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THE RIVER SPEAKS
THE RIVER SPEAKS
Just a simple stroll on a sleepless winter night. My only comfort — a glowing cigarette whose orange tip challenged the sharp air that stung my ears.
Big decisions have a tendency to make me restless, focussing upon all sorts of distractions that come like demi-devils to keep me away from the real question that demands attention. I always tend to feel that if I deal with the little things, I will get to the main problem with a solution faster. Then I work relentlessly in distraction because in reality, there is never an easy answer to the devil of a challenge.
Having worked until 01:30 a.m. there are no street lamps, just the stars and a moon when it manages to show its cold face in between the scurrying high clouds. I have a routine. When sleeplessness falls upon me, I head for the river bridge and hang my head over the ancient rusting rail that straddles its side walls to gaze into the restless eternity of the river which never sleeps.
Ripples glint under a shy moon over yellow stones as trapped twigs and leaves dance in the flow. I arrive in search of peace and, as a distraction, I light another smoke, inhaling from the pure white roll of tobacco that serves as another delaying tactic. Beauty burns, as does pleasure, which, like the ripples of currant, flows below me. I can never catch an answer to my problem and hence, cannot prolong my peace or pleasure.
After a few minutes I almost unconsciously ask aloud in clouds of breath, “What the hell brought me to this point in this place?” Slightly shocked at my own impromptu question, I notice the culling silence around me, except for the voice of the water that gulps and gasps as if fighting for a life it can never have.
It is then, whilst listening intently, that I heard an answer to my question. A voice that started ahead of me from where I looked, getting closer and passing to flow from behind me in a fading, softer tone. I would never have heard it had I not been aware of that river so intensely. In a mixture of disbelief and shock, and maybe with a little fear, I blurted out a challenge. “What the hell?”
Flicking ash into the river, I heard a groan of complaint that again faded away behind me. I automatically looked back to catch the source of the sound to see nothing. It was then that the voice came clearly in a passing way. “Have you no respect for yourself?” I exclaimed. “Jesus, who are you?”
I confess to feeling a little shaken and suddenly the bare willow branches that curved over that speeding river seemed more threatening. This was no longer the place of refuge and peace. It was now a place of challenge with a sinister air. I heard the church clock from a few hundred yards away chime two o’clock, as I shuddered against the growing cold that rose from the water into the very walls of the bridge.
For a moment I couldn’t move. I wanted to walk away, but somehow something held me transfixed. “Who are you?” I asked. I waited for some minutes in silence; having decided that I had deceived myself, I then turned to walk away. It was then that the voice came again.
“I am Josh Shepherd, husband to Mary and father of four, all who are swept from this place. Now we are the spirit of the river, ever contained in between the banks of our time.”
Now I was scared stupid. It was as if the river had adopted a voice. I asked if I could see him, and he answered in telling me that I must look into and beyond the water. This I did. Slowly, the water grew deeper and darker, flowing faster. I seemed to have arrived at a different place on a different night and could not turn away. It was then that a child’s arm rose from the water struggling. I, for a fraction in time, saw a boy’s face that disappeared with the flow.
I closed my eyes for a moment and upon opening them, my hands were gripping that iron rail, and icy cold I felt as if the blood had drained from my arms. I was back in my own time and all was as it was when I had arrived. It was then that I knew the answer I had been seeking and turned to leave that strange place. As I walked away, I called back to the river that I was sorry and thanked it for its words.
I woke up late that morning and drew my bedroom curtains to look across the field that lies in front of my house where sheep were grazing. On the lower side of the field runs the River Piddle. There, on the bank under the willows, stood a man looking back at me. With him was the unmistakable form of my son who had died three days before.
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Just a simple stroll on a sleepless winter night. My only comfort — a glowing cigarette whose orange tip challenged the sharp air that stung my ears.
Big decisions have a tendency to make me restless, focussing upon all sorts of distractions that come like demi-devils to keep me away from the real question that demands attention. I always tend to feel that if I deal with the little things, I will get to the main problem with a solution faster. Then I work relentlessly in distraction because in reality, there is never an easy answer to the devil of a challenge.
Having worked until 01:30 a.m. there are no street lamps, just the stars and a moon when it manages to show its cold face in between the scurrying high clouds. I have a routine. When sleeplessness falls upon me, I head for the river bridge and hang my head over the ancient rusting rail that straddles its side walls to gaze into the restless eternity of the river which never sleeps.
Ripples glint under a shy moon over yellow stones as trapped twigs and leaves dance in the flow. I arrive in search of peace and, as a distraction, I light another smoke, inhaling from the pure white roll of tobacco that serves as another delaying tactic. Beauty burns, as does pleasure, which, like the ripples of currant, flows below me. I can never catch an answer to my problem and hence, cannot prolong my peace or pleasure.
After a few minutes I almost unconsciously ask aloud in clouds of breath, “What the hell brought me to this point in this place?” Slightly shocked at my own impromptu question, I notice the culling silence around me, except for the voice of the water that gulps and gasps as if fighting for a life it can never have.
It is then, whilst listening intently, that I heard an answer to my question. A voice that started ahead of me from where I looked, getting closer and passing to flow from behind me in a fading, softer tone. I would never have heard it had I not been aware of that river so intensely. In a mixture of disbelief and shock, and maybe with a little fear, I blurted out a challenge. “What the hell?”
Flicking ash into the river, I heard a groan of complaint that again faded away behind me. I automatically looked back to catch the source of the sound to see nothing. It was then that the voice came clearly in a passing way. “Have you no respect for yourself?” I exclaimed. “Jesus, who are you?”
I confess to feeling a little shaken and suddenly the bare willow branches that curved over that speeding river seemed more threatening. This was no longer the place of refuge and peace. It was now a place of challenge with a sinister air. I heard the church clock from a few hundred yards away chime two o’clock, as I shuddered against the growing cold that rose from the water into the very walls of the bridge.
For a moment I couldn’t move. I wanted to walk away, but somehow something held me transfixed. “Who are you?” I asked. I waited for some minutes in silence; having decided that I had deceived myself, I then turned to walk away. It was then that the voice came again.
“I am Josh Shepherd, husband to Mary and father of four, all who are swept from this place. Now we are the spirit of the river, ever contained in between the banks of our time.”
Now I was scared stupid. It was as if the river had adopted a voice. I asked if I could see him, and he answered in telling me that I must look into and beyond the water. This I did. Slowly, the water grew deeper and darker, flowing faster. I seemed to have arrived at a different place on a different night and could not turn away. It was then that a child’s arm rose from the water struggling. I, for a fraction in time, saw a boy’s face that disappeared with the flow.
I closed my eyes for a moment and upon opening them, my hands were gripping that iron rail, and icy cold I felt as if the blood had drained from my arms. I was back in my own time and all was as it was when I had arrived. It was then that I knew the answer I had been seeking and turned to leave that strange place. As I walked away, I called back to the river that I was sorry and thanked it for its words.
I woke up late that morning and drew my bedroom curtains to look across the field that lies in front of my house where sheep were grazing. On the lower side of the field runs the River Piddle. There, on the bank under the willows, stood a man looking back at me. With him was the unmistakable form of my son who had died three days before.
© All Rights Reserved
