The Bridge of Saint Cleareyes

[Lukc]

The folk call it Bridge.
The clerks call it Saint Cleareyes.
Built, burnt, and rebuilt. There has always been a town at this opalescent bridge. Its metal struts resist the weight of years though the river below shifts from swift flow to murky mire and back again carving its way to the sea.
The town has always been small. Important but limited by geography to always be the pawn, at best the rook, of either the Western City or the Eastern City.
When the burners come the natives fly to the thick-wooded hills like carrion crows from their carcass at the coming of a catamount.
Always the burners leave and the natives return.
Always some stain of the old days remains in the brooding woods, in the buckled mountains, in the banshee caves.
Always the witches remain.
Remain, and sometimes return. Like this October.