SOLOMON'S BRIDGE {Part I}

THE WITCHING HOURS *14*

EDIMA

In 1995, home was the moderate sized duplex I'd bought from a herculean man who was just getting to know his way around his late father's estate business. This is the same man I'm going to pick a fight with, in present day. I recall the afternoon we met as if it was barely yesterday.

He'd said to me, "...this is Amma McFoy's house. It's not been lived in for twenty five years or so. People say it's haunted by the lost soul of her husband, Mickey McFoy. Are you...sure... you want this house?"

I waited a bit for the recognition to kick in. His face remained blissfully oblivious, a rare thing, "This house will do fine. I'm not afraid of ghosts,"

The massive man laughs in booming ho-ho-ho's, "Ohhhh; a strong Christian, are you?"

I nod. I mean its either that or, I'm just a certifiable religious nutcase...

"Wow, that's cool! But if you don't mind my asking, where are you from, and are you biracial?"

I have the fairer than usual skin, large, wide purplish eyes and a straight, long nose. My lips are small and naturally pink, my hair is a thick, wavy titian length that falls way past my waistline in curling ringlets. I've been called Genesis 6, Mutt, Half n' Half, Half baked, Hybrid, Mixedish, Mixed Blessings, Fried Rice, Concoction, and yes, biracial. And where was I from? Saint Peter's orphanage, Canaan City...I glance back at the house and observe it a few seconds, my right hand shading my eyes from the harsh glare of the sun,

"I'm half Irish...from here, Sir."

My clues were all lost on him; he looked like a man pretending to pay attention, all the while wondering if it was worth it, to make me his tenth wife. He nodded, misunderstanding, "Good! A South-South girl then, but please...call me...Nicholas, Sweetheart." That's the name on his complimentary card. Mr. Nicholas Trombone.

The panoramic view of the hills behind him changes, without warning, into the startling darkness of a rainy night. He lays a few feet before me in a wreckage of twisted car metal. He moans. Blood gushes from his head, his legs appear pinioned beneath the Jaguar's squeezed up bonnet. Someone else is trapped with him, but I sense the person is already dead. He moans a name...Frank. Frank, are you there?

"Hallooo...! Miss Edima," he waved his hands in front of my face, "-are you there?"

I blink twice. The hills come back just as suddenly with the brightness of day. Chirping birds and honking car horns overshadow the echoing drone of the rain. It was over in less than sixty seconds. "Yes, um--" clearing my throat, "Nicholas, -uhh-so nice, to meet you. Call me Eddie," then in the same rushed breath I ask, "You-y-you wouldn't happen to have a, ah, ahem! A friend called Frank, would you?"

Trombone beamed, "Do you know him too?" Oh fodder, moss and grass. He was still talking, animatedly- Frank Udoh is my very close friend, a reliable indigene of the state and a hard working banker. How did you know Frank? Did you guys attend the same school...but he must have been your senior, surely? Bla bla bla, no I did not go to school with Frank, Bla bla bla-

Once he realized that I wasn't falling for his height, we fought a hard battle over price. It's a bittersweet memory. But let's get back to the day I begin this story. I drove out of Beach Sand market and headed home, west of Canaan City Harbor. My gulf climbed the connecting bridge, Solomon's bridge, slowly, the wind snatching my hair out of it's ponytail, blowing it about my face in soft curling tendrils. I glance sideways occasionally.

The ocean seems calm, its dark blue depths slithering along with the sleepy tide, sparkling in places touched by the dazzling hot sun. There are four major zones in Canaan City; the Grand Eleven Central, Down Town Goldie, the Beach Sand Brides (a five finger tier stretching from the Eastern side of the city's harbour,) and west of the city's harbour, which, because of its proximity to the ocean, is called WaterTown. There are a lot of historical land marks in WaterTown: the stone castle, Justice Hall; the palace of the Tripod King, the Obong; the house of Mary Wallace, White Mother of Okoyoung; the Prayer Mountain and old Voodoo Caves; the cave of the Shadows of Mist; the healing caves of Tribal Custodians, even Amma McFoy's house, which is now, my house, and farther away towards the wild outskirts, still sat my childhood origins, St. Peters Orphanage, surrounded by the thick forests which hid many mysterious places yet to be explored, and some globally acclaimed tourist attractions, including Lovers Canyon. Some people called WaterTown, the old town.