The River

The last thing I expected that morning, as I prepared myself to drown, was to hear the river speaking to me. But speak it did, with a voice rich and mellow yet ancient. A voice that spoke of a hundred thousand frozen winters, a hundred thousand flowing summers.

“You do not need to do this,” said the river.

And I paused, with one foot extended over the bank. The morning was still, fingers of frost still loosely gripping the rushes. There was no other person here, surely? I had carefully chosen this spot, this time. I looked around and the river spoke once more.

“You are not the first to come here with this in mind. But you do not need to do this.”

“Who are you? Where are you?” I looked around again.

“If you need to see me, you can.”

And then I saw him, a fleeting figure. He was constantly in motion, always just on the edge of vision. At times he would run and then spin, twist and turn. But always in the periphery. If I tried to watch him directly, he would spin away once more.

“Who are you?” I said. “Stand still. I can’t see you properly.” My breath came in short bursts and I shivered in the morning sunlight.

“I’ve been here all the time, young one. I am always here. I am the river. The river is me. But only those who need to see me in this body can do so. The only ones who hear me speak with this voice are those who should listen. I know why you came to this place today. You seek to die.”

“And I will do it, too. There’s nothing you or anyone can do to stop me.” I lifted my foot back up over the bank once more.

The voice increased in volume, suddenly, like the bursting of a dam.

“I was here before your kind,” he roared. “I will exist when you are dust. I bring life, but I can also bring death. I will do as I choose. And I choose not to take you this morning.”

I made to reply, but as he spoke I caught a glimpse of his face. A mixture of anger and concern crossed his features. My mortal’s words died in my throat.

“You are human,” he said, his voice calming, eyes deep and dark, “and as such you are cursed with free will. If you need to do this even I cannot stop you. But walk with me for a while. By sundown you can decide. If you still want to die then I will be merciful.”

So I walked with the river. At times he pushed ahead, and then he would fall behind, but always moving with an easy grace. Through the forest we made our way, voices echoing under the green canopy.

He spoke of his birth, too long ago for minds like mine to grasp. From infant spring to youthful brook. The marrying of tributaries. Meandering middle-age. But always moving, constantly in motion.

“Tell me, young one,” the river asked, as we left to cool of the forest and came across a wide open plain dotted with farms. “What brought you to me today?”

And I told him about my sorrows and broken-down dreams. I confessed every lie and replayed every sin. The promises I had made and swiftly broken. The plans that had never been realised. As we walked under the afternoon sun I told him about the people in my life over the years. Family, friends, lovers. Now gone. Forsaken, forgotten, unforgiving. All the emotions of the years welled up in me and I wept.

“You see,” I said, “I’ve made a mess of it all. Nothing good can happen. I don’t count for anything and no-one will miss me when I’ve gone.”
At that point the river seemed to slow. The wind dropped and even the birds were silent. As I looked into that ancient, all-knowing face I saw tears.

“You need to see this,” he said gently, with the voice of a hundred thousand languid autumns, a hundred thousand hopeful Springs.

And then, with the sun in the west, he showed me the sea.