Bainteimātzu

By Kelly Hellmuth   

I stand anxiously near the cliff’s edge, not daring to look down.

“What a sight to see, eh son?” My father slaps me on the back. I grasp the metal railing with all my strength, my hands sweating and my knuckles turning white. He reaches up and adjusts his hearing aid. “Time to take in all the sounds of untouched nature!”

The Kazurabashi bridges are ancient structures constructed entirely of enormous vines. The bridge itself seems to grow longer when I look across the open expanse. It sends my head spinning. When I look down, the Iya River rages menacingly, taunting and beckoning me to step out over its deadly waters.

My father stands next to me and reminds me that the Iya Valley is a place for us to marvel at the ingenuity of the past. To see how our family once lived and learned. So when the Japanese Bureau of Tourism reopened the Valley on the hundredth anniversary of its closing, of course, he bought tickets. I think he may have taken out a second mortgage on our home. I was excited at first. But then, people began to disappear inexplicably.

Rumors spread wildly. Some thought a cult had formed in the village across the bridge. Others blamed the wildlife. One social media influencer claimed that the vines themselves had grown wild and murderous, though he had no proof. My father argued that this was one of the more ridiculous ideas; I wasn’t so sure. Either way, our family history had long been intricately tied to the area, and he couldn’t be convinced to call it off.

And so now I stand here, unsure of what lies ahead. My father yanks my arm, eager to get to the villages on the other side. I hesitate. Who knows what this mysterious site holds?

“Let’s go, son. It’s just a bridge.”

I look down and see a rusted metal sign lying in the dirt, partially consumed by ground cover. The warning reads: “No technology allowed! Cross the bridge at your own risk! The Japanese Bureau of Tourism is not responsible for any death, injury, or dismemberment.” I take the warning seriously and point it out.

“Tourists are stupid, son. It’s just there for liability purposes.”

Still, I hesitate.

A few teen girls walk up behind us, laughing loudly. They must have bypassed the lockbox in the parking lot, because they all pull their phones out and begin taking pictures, ignoring the sign. One girl catches my eye. I watch as she pulls a golden flower clip out of her bag and pins her hair back. We smile at each other. I think I might like her if given a chance. She winks before turning back to her friends.

My father looks at the group with disdain and yells, “Didn’t you see the signs? No phones! And why do you have to be so loud? This is a sacred place!”

The girls roll their eyes and continue to chat, snapping a handful of selfies before they head out onto the bridge.

“Kids these days have no reverence for things of the past,” he says a little too loudly.

I’m a kid; sometimes, he forgets that. The girl with the golden flower clip looks back at me with a smirk, and my ears instantly grow hot. She steps onto the bridge last. I squirm as she leans over the edge to see the raging water below.

“Are you coming or not?” my father grunts as he follows them onto the bridge, adjusting his hearing aid volume again. My feet are firmly planted on the cliff’s edge, my hands on the vine rope railings. And I feel something alarming.

It’s almost imperceptible at first. But I can sense the entire bridge moving. Those walking on it don’t seem to notice at all. But I do. I can see the vines slink along each other, contracting and slithering along like snakes on a hunt. My stomach drops through my knees. They seem to be headed for the girls. For my father. My voice catches in my throat as I try to call out to the unsuspecting victims.

My father is still yelling at the girls for disobeying the rules, and they continue to ignore him. The vines have picked up speed, and I can feel their fury deep in my bones. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I break out in a cold sweat. I stare on in horror, helpless, as monstrous shoots spring up from the bridge, surrounding everyone on it. They strike all at once.

Every phone. My father’s hearing aid. The vines toss the devices into the violent river below as everyone on the bridge shrieks in terror. I can tell it’s not finished; the vines are still seething, but now, so am I. I grasp the vines tightly and yell one of the three words I know in Japanese: tomare!

Heat and light pulse from my hands into the vines as my fear and anxiety flow out of me in a rush. The bridge shudders, and the shoots threatening those on the bridge retreat back into their coils. My father rushes the girls back to solid ground, where I have collapsed onto my knees.

The girl with the golden flower clip stops. “How did you do that?”

I am out of breath, but I shake my head. “I have no idea.”

“Thank you for saving our lives.” Her friends echo and start to leave, but she stops. “I’m Sara.”

“Aiko.”

“I’d give you my number Aiko, but….”

“It’s fine.” I run my shaking hand through my hair and grin weakly.

Sara leans down and kisses me on the cheek before racing toward the parking lot with her friends. My father pulls my arm and helps me stand. We turn toward the bridge and watch it writhe and shudder.

“We can visit our ancestral home some other time,” he says. “Maybe I should tell you some of the family secrets first.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kelly Hellmuth writes flash fiction weekly with her friends over at Flash Fiction Magic on Instagram. She also is working on an upper middle grade novel and composes bad poetry in her spare time. In addition to writing, Kelly dabbles in arts of all kinds while taking care of her four kids and two dogs with her songwriting husband. She recently acquired a pottery wheel, on which she loves to make terrible mugs.

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