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Authors: Michelle Barker
Tags: JUV037000
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bridges connecting Cir to the mainland possessed a particular wisdom which people had no choice but to respect. You were granted passage upon the bridge that best reflected your state of mind. It forced you to think every time about why you were entering or leaving the Holy City. Practically speaking, it sometimes meant you had to walk for miles before you found a bridge that admitted you. Sometimes it meant not crossing at all.
Jordan moved on towards the bridge he used most often when skipping school to spend the afternoon in Somberholt Forest â Neâer Do Well â but to no avail. He sped right past Amethyst, which required complete tranquility to cross, and past the Bridge of No Return, which no one ever used. Finally he reached the Undetermined Walkway, but it was hopeless. He was stopped in his tracks by an invisible force so strong he felt as if heâd smacked right into a wall. The distant shimmer of the Bridge of Many Happy Returns was so out of synch with his mood he didnât bother checking it. Now what?
There was nothing for it but to go all the way back and try Peril. As he made his way once again past the tar-black Bridge of No Return, something made him stop. But no, surely it would be futile to try this bridge. And yet, if he didnât, he would spend the rest of the afternoon trekking from one bridge to the next, and then it would be time to go home.
Jordan knew only one thing about this bridge: no one ever used it except Balbadoris, once a year on the Feast of the Great Light, when he dressed up as the Beggar King and had scores of children chasing him towards it. But heâd always come back, so the name couldnât mean what it suggested. It wonât admit me . Still he hurried towards it, as if his feet knew something he didnât.
Not a soul was about this morning. Most people were probably still stunned by Emperor Rabellusâs performance in the Meditary the night before. So no one gasped as Jordan took hold of the black wooden handrails of the Bridge of No Return and hoisted himself up onto its slanted entryway. No one cried out in shock as he took one step forward, and then another. He walked as if in a trance.
Halfway across, Jordan realized where he was. He realized with this horribly sensible adult reason that had begun forming inside him, which told him if he made it to the end of the bridge he might be doing something irreversible, something he would regret forever.
He spun around and ran back the way heâd come. This time he knew the Undetermined Walkway would grant him access, and it did. As he crossed, he glanced over at the black bridge and while the sensible adult told him heâd made the right decision, the teenager in him couldnât help but tingle at what might have happened if heâd stayed on it.
Once across the bridge, he found himself on a path with three choices. Before him was the entrance to Somberholt Forest, a place he knew well. To one side was a path that led to the bridges on the Omarrian side. And to the other was the footpath that led into Omar and, of course, to the bazaar.
This was not the first time heâd crossed to the Omarrian mainland, but on every other occasion heâd lacked the courage to veer towards the bazaar. His fatherâs warnings of drunken underrats and dirty-dealing merchants had scared him enough to limit his truancy to Somberholtâs cedar grove. But today he did not head into the trees. Today he set his feet towards Omar and, with his eyes averted from the adults who might ask why he wasnât in school, he walked.
While the Holy Cityâs buildings were made uniformly of whitewashed stone, Omarrians painted their homes and shops in brilliant reds, blues and yellows. Crossing the Balakan River felt like entering a different country.
The bazaar was Omarâs most infamous attraction, stretching like a maze from one end of the city to the other. As Jordan wandered in, he overheard two
Jordan moved on towards the bridge he used most often when skipping school to spend the afternoon in Somberholt Forest â Neâer Do Well â but to no avail. He sped right past Amethyst, which required complete tranquility to cross, and past the Bridge of No Return, which no one ever used. Finally he reached the Undetermined Walkway, but it was hopeless. He was stopped in his tracks by an invisible force so strong he felt as if heâd smacked right into a wall. The distant shimmer of the Bridge of Many Happy Returns was so out of synch with his mood he didnât bother checking it. Now what?
There was nothing for it but to go all the way back and try Peril. As he made his way once again past the tar-black Bridge of No Return, something made him stop. But no, surely it would be futile to try this bridge. And yet, if he didnât, he would spend the rest of the afternoon trekking from one bridge to the next, and then it would be time to go home.
Jordan knew only one thing about this bridge: no one ever used it except Balbadoris, once a year on the Feast of the Great Light, when he dressed up as the Beggar King and had scores of children chasing him towards it. But heâd always come back, so the name couldnât mean what it suggested. It wonât admit me . Still he hurried towards it, as if his feet knew something he didnât.
Not a soul was about this morning. Most people were probably still stunned by Emperor Rabellusâs performance in the Meditary the night before. So no one gasped as Jordan took hold of the black wooden handrails of the Bridge of No Return and hoisted himself up onto its slanted entryway. No one cried out in shock as he took one step forward, and then another. He walked as if in a trance.
Halfway across, Jordan realized where he was. He realized with this horribly sensible adult reason that had begun forming inside him, which told him if he made it to the end of the bridge he might be doing something irreversible, something he would regret forever.
He spun around and ran back the way heâd come. This time he knew the Undetermined Walkway would grant him access, and it did. As he crossed, he glanced over at the black bridge and while the sensible adult told him heâd made the right decision, the teenager in him couldnât help but tingle at what might have happened if heâd stayed on it.
Once across the bridge, he found himself on a path with three choices. Before him was the entrance to Somberholt Forest, a place he knew well. To one side was a path that led to the bridges on the Omarrian side. And to the other was the footpath that led into Omar and, of course, to the bazaar.
This was not the first time heâd crossed to the Omarrian mainland, but on every other occasion heâd lacked the courage to veer towards the bazaar. His fatherâs warnings of drunken underrats and dirty-dealing merchants had scared him enough to limit his truancy to Somberholtâs cedar grove. But today he did not head into the trees. Today he set his feet towards Omar and, with his eyes averted from the adults who might ask why he wasnât in school, he walked.
While the Holy Cityâs buildings were made uniformly of whitewashed stone, Omarrians painted their homes and shops in brilliant reds, blues and yellows. Crossing the Balakan River felt like entering a different country.
The bazaar was Omarâs most infamous attraction, stretching like a maze from one end of the city to the other. As Jordan wandered in, he overheard two
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