Cecily Bridge-Davis
May 1964
My family tree has poisoned roots. Secrets from generations ago sank far into the earth where truth and lies tangled in a polluted snarl. Over time, those deep roots—the ones that couldn’t stay buried forever—writhed to the surface like new saplings and contaminated the earth around them.
I discovered one of those saplings when my aunt Hilda, who’d raised me like a daughter right outside of Charlottesville, died. Her will stated I had an inheritance: sixty-five acres of Bridge family land. Since I hadn’t heard a word from my father or his kin, I didn’t know what I’d find. With my luck, the apple trees would be termite-infested, and any haphazard shacks may be unfit for human occupancy.
I should’ve sold the place, sight unseen, but the hunger to learn more about my father’s side of the family propelled me from the family and home I’d made for myself in Nashville to return to the Virginia woods. Five miles north of Charlottesville, a heavy downpour and a lack of signs left me lost in the rambling countryside. I had no choice but to stop my car on a rutted, dirt road and approach an old bungalow where an elderly Black woman sat in a rocking chair on the porch. The moment I showed up, her son emerged with a stiff nod. Instead of helping, the family told me to return home if I knew what was good for me.
“Stay away from that godforsaken place,” said the elderly Black woman, waving away a mosquito from her cloud of white hair. “You’ll find nothing but trouble. A long time ago, one of them Bridges killed a bunch of people before he’d kidnapped an innocent child.”
Her son told me what I’d already known—that before the fire, my father’s kin had kept to themselves, rarely leaving their farm. Now there was no one. “Sell that land and wash your hands of it. That’s what I’d do.”
Their warnings didn’t deter me, and reluctantly, they gave me directions. Over years of teaching history to college students, I’d knew too well how folks always wanted to share these sorts of tall tales. Vendettas among the countryfolk passed from one generation to another, sowing animosity over amity between neighbors. But all stories and legends had their roots in the truth.
I left that bungalow and, after two wrong turns, I finally came upon an obscured opening to my right. Back when I was small, my grandfather always stopped at the opening on our way to church, and I sat in the idling car playing with the hem of my Sunday dress until he came back. Grandpa never went further than the entrance itself. Neither did I until the day I steered my car down the winding path which ended with a dilapidated cabin next to overgrown apple trees. Wildflowers and tall grass permeated the pasture while a stubborn oak stump jutted out in the middle. Rotted fence posts leaned away from the single-story cabin, perhaps to escape the clinging neglect. Decades ago, this forgotten structure had been someone’s home, their sanctuary from summer heat and winter’s bitter chill. Now only grandaddy long legs, mice, and cobwebs could dwell there.
After shutting off the car, I hurried through the rain and side-stepped the missing floorboards on the porch. I pushed open the brittle wood door with ease, at once slipping into the past. I pulled the collar of my blouse over my nose to dampen the odor of mildew and overpowering musk of wild animals and left the door open to bring in some fresh air. It was a damn shame no one thought to take care of this place.
Carefully, I walked through the empty living room with only the storm’s pitter-patter and my breath to keep me company. From the living room, I made my way to the summer kitchen, but rain spilling through a large hole in the roof soaked my path. I sighed. I was better off tearing down the whole house. There was nothing for me here. Anything that might’ve been interesting or useful had long rotted away, and I resigned myself to return to my car when a glint from something on the shelf across the living room drew my eye.
My hunger to know more wouldn’t let me leave without at least a peek. Tucked away on the ledge, I discovered a cerulean tin box. With trembling hands and a triumphant hope that this box would be my reward for coming all this way, I picked up the tin and smudged the dirt and grease on the lid to reveal the bouquet hidden beneath. My pulse thrummed as I unhooked the rusty latch, loosening the lid’s stiff hinge to lift the top, and revealed a tiny spool crafted from maple and a Bible carefully protected by the lambskin cloth wrapped around it. Turning the spool between my fingers, I could tell it was old—very old—but the tiny etchings carved into it were too small for my eyes, and I exchanged it for the Bible. The papers were yellowed and nearly transparent in their thinness, but the tin had preserved the Bible from worse decay. The pages held a wealth of information—for someone had consigned the names and birthdates of every Bridge born on this farm beginning in the late 1760s until the 1920s. A set of initials denoted the first family scribe as R.B.
“Who’s that? Hmm.” I stroked the handwritten letters. What a beautiful discovery!
I had much to uncover, but I could do it another time. As I began to close the Bible, I spotted two pieces of paper. One was tucked securely between the Bible’s pages, but the other fluttered to the floor, and on it, someone had drawn a map of the property. There were Xs marked here and there. Were those more houses? Though I had planned on booking a motel room to rest, the marks on the map implied more Bridge secrets. Would any of them tell me more about my father? I had to know.
Using the house as a starting point, I searched the overgrown pasture adjacent to the family’s orchard and followed the map until I came to an aged elm. Circling the tree, I compared it to the map. This was the spot, but why? I ran my hand down the trunk in search of an answer when I noticed the cavity hollowed in the base. I dropped to my knees to clear the dead leaves and brush until my fingers grazed something within that I desperately tugged free: an old mailman’s tote from the Civil War. Time had stiffened and cleaved deep creases into the leather while the elements rusted the brass hardware. With a brush of my hand across the grungy front flap, I traced the stitched words: UNITED STATES. Below that, I found a name, Wilfred Bridge.
This man had been my relative. One hundred years ago, he’d slung this bag over his shoulder and trudged from town to town to deliver news of births, marriages, and losses. I caressed the leather bag and shivered as our hands connected through time.
This man had been my relative. One hundred years ago, he’d slung this bag over his shoulder and trudged from town to town to deliver the news of births, marriages, and loss. I caressed the leather bag and shivered as our hands connected through time.
Inside the pack someone—perhaps Wilfred—had left the necessities for survival: a flint and steel kit, a compass, a folded knife, and other essentials for living outdoors. When I reached the bottom, my hands scraped against a sheepskin pocket. The soft material still held its shape, having uncannily protected the faded piece of paper within. The paper held words penned with a shaky hand.
BRIDGE FAMILY RULES, the first line read.
I scanned faster, hungry to taste more deeply.
The next line added, NEVER INTERFERE WITH PAST EVENTS.
More rules followed. And none of them made sense. Not a single Bridge family member had spoken to me since my birth, and yet this single piece of paper resembled an urgent warning from generations past.
But what did these rules mean then? Why had this pack been hidden and marked on a map? Who was meant to find it?
A tendril of the Bridge family tree wrapped around me and tugged, and I eagerly followed it down to the rotted root.
