Phillip Chao: The Blue Bridge in Benford
/The Blue Bridge in Benford
by Phillip Chao ’21
Story of Mr. Zero
I was driving to the Blue Bridge in Benford in my 1969 Ford Capri.
Sunlight in the heartland of the country has always been ample, shedding through the distorted leaves on the olive trees and blinding my sight. A sudden stream of warmth was injected into my body, and I shivered.
I stopped at the side of the road and pulled out a map marked all over by numerous dots of red and lines of blue.
All roads here led to Benford. All rivers ran to the Blue Bridge.
Lighting a cigarette, I stared at the distant end of the road through blue flames. I saw mountains growing, rivers flowing, birds appearing and reappearing. Still no sight of Benford, or the Blue Bridge.
I dropped the rest of the cigarette on the ground and stamped it out with my right foot. I had to hit the road quickly before the sun faded away.
Story of Captain Louis Cromwell
The truck kept bouncing up and down as it stumbled along the rocky mountain road. Rain kept pouring down, blurring the windows. The heater was still working, but it was of no use at all. Particles of coldness penetrated the thin glass windows, filtered through the air, and took away the lingering warmth inside Captain Louis Cromwell.
It was by all means a hard ride. Almost a week had passed since he left the base one chilly midnight. A simple order was given to him without explanation: get to the Blue Bridge in Benford. Who gave the damn order? What was in Benford? What was so special about the Blue Bridge? a voice inside his head screamed.
He slammed the steering wheel with his fists. The radio in the car started playing, calming him down. It was playing an old song that he couldn’t really recall the name. He heard the melancholic voice of a woman. She sounded like Sarah. She sang like her, too.
Was Sarah lonely? Was she all by herself? he wondered. What would she be thinking about right now?
Then she sang,
Ohhh
The Blue Bridge in Benford
Stands on the river
That flows into the sea
Ohhh
The Blue Bridge in Benford
So many myths about you
That flow into my dreams.....
Story of Sarah
I was on an empty train chugging along the track.
Looking out from the windows, all I could see was the dark grey sky and the dark brown fields of some kind of crop I could not name.
Last week, I quit the stupid job I had in the city and decided to buy a one-way ticket to the Blue Bridge in Benford.
I knew Louis was on his way as well. That was why I had to get there.
I didn’t care how many times he repeated that it was a top secret military operation. I didn’t care how many time he said it was a long ride and how dangerous it might get.
They told me a tale, the Gypsy wanderers living in the tents. They told me that I had to get to the Blue Bridge in Benford, and that there was a myth: if lovers walked over the bridge together, they would forever be blessed by the god of love.
Maybe it was worse than an urban legend, and it was all made up to fool careless travellers, but I didn’t care.
Well, I trusted the Gypsy wanderers.
And they also said, if you no longer love the person, you could push him down to the water from the bridge.
The train just passed through a giant billboard: “Buy the new 1969 Ford Capri!!!” How silly was that? Who would buy that car?
Story of Mr. Zero
I didn’t like living in family hotels.
I’m not a hotel person, that was for the mentally weak and incapable to shelter themselves from the world outside and lie their half-dead bodies on the half-clean beds and stuff their half-filled stomachs with half-cooked foods.
Plus, the word family made me feel bad enough. I shivered when I heard the word. The dark memories emerged from the water of the past and twined around my body like a big cluster of seaweed.
I had felt safe every night only when I hid my M1911 under the pillow, and I would picture the cold steel barrel and the bullet bursting out of it in my dreams, like the power of masculinity.
But somehow, they told me to come here: a family hotel warmed by a fireplace paved with fake rock ornaments and burning well-cut timbers.
I walked to my room and put the “Do Not Disturb” tag on the door. The room had a tiny but neat bed, an armchair, a wooden desk, a Persian rug that covered the floor, and a giant window that overlooked the river valley.
I looked out and stared at the other end of the flowing river.
Blue Bridge, I whispered in my mind.
Yet it was still far from visible, and all I could see was a blurry figure hidden in the shadow.
Then I squeezed my body into the armchair, lit another cigarette, opened up a page of the brochure, and waited for further instructions.
They might come at any time.
Story of Captain Louis Cromwell
It was almost midnight, and the journey had already tormented Captain Louis Cromwell’s body and mind.
From far away, he saw the Neon advertisement board of OLD JOE’s Family Tavern. It was the only place filled with warmth and brightness along this dark country road, so he decided to stop and get back to the road tomorrow morning.
He parked the truck in the parking lot, next to a bright-colored Ford sports car. Nice car, he said to himself. Wonder who owns this beautiful piece in this shitty place.
The door to the lobby of the hotel was open, so he stepped inside, wiping the his muddy boots on the red carpet. It was all quiet, except for the sound of timbers burning slowly in the fireplace, like the sound of nature.
Feeling bored, he opened the record book on the front desk and flipped through the guest list for today. Mr. Zero, that was an interesting name, a weird name too. Paid by cash, one room. He skimmed through the record and found a parking permit for a 1969 Ford Capri. Good taste in cars, he told himself.
The old clock on the wall of the lobby struck 12 times. Sarah must be asleep right now, he thought, resting soundly under the looming lights of the city.
Finally, the Captain lost his patience in waiting and decided to walk upstairs in case he could find any staff in the hotel.
Or Mr. Zero. He’d love to meet that guy, if he’s still awake.
Story of Sarah
The land beside the trail became more and more barren as the old steam train roamed forward and headed into the heartland of the country.
There were now hardly any crops in the barren fields, nor were there any houses, settlements, or signs of human activity. Only remains of past civilizations, a weird composition of twisted iron, steel, and the shattered remnants of forebears, were standing on the ground alone.
I looked back at the trail behind me and pictured the world I left behind: bustling cities, moving crowds, busy streets, and certainly bridges. Beautiful bridges. Modern Bridges. Bridges that carried thousands of cars and trucks everyday over its back, crossing over great lakes and rivers.
But the Blue Bridge in Benford was different.
The day prior to my departure, I paid a visit to the city library, hoping to dig up something about my destination. The library, located in the forgotten corner of an old city, used to be the holy temple of knowledge but was now an old and dark house where rats, spider webs, ill-management, and insufficient funds ruled everything. Going up and down the wooden stairs, moving through the creaky floors and piles of old records and books, I was only able to find one piece about the Blue Bridge that caught my eye: a small piece of paper card, sitting upside down in an old paper box. On the back, I could barely read the handwriting: BLUE BRIDGE, BENFORD. Half surprised and half intrigued, I gently picked it up from the box and flipped it around.
I was stunned, for there was basically nothing on the front. Not a sketch, not a record, just nothing. It was just a blank piece of paper, with the exception of a small line of words written with a pencil.
“Blue Bridge is whatever you think it is,” it said.
That was what got me on the trip.
Because I had always known what the Blue Bridge was going to be.
The train suddenly came to a stop and the impact threw me back to my seat, bringing my mind back to the real world. I looked outside the window. The fields, the shattered houses, and the woods were all gone now. And there was nothing beside the trail anymore.
The radio in the train cabin sounded, and it was the voice of a woman that I did not know.
“Dear passengers, thank you for riding with us. Our destination, Blue Bridge in Benford, is just in front. It’s our honor to accompany you on this fascinating trip….”
This is it, I told myself. We are finally here.
Please be there, Louis.
Please.
Story of Mr. Zero
I woke up in the middle of the night, for I had a horrible dream.
I dreamed of the Blue Bridge, or at least I remembered dreaming of it.
I saw an invisible, amorphous figure over the water, hiding inside the fogs and the shadows.
And I saw a sign, standing alone by the river.
“Blue Bridge in Benford,” I read.
Then I woke up, cold and unprotected, alone on a King size bed in a family hotel.
Clunk, clunk, clunk, that was the sound of boots stamping rambunctiously on the wooden stairs.
Who was that? Clunk, clunk.
I jumped off the bed, and quickly drew out the pistol under my pillow.
I checked if it was loaded. Thank God it was. Then I gently pushed open the wooden door with one hand.
There was another man standing at the other end of the hallway, his face covered by the shadow, so I couldn’t tell who he was.
“Hey! Who the hell are you?” I yelled, and my voice started echoing, bouncing off the walls and filling up the empty and lifeless hallway. “Show yourself!”
He started walking towards me, saying something that I couldn’t hear. Finally, he walked out of the black and exposed himself into the moonlight shedding into the house from a half-open window.
It was him. They had shown me his photo. It was definitely him.
“Gotcha!” I lifted the gun and fired several times at the approaching figure.
Pum, pum, pum. The bullets hit the wooden walls, blowing off the ornaments, and knocking off the wooden framed pictures, yet none of them seemed to hit the man.
He turned back and dashed into the darkness.
Coward, I said to myself.
I chased him off the stairs and heard him starting his truck, so I sprinted towards my Ford Capri.
Tonight was going to be exciting.
Happy hunting.
Story of Captain Louis Cromwell
Captain Louis Cromwell’s truck sped up, headlights penetrating the frightening darkness. He could still feel the horror and his heart was still accelerating. Even now, he could still see the moment of horror when bullets flew inches over his head and blew a giant hole on the wooden wall. He could feel the blood running his vein.
Mr. Zero. The name flashed through his head. Who was he? What did he want?
The captain looked up, and saw the truck passing an old, rusty sign.
“Blue Bridge in Benford, 5 miles ahead!” The words floated into his eyes. Finally, he thought.
He looked back, and suddenly saw the giant yellow headlights of Mr. Zero’s Ford emerging from the darkness, flashing and rushing at full speed, like the eyes of a demon.
He hit the gas pedal hard, pushing towards the big, clumsy machine’s limit. The engine let out a desperate uproar.
His eyes turned blood red.
You wanna play a game, Mr. Zero?
I’m all in.
The Ford sports car sped up and stuck to his left side, trying to push the truck off the road.
Watch this, Mr. Zero.
The captain turned the steering wheel to the left with his full strength, and the 25-ton military truck dashed towards the tiny Ford sports car.
Yet he missed. He hit the brake and stopped his car on the spot, narrowly avoiding the incoming collision. The heavy truck then lost all control, storming off the roadside and into the cornfields.
When he woke up, his stomach was burning, and his face as well. He was bleeding, too. The broken glass had cut through his skin, his uniform, and his shoes. He saw little dots of red splashed onto the wall, the glasses, and the seat.
With his last strength, he kicked the side door open and managed to crawl out of the truck, gasping for the fresh air outside. Yet, it was filled with the strange smell of burning metal and cloth, and leaking gasoline.
The captain, injured and hurt, struggled to raise himself up, his heart filled with anger and thoughts of vengeance. However, when he looked up, he saw the blue moon shining above him and lighting up the night sky. It must have been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and for a long time, he forgot about the pain. “Like the beauty of you, Sarah,” he whispered to himself.
Then he started half running, half crawling on the ground and dragging his injured right leg, for he had a weird feeling that the Blue Bridge was right in front of him.
The blue light turned stronger and stronger, and the moon was brighter and brighter. He knew he was getting closer.
And then he saw it: the Blue Bridge in Benford, the wonder of God. Moonlight had given it its beautiful color of depth and solemnity.
But it was too late.
He heard two shots from the back.
The world around him started revolving and collapsing, until all he could see was the vague figure of the Blue Bridge from far away.
Story of Sarah
I didn’t know how long I had walked since getting off the train.
It was dark, and all the light could I get was the blue, magical moonlight above me, dyeing the valleys and the mountains dark blue.
Then I heard a mysterious sound. A powerful, roaming sound that flew in the air and bounced on the rocks and cliffs that surrounded everything as if nature were playing a song, a song with color that was blue like the moon.
“Listen to the voice of the blue
follow the lead of the moon
that shone like sapphires and jewels,
and you shall see him soon.”
Back to that smoky tent of the Gypsy wanderers, that’s what they told me.
They were right.
I walked for another few minutes, and then I saw a river, the great maker of the beautiful song that I heard, that was glowing blue and painting the mountain ridges blue as well.
There was a bridge too, an old, rusty bridge built with steel and standing firmly across the river, a blue bridge painted and embellished by the magic hands of the moon.
There was a stone stele near the bridge. I walked up there, wiped off the dust, and saw the words carved on it: “Blue Bridge, Benford River.” I was finally at the right place.
Under the bright moonlight, I could see the end of a well-paved road at the other end of the bridge across the river, stretching from far away and coming to an abrupt stop.
Where was Louis? When will he come?
I’ve been waiting too long.
But there was a second part to the Gypsy wanderers’ poem, that I always seemed to forget, staring at the crystal ball, they said, holding a cigar in their hands: “Shall the river divide,
the young groom and bride;
May the blue moon hear,
Their love and their tears.”