe it had seeped into the walls.

It was unfathomable to Sofia when people told her that Aunt Sybil and Uncle Tomas had been very much in love when they had been young people. There could not be two people less suited for each other.