The Bridge-Repairing Monk

An ImaRead production · text & illustration by the production line

ImaReadFolio 02 — 06

Morning lessons before dawn: the monk and apprentice study bridge-drawings by candlelight in the monastery workshop.

On the pilgrimage road: two small figures walk toward the god-vast stone bridge silhouetted on the far horizon.

修桥的修士

In the age when the gods had not yet departed, every bridge in the valley kingdom was built by divine hands. Those stone arches hung high above deep gorges, wide enough for wagons to pass side by side, their faces carved with the marks of divine works; when sunlight fell on them, a faint gold would appear. People walking across lowered their voices, as if crossing over the ribs of a sleeping deity.

After the gods left, the bridges remained. Only no one knew how to repair them any longer. Cracks spread from the crown of the arch down to the piers; rain and wind washed the mortar from the seams; the carved divine marks grew ever more blurred from weathering. Villages became isolated, pilgrimage roads were cut, caravans of trade-goods detoured three times as far on foot. People gazed at those fractured stone bridges as they might gaze at an elder grown aged and silent — not knowing what to say, not daring to act.

In the valley monastery there lived the last stonemason monk. His name is of no importance here — what matters are his hands, those hands rough as sandstone worn by years, white stone-powder hidden in every crease of every knuckle. He was no longer young; his back had begun to bow; but when he bent to inspect a stone seam his eyes held the same focus as on his first day in the trade. Hanging from his tool belt were a chisel, a hammer, a measuring cord, and a small prayer book. That prayer book had been passed to him by his master; his master's master's handwriting still showed on the first page, the ink faded to a pale brown, the paper thinned to near translucence.

Before dawn the workshop was still dark, the candle flame lighting an ancient bridge-drawing on parchment in orange and deep shadow. The monk bent over the table, his finger moving along the arch on the drawing, pressing to a stop at one point, and in a low voice he indicated it to the apprentice behind him — the position of the keystone, the throat of the whole bridge. The apprentice was young, his face still somewhat round; he stood at attention a half-step behind his master, his hands resting on a folded tool belt, his eyes following the pointing finger across the drawing, not speaking. The two counted out new chisels and measuring cord, then together turned the prayer book from its first page to the last, and that was all. When gold light filtered in through the gap of the arched doorway, the monk rolled up the drawing, the apprentice shouldered his pack, and they set out.

ImaRead2

ImaReadFolio 03 — 06

Plate

Arrival at the first cracked god-bridge: the monk lays his hand on the edge of the long crack, listening.

Prompt

ImaReadFolio 04 — 06

Plate

Prayers before the broken-sword shrine: master and apprentice kneel and read the surviving prayers aloud together.

Prompt

ImaReadFolio 05 — 06

The apprentice sets the first replacement stone: both hands press stone into seam while the monk guides his elbow in silence.

ImaReadFolio 06 — 06

The repaired bridge reopens to traffic: pilgrims and pack animals cross while the monk and apprentice watch from the side.

At the foot of the bridge the apprentice truly understood what "you will know when you arrive" had meant. The bridge was more solemn than any building — the stone arch spanned a deep gorge; along the crown were carved divine marks, the largest as wide as a palm, the smallest like ants. Across the bridge deck ran a long crack, starting at the keystone and extending east and west; within the crack lay a dim golden dust. The monk stopped and looked up for a long time, then slowly bent down and laid his palm against the edge of the crack, closed his eyes for a moment, as though listening. The apprentice gripped his shoulder straps with both hands and also looked up, saying nothing.

The inspection was slow. The monk knelt on the bridge deck, the chisel tapping lightly along the crack, the measuring cord drawn from one end of the seam to the other — pulled taut, relaxed, pulled taut again — his mouth murmuring fragments of a prayer. The apprentice crouched beside him, handing tools, recording; sometimes he raised his eyes to the divine marks on the stone face and looked at them for a long while, as if trying to read a script nearly lost. Stone dust fell; the direction of the crack was outlined by the cord; the afternoon light fell obliquely on the bridge deck, pulling the shadows of the two long.

When the inspection ended the monk stood; his gaze did not immediately leave the crack. Then he pointed to a small path beside the bridge and the apprentice followed. By the path there was a stone shrine set into a stone wall; inside it was enshrined a broken sword. The hilt was intact, the crossguard still held faint gilded decoration; the blade was broken two-thirds of the way above the guard, the broken edge sharp and clean, as if cut by some deliberate act rather than snapped. In the shrine were a few candles, their grey-white wax tears hardened on the stone altar, a faded red cloth hanging behind the broken sword. The monk knelt before the shrine, opened the prayer book, and read aloud in a low voice. The apprentice knelt beside him and read along; at a few points he met an unfamiliar word and paused; the monk, without lifting his head, slowed to wait for him. When the reading was done the monk closed the book and studied the broken sword for a long while. He extended his right hand and held it in the space above the blade — but did not touch it; only held it there; then after a moment let it fall.

The real construction began after dawn on the second day. Building the wooden scaffolding upward from the gorge floor was the most precarious section of this kind of work. Several villagers came to help, silently taking ropes, passing planks, steadying supports. The sound of water rose from underfoot; the apprentice stood at such a height for the first time, both hands gripping a cross-beam, feet on a plank, feeling the plank's slight tremor. The mortar bucket hung on the pulley rope and slowly rose, the rope pulled taut and emitted a low groan. The monk stood on the highest beam below the arch, his left hand pressing a freshly cut repair stone against the interior of the arch, his right hand steadying, giving instructions in a low voice. Suddenly a rope-knot snapped taut, the scaffolding gave a light shudder, and the apprentice tilted slightly to the side — the monk turned, pressed a palm to his shoulder, pinned him against the side stone of the arch, and waited for the swaying to stop. The two exchanged a look; the monk said nothing more, simply turned back and went on checking the position of the stone.

The keystone was set before noon on the third day. The new repair stone's dimensions matched the original seam; its face bore a newly cut motif following the style of the surrounding divine marks — not a copy, but a continuation. The monk stepped aside and made the repair stone's position over to the apprentice, took a half-step back, and said in a low voice: You do it. The apprentice supported the stone with both hands and slowly pushed it into the seam. The fitting of stone to crack was gradual, needing adjustment little by little; the monk reached in from the side, lightly touching the apprentice's elbow to indicate the angle, without speaking. The moment the stone settled finally into place, neither of them moved. The monk's lips moved lightly, reciting the last line of a surviving prayer; the apprentice this time did not hesitate and spoke the final words with him.

That night the master and apprentice camped on a stone ledge by the bridge. The candle was set on an iron holder; its circle of light was small, just enough to illuminate the pages of the prayer book. The monk opened the book again and read from the beginning — not because he had forgotten, but because it was the custom: every night before the completion of a repair, the prayers were to be read through once, as though speaking a lost conversation aloud again for the stone to hear. The apprentice sat behind him and followed silently, occasionally reading aloud, his voice low, carried away by the night wind. The candle flame swayed in the wind and did not go out. In the distance, the outline of the now-repaired bridge was a stretch of deep black within the night; the sound of the water below still flowed. When the reading was done the monk closed the book, said nothing, and did not immediately lie down — only sat there, looking in the direction of the bridge.

On the morning of the fourth day, the first people to cross the bridge were a few pilgrims, packs on their backs, wooden staves in hand; as they stepped onto the bridge deck they visibly slowed, looking down at the repair stone beneath their feet. Behind them came a few pack animals loaded with goods, then villagers; someone on this side of the bridge pressed palms together toward the monk and the apprentice, without speaking. The monk stood at the side of the bridge, the measuring cord still in his hand, his face without expression, only watching the road reconnect. The apprentice stood beside him, his practice hammer still in hand, also watching. The light that morning was good, falling across the newly cut marks on the repair stone; the shadows in the incisions made the freshly carved words appear clearer against the surrounding old stone.

When they left, the monk and apprentice shouldered their packs and turned onto the next stretch of the pilgrimage road. The apprentice walked a few steps, turned his head to look back at the bridge — the long crack was now a line almost invisible, filled with new mortar and the repair stone. The monk did not look back; he walked ahead, staff tapping the earth, steps steady. The valley ahead was deeper; within the layered blue of the distant mountains, the outline of the next bridge was already faintly visible — the same stone arch, the same divine relic, the same crack waiting. The apprentice quickened his steps and caught up; the two walked shoulder to shoulder into the valley. The outline of the bridge behind them grew smaller and smaller; the outline of the bridge ahead grew larger and larger; and the pilgrimage road itself remained, always, the one road.