The River
Bryan McGuiness
Bryan McGuiness
Five years ago, when I first met my wife, she took me to her place of work. It was an angry river, full of the spring thaw from the mountains. I was impressed. She took me downstream in a raft. This was her job. She guided adventurous tourists through white water rapids all summer. In the winter she would return to the city and wait for the new season. The power of the old river had a profound hold on her. Its ancient magic pulled her back every year. At the end of a season her energy faded little by little, day by day. She would close her eyes and imagine the river. The memory of its vigour invigorated and refreshed her. I lived in the city where the river was a wide languorous being, slow and lazy, full of secrets. We missed each other in tourist season. My job at the University required year round attendance. The river connected us. It was like a vein that linked her heart to mine. The river could only ever bring her closer to me. At the University I investigated samples of water taken from the river. I measured and weighed the various substances it yielded. Few interesting secrets were afforded me. I found the usual trace elements, the usual bacteria and the usual diesel pollution. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would tell me anything about the soul of the river. My wife told me the soul of the river was upstream. It preferred not to live with the city on its banks. The soul of the river lived in the mountains. I believed her. One evening after work I was walking home along the riverbank. The sun was low and the orange light was spectacular on the mountains. I stopped in a little park and sat on a bench to gaze out across the river. There were pleasure boats and fishing boats side by side on the water. Suddenly somebody poked me sharply in the back of my head. I jerked around to see the barrel of a pistol levelled at my face. I could not take my eyes from it. A hand gripped my shoulder, pulled me to my feet. I was marched backwards into the river. My head was tipped up by the gun pressed hard under my chin. My jacket was removed. From the corner of my eye I could see the tops of the mountains. The dying sun had set them on fire. I remembered my wife. The river foamed and rushed through chasms in the mountains so deep sometimes it was impossible to see the sky. We travelled so fast and fell so quickly down the waterfalls and rapids. I marvelled that our little raft could stay afloat and protect us so well. The might of the river, the power of its natural soul overwhelmed me. I became its son. While I thought of this I could still feel the cool metal of the pistol at my throat. My trouser pockets were being emptied. The thief skimmed a coin across the surface of the water. It sank quickly. I heard the rush of white water in my ears. I could hear the noise of the river of the mountains descending from its heights. It had come to claim me at the last. We fell. The river closed over our heads. When I surfaced the thief was gone. On the park bench was my jacket. I waded to shore, looked back at the river. Nothing stirred its slow dark surface. © Bryan McGuiness All Rights Reserved www.millionstories.net |
| We like this story because: It invokes the passion and spirit of the elemental forces of nature. The river in the story is a character with as much personality as any other. |
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