When all of us made it down there, the sunrise was in the water. The expanded river was burning; it was alight with the plumes of dawn, and the bridge was still submerged—but intact, and made of him. The bridge was made of Clay, and you know what they say about clay, don’t you?
Could he walk across the Amahnu?
Could he be better than a human, for a moment?
The answer, of course, was no, at least to that final question, and now we saw it up close.
* * *
—
In the last of our footsteps he heard them:
More words they’d said here in Silver.
I’d die to find greatness, like the David someday….
But we live the lives of the Slaves.
The dream was now over and answered.
He would never walk over that water—a miracle made of a bridge—and nor would any of the rest of us; for in the fire the arches were set with, where the river and stone held him upright, was someone so true and miraculous, and something I’ll never forget:
Of course, it could only be him.
Yes, him, and he stood like a statue, just as sure as he’d stood in a kitchen. He was watching and chewing, and nonchalant—with that customary look in the thatch of his face—flare-nostriled, controlled to the end:
He had water and dawn all around him; the level an inch up his legs—his hooves on river and bridge. Till soon he was moved to speak. His usual pair of questions, mid-chew, and a mulish grin:
What? he said, from the firelight.
What’s so unusual about this?
If he was here to test Clay’s bridge for him—if that was why he’d come—we can only agree and admit to it; he was doing a bloody good job.
In the end, there was one river, one bridge and one mule, but this isn’t the end, it’s after it, and here I am, in the kitchen, in the morning, with the bright backyard behind me. The sun is steadily rising.
As it is, I really couldn’t say anymore:
Just how long it’s been.
How many nights have I sat here, in this kitchen that’s seen our lives? It’s been a woman telling us she would die, and a father come home to face us. It’s where Clay had the fire roared into his eyes, and that’s just a few of many. Most recently it’s been four of us; four Dunbar boys and our father, all standing, and waiting, together—
But then there’s only this left; I sit, I’m punching away. After coming back home from Featherton, with a typewriter, a dog, and a snake, I’ve been here night for night, with everyone else asleep, to write the story of Clay.
And how can I even begin?
How do I tell you the after-parts, in our lives since the bridge was finished?
Once, in the tide of Dunbar past, he came home to us here on Archer Street, then left us, we were certain, forever;
and the years brought many things with them.
* * *
—
In the beginning, when we left the river, Clay had hugged our father, and kissed Achilles’s cheek. (That scoundrel out in his moment—he’d come back to us quite reluctantly.) For Clay there was uncharted triumph, such wonder at what he’d seen. Then incurable, bottomless sadness. Where did he go from here?