# 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.

<br/>

**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.