London Bridge in Plague and Fire: A Novel

4. Morgan Wood, a Child of the Bridge, at Sea

4 Morgan Wood, a CHiLd oF THe Bridge, aT Sea Morgan Wood stood on the deck of the Polestar, trying to pretend that he was within hours of standing on the Bridge. under his feet, he felt again the Bridge begin to fall. “London Bridge is falling down,” he said again, as if to his mother, who had, singing, taught him to sing the song. at sea for seven years, when that song came out of his mouth, as it often did, he always remembered meeting the ancient Chronicler of London Bridge a few months before he left home to go to sea. “one day, when you are walking, the very shuddering picture of recklessness, along the spine of the roadway, looking all around and up, as is your wont, i will call down to you from this window and summon you to tell you that the time has come.” Morgan had let his silence stand for the question, “For what?” But as Lloyd Braintree had let his own silence match the boy’s, Morgan had faintly sensed the answer, before he finally gave it. “My own son, as you know, seems convinced that the spirit of the lyric poets abides in him, and that the London Bridge Chronicle, one of the great Chronicles of the civilized world, our legacy, handed down in secrecy from generation to generation—” here he took Morgan’s hands and clapped the palms firmly upon his skull—“as merely the recording of facts without fancy, is unworthy of his attention. You, on Morgan Wood, a CHiLd oF THe Bridge, aT Sea 54 the other hand, look upon the Bridge as very much only there, there under your feet, under your gaze, and i imagine it one day under your hand, under your command—in names, dates, numbers, facts. “i have never forgotten what your mother told me a week or so after your family moved onto the Bridge, that when you first stepped out of the London streets onto the bridge foot, you exclaimed, ‘Mother, London Bridge is falling down.’ Watching you daily from this window, i know in my bones that you were not resorting to metaphor. For you, as for me, the Bridge is actual, and only actual, ergo, for me, you are the heir to the Chronicle. But you must swear to keep even that fact secret.” Morgan wanted to remove his hands from the Chronicler’s skull. “May i see it?” “You are touching it. i have memorized it all, from 1209 to this very day, even as i recorded each fact. and to you, one day, i will dictate it, word for word.” “How long have you lived on London Bridge?” “almost a thousand years—fifty generations.” “Yes, i see.” “in the sense that my ancestors have either lived or worked—but mostly lived and, of course, worked here—and that i know that to be true in my very bones. My family history has preserved that fact and i am very proud.” “i don’t know how long my family has lived in London. They never told me.” “did you ever ask?” “no.” “Probably, they are a new family and came to London from somewhere Without the gates after their marriage. To start a life together. “My life work has been London Bridge Chronicler. a Herculean task embraced while yet a boy, willingly, with all my heart. My personal Chronicle nears 69. We are chosen not by any proven skills as scriveners but by the Chronicler’s sense that yon youth has a feeling for the Bridge that marks him as one of us. Thus, i have summoned you here.” Feeling so marked, Morgan stepped back, and looked wildly around as if to reach for someone to testify to the contrary. 55 Morgan Wood, a CHiLd oF THe Bridge, aT Sea But Morgan humored the old man, who swore him to secrecy. He had descended—passing daryl Braintree, the dissolute-looking, stinking , poet son of the Chronicler on the third of five flights of nonesuch House—passed through the antiquarian bookshop and bindery onto the Bridge roadway, pridefully elated. a few months later, he was on a ship bound for every port—it seemed now, seven years later—in the charted world, apprenticed by his father to goldsmith Clinkenbeard. “i was only just able to buy this shop on the Bridge because i promised you to Mister...