Of Chains and Potions

An old road wandered through the trees. It reached a creek, now dried and overgrown. The wind rustled through the weeds, taking with it the smells of summer. A bridge stood, its weathered grey stones crumbling in sections. It sat behind a hill, the nearest houses out of view. The birds sang in the distance, unaware of the battle happening for the heart of the hero of mankind.

“And the wrath of Dezorath, the great demon, rises as he stands.”

“The hero Uwe struggles to free himself, but his chains are unbreakable.”

“No, stop! You’re ripping it!” Hannelore cried, looking down at her friend. She stood on the bridge, dirt smeared across her face.

“It’s not my fault. You tied it too tight.” Karin frowned, “And I can’t get up.”

Hannelore climbed carefully down from the stone bridge. Karin was lying on the ground under it. The fabric of their “chains” came down to her knees. Hannelore untied the sleeves.

Karin wiggled out of the straitjacket, the old leather on the chest creaking. “I want to meet Esmeralda.”

“We can’t. It’s not the 22 of September.”

Both the girls put a fist to their hearts and looked up, “The Feast of Paraddune.”

“Can’t we just pretend?”

“No.”

* * *

Hannelore sat on a piece of the bridge in the dry creek bed. The old road was now invisible, forgotten among the trees and underbrush. The middle of the bridge had fallen, leaving two stone arms deteriorating at the edges. Birds still sang, but quietly, foretelling the end of fall. The calendars listed the cold of winter at the brink.

Everywhere else in the country of her childhood felt foreign; the hate still lingering in evasive corners. The girls never reached Uwe’s escape in their play-acting. Hannelore imagined it many times during the bitter, dull winters living in England, far from where the bridge stood in the overgrown woods. Against the memories of the war, the ancient and imagined demons and heroes were now distant silly tales of a naive mind.

* * *

“Are you going away?” Karin asked, one day when they were in Hannelore’s room.

Hannelore sat on her bed, “My mom says I have to.”

They could hear their moms arguing in the other room.

“Really Sabine, this is absurd. Adolf will-”

“Calling him by his first name! Inge, you don’t know the man.”

“I know what he stands for. He’s going to guide Germany to prosperity again.”

“Either way, we’ve made our decision.”

Hannelore walked over to her trunk, the floor creaking warmly. She got out the straitjacket. Its smell filled the room.

“You can have Uwe’s chains.”

“But you found it.”

“I know.” Hannelore said, “I want you to have it.”

Karin took it tenderly. She smiled, “I was too scared to climb those old walls. I thought you were going to fall.”

“And it was fine. See. What we found.”

“Are we going to be fine now?”

“Here, you need it to give you courage more than I do.” Hannelore said.

Karin handed her the piece of wood they had found during the spring, “You take this. Flora’s potion will keep you safe.”

Hannelore wrapped her fingers around it; the bark rough on her palm.

“When we come back, let’s meet under the bridge, and have the Feast of Paraddune.” They both struck the same pose again, fist to heart, looking up.

* * *

Hannelore put her fist to her heart and looked up. Above her, the bit of the bridge still holding was forlorn. The sunlight coming down through the clouds was weak and pale. A cold breeze blew the leaves on the ground. They had already turned from their bright colors to a brown or dull tan.

She looked down at her hands, holding the piece of wood. Its bark had been worn smooth. A spot was still discolored where her lipstick had touched it, before Ethan took her over the Thames in his grandfather’s plane. She held it in her palm and wrapped her fingers around it.

She pulled out a little chocolate. Ethan had given it to her for her birthday. When she said goodbye on the dock, she didn’t tell him she had saved it, worried he’d think her silly. To others it may be a poor excuse for a feast, however since it’s ideation, the Feast of Paraddune had been imagined as one of mostly chocolate.

* * *

“Is Karin coming?”

“No honey.” Hannelore’s mother sat on the floor in the living room. Hannelore sat by her.

“What about Pappa?”

“He packed this morning. He’s going to meet us at the boat.”

“Why do we have to leave? I don’t want to.”

Sabine gathered her daughter onto her lap.

“Oh, honey.”

Hannelore felt her mother’s tear on her cheek.

“Mamma?”

“Oh baby. I’m so sorry. I meant to be strong.”

* * *

She put the chocolate back in her coat pocket. Having the feast by herself felt wrong. There really wasn’t any reason for her to have it. It was just a childhood fantasy anyway.

* * *

Pappa met them at the boat. Mamma and Pappa were holding hands. Hannelore took a “drink” of Flora’s potion and held it tight, hoping it would keep them safe. Uwe, the hero of mankind, was behind her. Karin was far away. They both had to be the heroes now.

* * *

She hadn’t seen Karin since the day they traded treasures. She wondered if either of them had truly been heroes, worthy of the tales of Uwe.

Under the bridge, back here for the first time, what seemed as naivety dissolved into simple young innocence, and changed silly tales into hopeful stories. She took a deep breath, the cold air still carrying the smells of the woods.

A woman and her young child were walking through the weeds of the old creek. The women's eyes met. The second held a package, about the size of a long shirt.

“Karin?”

“Hannelore!?”

Sitting under the bridge, they feasted on chocolate.

This story was originally submitted to a flash fiction challenge where I was given a location (under a bridge), an item (straitjacket), and a genre (historical fiction). I wrote it in just over 24 hours for the challenge and only made minor grammatical edits before posting it here.