“Never go looking for ‘nothing you’ve lost down by Cricket Bridge.”
That’s what I was told when I moved my family to Mary’s Passing. People have “seen things,” whatever that means. When I pressed them for what they’ve seen, all they tell me is it’s more of a feeling they get. “There’s an eerie calm,” they say. I’d been in Mary’s Passing two weeks and hadn’t seen anything stranger than the folks living beside the railroad tracks or the cashier behind the Piggly Wiggly sneaking cigarettes on her break.
So, when my daughter lost her favorite blanket, the one her grandma made her before we moved, I decided I’d go down on my bike to Cricket Bridge. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t much. Certainly not a covered bridge like they have up in New England. It’s here, though- wooden boards and all.
I walked through, and it seemed like a regular bridge. No hidden cubby holes, where something lost might be found. I walked all the way to the other side. The dust was visible by the light creeping in from the windows. Then I made my way down the grassy hill by the bridge. The ground was soft from the rain that morning, and I could smell the pine trees by the bank. The river was rushing, but that was the only audible sound. There weren’t any birds. Maybe that’s what the town’s people meant when they said it was eerie here.
Up under the bridge, I found an opening, tall enough that I could duck inside. I turned on my phone’s flashlight. I could see that the walkway opened to a taller space. I just hoped this wasn’t a bear’s cave, and I wasn’t sure what time of year they hibernated. Hopefully not in October. I moved the light around. There were shelves on the rocky sides of the cave. I walked over to the closest one. A tiny red mitten was on it, but it looked clean. Not dusty, like you’d expect to find in a cave. Its twin was right beside it; in fact, when I looked closer, I saw a blue string connected to them. Next to that was a library card. I picked it up and noticed a name was legible: “Patrick Usher,” Mary’s Passing Library, 1981. On the shelf below this one was a dog’s collar, an old Polaroid camera, and a child’s drawing of something I couldn’t quite make out. I shined my light on the other side of the cave and walked to see what was on those shelves. A diamond ring. A cracked teacup on a crisp white doily. Even the shelves weren’t dusty. Not a bear’s cave then. I almost laughed, but it caught in my throat. On the bottom shelf I saw a pink blanket, folded. I knew it was my daughter’s.
Amber light spilled into the cave before I heard the footsteps behind me. I slowly turned. Before me was a black, hairy creature, about half my size, holding an old lantern. It walked toward me and took the library card I still held in my hand and put it back on the shelf. I stared, not knowing what to do, but then remembered my daughter’s blanket. I flipped through pictures on my phone and found one of her. I pointed to a picture of her with the blanket.
“My Daughter.”
The creature looked at my phone, then at the blanket. I wasn’t sure if it understood, but then it walked over and reached towards the shelf, retrieving the blanket. It held it reverently, smoothing a corner. It held it for a second, then pressed it into my arms before walking out of the cave. I followed it up to the bridge and watched as it disappeared over the hill.
I still hear people warn about looking for what’s lost down by Cricket Bridge, but sometimes what’s lost is simply waiting to be found.
Idyll Wilder is a citizen of the Cherokee Nation. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Carmina Magazine, The Talon, Nettle Literary Journal, The Orange Rose, Freedom Fiction Journal, and The New Territory (Issue 19). Her work can be found at TheIdlewildHouse.com. Instagram: @idyll.wilder