The Bridge

By Bob Liddil

“I’m not supposed to be here,” McNichol complained. “This isn’t right.”

He was a tall man, more than 6’4 and fit -- not health club muscular, but construction fit like you might expect of a healthy working man in his early 30’s.

“Mr. McNichol,” the angel responded, stopping and turning back to face him, "I can appreciate that this may seem like a strange situation to you, but I can assure you that you are where you are supposed to be at this moment in time."

They stood in silence for a moment, regarding each other, McNichol dressed in jeans and a flannel work shirt, the angel in a white ankle length gown that revealed little of his stature beyond the fact that he had large and animated wings protruding from an opening in the back.

Surrounding them were the familiar vegetations of Earth, Peter McNichol’s home of record for the past 32 years. Upward from the path upon which they stood a hill stretched skyward, covered with thick kudzu. Below, it rolled downward, quickly disappearing into bramble.

“The problem I am having,” McNichol said evenly, “is that I know I am here, but I don’t remember how I got here. And although I can plainly see you for what you are, I think somebody has made a mistake.”

“Really, Mr. McNic...” the angel began, but was cut off.

“Call me Peter. No need to be formal."

“Really Peter,” he began anew. “You’re just making my job more difficult.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Your job?” He considered for a moment then said, “What is your job, exactly?”

The angel looked put out. "I’m not supposed to be having a conversation with you. I am just supposed to escort you. This is most irregular."

McNichol persisted. "Escort me where?" He pressured, but the angel turned and resumed walking along the path, offering no answer.

McNichol racked his brain for memories of how he would have arrived on a footpath in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere. His mind wandered backward in time to his wife, his kids, his work. Nothing extraordinary there that would account for a sudden gap. Then a picture flashed into his mind. The motorcycle. The new Harley. His pride and joy. He'd been out on a sunny day, his daughter on the back, bundled against the breeze, wearing a bright red helmet. then nothing.

A sudden chill passed through him and he stopped in his tracks.

The angel stopped also and turned once more to face him. "What is it now, Peter?" His tone was one of concern.

"Linda. My daughter." McNichol whispered fearfully. "Is she all right? Where is she? Where am I?"

The angel sighed. "I am just your escort, Peter. There are others whose job it is to fill you in on the details of your life. Don't be alarmed by the images in your mind. It will all be clear once you cross over the bridge."

From the brambles below the path came a low growling sound and a rustling noise, as though something powerful had just moved.

"What was that?"

"Pay no attention to anything not on the path." The Angel instructed patiently. "We are late. We need to press onward to the bridge."

Other rustling sounds joined the first. Whatever was down there, there appeared to now be a group of them. McNichol hurried to catch up with the angel, who had resumed walking, taking long-legged strides to do so.

The Harley was red. He'd saved for it for years. Little Linda's first operation had drained that account completely once before, forcing him to start from zero. But that had been ten years ago, and he'd caught some breaks after that. He'd bought the Harley in January of this year. January. What month was it now?

The sun shone steadily on the path, sprinkling light in patches down in the brambles. A light breeze moved the kudzu leaves slightly, but made no sound. McNichol followed the Angel obediently. It was an angel, after all. Weren't angels the ultimate symbol of authority? The were messengers from God, were they not?

Behind them, a loud snarl suddenly erupted, followed by stricken cry of anguish that stopped McNichol cold in his tracks.

"That's it." He declared. "I am not moving until you tell me what is going on here."

Exasperated, despite his divinity, the angel turned and said, firmly, "Sir, your meeting. You must be at the bridge at the appointed time, or you will miss your meeting. You do not want to do that. Pay no attention to..."

"Explain it all to me or I'm not moving and damn the meeting."

The angel was genuinely horrified. He said, "All I can tell you is that this is the pathway the borders between heaven and hell." He gestured toward the kudzu. "Heaven." He said. Then toward the bramble. "Hell."

McNichol's surprise crossed his face like a fast moving thunderstorm. "Heaven and Hell?" He repeated.

"I've told you more than I should," the angel said. "Now come on. The bridge is just up ahead."

Numbly, McNichol fell in line. Dutifully he followed the angel, who now had accelerated his pace. In what seemed like only a moment or two, the angel suddenly came to a halt. The path was not so narrow here, so they could actually stand side by side.

"You must cross the bridge alone." The angel said gently. "I am the escort for this side. You will be able to navigate just fine on the other. Just stick to the path. Best of luck in heaven, Peter. I envy you."

The angel turned to go back the way they had just come.

"Hey! Wait a minute!" McNichol raised his voice. "That's it? I'm dead?" He paused and considered. "Not that I don't appreciate going to heaven and all, but I just don't remember dying."

"Just cross the bridge, Peter." The angel said gently. "You will understand everything when you get to the other side."

McNichol turned his gaze to the bridge and the path beyond. It was an ordinary bridge, made of wood planks that looked like they had some age on them and had seen some weather in their time. Below it ran a creek, sandy bottom ridged and rippled with the movement of the water, which was about a foot deep. it disappeared into the brambles, and seemed to be flowing from under the kudzu.

Then he noticed that the angel was gone. "Your meeting..." The angel's words reminded him from deep within his mind.

He stepped out onto the bridge and immediately felt it shift slightly under his weight.

"Great," he muttered aloud. "Dead and going to be wet as well."

Lightly, he touched the handrail on the bramble side of the bridge, ready to grab it if something let go. He tested each footfall before placing his weight on the board. Gingerly, he progressed, one step at a time, until he reached the middle, then he stopped for a moment and gazed off downstream as the creek disappeared with a right turn into the underbrush. Then, he repeated the same caution until he reached the other side.

McNichol stepped off the bridge and back onto the path. He recoiled as if a great wind had suddenly assaulted him, closing his eyes instinctively. Memories rushed back into his consciousness like a flood, deluging him with details. Summer camp as a boy, his time in the Army, his wife, their daughter, all exploded within him in a pyrotechnic burst of multicolored light.

He gasped and squeezed his eyes tighter.

"I'm sorry about that." A voice said. "I've mentioned that discomfort at meetings, but no one has offered a remedy for it."

McNichol's eyes flew open. Standing in front of him about five feet away, a bearded elderly man regarded him, an amused smile on his face. "For now, can't be helped. Sorry," he added.

"Where?" But McNichol's voice just trailed away.

"I'm here to prepare you for Heaven, Peter." The old man said. We've surrounded your consciousness with the familiar to lessen the trauma, but it's a rough ride, no matter how careful we are."

Inside his head, the memories were boiling. The Harley. The accident. The coma.

"H-heaven?" He managed to stammer.

"Yep." The old man took his hand. "Things will be a little hazy at first, but you'll get the hang of it. Walk with me."

Side by side they walked, following the path. As the bridge grew further and further away, McNichol said, weakly, "What if I don't like..."

The old man laughed. "Everbody likes Heaven just fine. Trust me."

A light mist engulfed the path as they walked, the fine water droplets scattering a million tiny rainbows in all directions. Gradually the mist grew heavier until McNichol could barely see his escort.

"Carry on from here, Peter." The old mans voice penetrated the fog, which by now was thick, white, like a cloud. You'll do fine. Just remember..." It faded and his last words were lost.

By now, his memories were settled. The past life of Peter McNichol vibrated with detail.

Suddenly white fog became white light. He remembered an old movie, something about "go to the light" but it surrounded him, building in intensity and brightness until he could no longer keep his eyes open. He squeezed them tightly, plunging himself into sudden and utter darkness and complete silence.

So this is death, he mused in thought. Not very comfortable.

"Peter?" It was the voice of his wife.

"Daddy?" That was his daughter.

"Doctor!" He heard them both shout and the reverb was just terrible.

Peter McNichol opened his eyes to Heaven, and what swam into view was a hospital room. His memories were fresh and vivid. A car had run a light. He'd crashed. Linda had been at home, not on board. He'd been wearing a helmet.

He stared into the crying faces of his family and tried to laugh, but couldn't, at least not very well.

"You gave us quite a scare, there, Peter."

He turned his head to the direction of the voice. There, standing, bearded and wearing a stethoscope was the old man from the bridge, now wearing a doctor's scrubs.

"Welcome back," the doctor said, smiling. "We were worried about you."

Peter McNichol was now safely back in Heaven.