The Bridge That Wasn’t a Bridge

Fenn wanted to build a bridge. This was a difficult ambition for an Iguanodon, especially when the materials were three branches, one slippery log, and a stream that had grown wider after rain. Across the water lay the group’s favourite browsing patch. Fenn’s friend Cora wanted to wade straight through. They had been discussing the choices for so long that neither remembered who had first suggested going there for breakfast.

“A bridge means dry feet,” Fenn insisted. Cora stepped toward the bank, then stopped when the mud sank under her toes. “Dry feet aren’t everything.” Their aunt Bayleaf arrived before either could try anything. She inspected the water and the loose log. “Nobody crosses here,” she said. The current curled hard around the stones. Fenn felt relieved that Cora’s plan was rejected. Then Bayleaf added, “And nobody steps on that log.”

They watched their entire argument collapse at once. Fenn looked at his branches. He had pictured a magnificent walkway, with himself waiting proudly at the far end. Cora had pictured proving that the direct route was quickest. Neither picture included the possibility that both plans were bad. Bayleaf asked what they actually needed. “A bridge,” said Fenn. “To get across,” Cora corrected. Bayleaf waited. “Food,” they both admitted at last.

The adult led them away from the bank. Along the path they found a few suitable plants, but not enough for a comfortable long stop. Fenn kept glancing at the opposite side. Cora did too. At a bend upstream, the stream spread across a wide bed of pebbles. The water looked slower, although appearances could be misleading. Bayleaf examined it from several points and tested the approach carefully. She said they would watch for a while before deciding.

Fenn was tired of watching. Cora suggested they compare what the water carried. A leaf shot through the narrow channel below them. Another drifted more slowly across the broad pebble bed. They noticed a deeper strip near the far bank and a shallow tongue of water farther upstream. Fenn described the different routes with lines scraped in dry sand. His bridge-building imagination had finally found something useful to build: a picture everyone could understand.

Bayleaf added the places where the bank was firm and the places where it might crumble. Cora spotted that one line in Fenn’s picture led toward an unexpected drop. They changed it together. Fenn did not mind the correction as much as he expected. The plan was becoming safer because someone else could see what he had missed. Bayleaf decided that the broad, shallow crossing was suitable if they went slowly, stayed together, and followed her route.

Just before they started, Cora looked downstream. A younger Iguanodon had arrived with her father and was staring at the same slippery log. Fenn called them over and showed the picture in the sand. The father checked the crossing himself before joining. Now the group had two adults and a clear path. Bayleaf went first. Water brushed Fenn’s feet, cool and gentle on the broad pebble bed. He concentrated on each step and kept away from the deeper strip.

At the far bank Cora waited beside him while the others crossed. The youngest stopped halfway, uncertain about the moving water. Fenn wanted to hurry her, but remembered how useless hurried arguments had been. He simply stood where she could see him. Her father stayed beside her, and she continued when ready. Nobody arrived with perfectly dry feet. Everyone arrived safely. The plants beyond the bank tasted particularly good after the long morning.

On the way home they used the same crossing, after the adults checked it again. Fenn’s lines had disappeared from the sand. That did not matter; everyone remembered the route. Cora asked whether he still wanted to build a bridge someday. “Maybe,” he said. “But first I’ll ask what we need it for.” She laughed and splashed one foot in a shallow puddle. Fenn let the splash reach him. A little water, he had discovered, was far better than a very grand mistake.