A stern letter to the drawbridge operator

Sara: Mom, can we do the yellow book tonight?

Mom: Sure, but I thought you didn't like it?

Sara: Yeah, I know. It's weird, but I -- it's different than the other ones. I wanna try it again.

Mom: Alright, let me find -- okay, here's the next story:

Alfonso grew potatoes. His hands were thick and stained from the work; his soil knew him well. Every Thursday morning he loaded his cart with the week's harvest and set out for the castle.

The castle sat gray and indifferent on the horizon. In its black moat, three familiar crocodiles awaited Alfonso and his precious potatoes.

Each Thursday, as soon as Alfonso hauled his potato cart halfway across the bridge, the drawbridge operator engaged the trap mechanism to dump him into the crocodile-infested sewage.

Alfonso had been swimming like that every Thursday for three years now. He never sold a single potato.

He was no merchant -- that much was plain. The good merchants passed over the bridge with their wares and returned with their coins. Only Alfonso fell. Only Alfonso rose dripping from the moat with fewer fingers than before.

Some evenings, Alfonso would sit with his wife Maria. They ate meager meals prepared from their farm's waste. She would look at his beaten body and say nothing. There was nothing that needed saying. Men did what they did.

"The potatoes are good this year," Alfonso would tell her.

"Yes," she would say. "Very good."

He worked harder. Dawn to darkness, bent like a question mark over his fields. The other farmers couldn't bear to watch. Alfonso was killing himself for potatoes that fed only crocodiles.

But Alfonso had ideas. He collected scrap iron from behind the blacksmith's shop. He studied the movement of water in irrigation ditches. By spring, he had built a machine that could harvest a whole row while he walked alongside it. The village children often followed him through the fields, checking for telltale signs of rumored witchcraft.

Production tripled. The cart grew so heavy he had to reinforce its axles with strips of iron.

Thursday came. The drawbridge operator pulled the lever. Alfonso fell.

Years repeated like this. Alfonso invented machines, cultivated new varieties of potatoes, and openly shared his wisdom. Everywhere, potato plants erupted from the earth. During the winters, farmers from faraway lands made potato pilgrimages to study his techniques.

He never spoke of Thursdays.

He hated those crocs. He knew their movements, their preferences. Clara liked the small red potatoes. Max preferred the yellow ones. Little Boots would eat anything.

Other merchants passed, carrying wine and silk -- the stuff of easier trades. They stopped helping Alfonso out of that muck years ago.

On Thursday nights, Maria remained permanently unfazed. She expected her husband to come home wet and penniless, reeking of sweat and sewage.

Alfonso should consider writing a stern letter to the drawbridge operator.

Sara: What happens next, Mom?

Mom: That's the end of the story.

Sara: I don't like it. That's a sad ending.

Mom: Yes, and you can decide what happens next. That's what bedtime dreams are for.

Sara: Does that mean I'm Alfonso?

Mom: Yes, I think everybody is Alfonso sometimes.

Sara: Then who is Maria?

Mom: I think you're Maria too.

Sara: Hmm. If I'm Alfonso and Maria, then who is the nasty drawbridge person?

Mom: Who do you think?

Sara: Is it me?

Mom: Yeah -- I think so.

Sara: Mom, I don't like it.

Mom: I know, I know. None of us do.

Sara: So why do you -- why do we do it?

Mom: It's -- I don't know -- it's a mystery, I guess. Grownups don't know everything. Maybe you can help me figure it out?

Sara: Sure, it's not that hard -- the story just needs a happy ending. I can do that.

Mom: You're so strong, darling. I love you. Goodnight.

Sara: Love you! Goodnight.