This one came from quite a few places: the Liars' League April event, a random phrase from the We Feel Fine program, and some doodling about with word associations. Put 'em all together and I'm back in the Weird West, or home on the strange.
Lonestar on the Bridge (973 words)
“You got nothing to say about this, Lonestar?” asks Finnegan.
I shrug. What’s the point? There’s nothing you can say when you’ve been as thoroughly set up as I have. Serves me right, I s’pose. I breezed into River Bend two years ago looking for a hook to hang my heart on. I gave it away to the first man who smiled at me, Ed Hutchins. Big mistake. Now here I am, shuffling my feet in the dust in the main square, with all the townsfolk sweating in the sun and waiting for my sentence.
“Damned Shifty!” shouts the schoolmarm at the back. “Run her out of our town.”
“Send her out the hard way,” says Lennie. I heard his grandfather is from the Red Rock Clan, but he can’t shift. Not many of our people can.
A chant starts up. “Bridge! Bridge! Bridge!”
“Last chance,” Finnegan says. I’ve watched his hawkish face over a poker table many a time. He’s good at being unreadable, but I know he wants to hear me say I didn’t do it. A man’s dead. I didn’t kill him, but I stole the key to his strongbox and I gave it to Ed and it all went wrong from there. I shake my head.
“All right then,” Finnegan announces to the crowd. “No confession and no defence. She walks the bridge.” He sighs. “Lennie, leave the pitchfork.”
“There could be griffins up there,” says Lennie. Fat lot of good a pitchfork would do him. He’s going to jab me with it if he gets a chance.
They force a potion down my throat, to stop me shifting for at least a day. Then Finnegan marches me up the steep steps in the bluff behind the town. It’s a long, hot climb and only the most determined gawkers and Lennie and the other bridge guards are still with us by the time we get to the top. It’s cooler up here, tendrils of mist drift about.
The bridge doesn’t look so bad. It’s rope, of course, but the boards are in good repair, and there’s no wind to swing it. The other side is lost in the haze.
Finnegan squeezes my shoulder. “If you get across, you can come back the long way round,” he says.
“Don’t try turning back,” says Lennie. “We’ll be waiting.”
Sure enough, he pokes me in the ribs with the pitchfork, and I step onto the bridge. It sways a little. I hang on to the ropes and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.
Nobody knows what’s on the bridge. Hardly anyone comes back, and if they do they won’t say a thing about it. I heard some idiot talking about a troll. I met a few in my wanderings, most of ‘em just want to be left alone. There’s a great yawning drop below the bridge, not a sheltered damp place for a troll to squat.
It’s kind of peaceful up here; my whole body takes a deep breath and stretches. I’ve been in River Bend too long.
The fog is thicker now. When I glance back, I can’t see the start but I can hear Lennie and his crew laughing.
Finnegan’s done the best he can for me. The people look to him to keep the peace and the evidence pointed to me. They all knew I was part Clan; I can’t change my black hair, and I didn’t change the name my mother gave me. But I didn’t declare myself a Shifty and I got found out. They’re afraid of us. I’m lucky not to be choking at the end of a rope.
A distant screech makes me look up, but I can’t see anything in the fog. I walk on.
I bet there’s others in town; it’s a big place. The straight folks still believe a lot of plain wrong things about us. They think we can shift into any shape we like. They’re getting us mixed up with old Clan stories about lurking beasts that turn into a tent or or a patch of fog or a pond and wait for food to walk right in.
The bridge quivers like a live thing under my feet. The ropes thrum in a way that has nothing to do with me. I pick up my pace, half-jogging.
Us Shifties just get one form, and it’s handed out by tricky luck. Everyone wants a bear, or a wolf or an eagle. Me, the terror of River Bend, I can do a mouse.
The bridge really starts to move now, swinging from side to side. I wrap my arms in the ropes and hang on tight. It gets faster, and I’m afraid it will twist right over. If I could shift I might survive the fall, but the potion won’t wear off for a while. A raucous screech echoes behind me and the movement stops.
When I’ve stopped shaking, I unwrap myself from the ropes and move on. I can see blackness in the fog, the bulk of rock at the other side, and I run as fast as I can, hands skimming the ropes, planks shaking under my feet. Overhead, I hear the whumpf sound of great wings beating. And as I see firm ground in sight, there is also a golden bulk of fur and feathers, a sharp beak curved like a scythe, bright orange saucer eyes.
I am very, very still. The griffin opens its beak.
“That was Lennie shaking the bridge,” it says in Finnegan’s voice. “I ran him off.”
“Uh. Th - thanks.”
“If I thought you did it, I’d’ve let you drop.”
He shifts back to his rangy human form, and holds out a hand to help me off the bridge. He smiles, sudden and sunny. It’s a much better smile than Ed’s.
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