Flash Fiction: A River Once Ran Here
This story is part of "Where the Stars Used to Sing".
The silver waters of the Eshmarashja gave us immortality. For as long as we could remember, the river had waxed and waned like the moon; drawing closer to the village before retreating again to leave fine, white sand in its wake. We drank the silver water, kept our youth, danced in the light of the full moon with silver bells around our wrists and ankles, and splashed in the shallows.
Those of us who had been alive before the silver waters came, pushed the memories of those Shadow Years from our minds, never speaking of the darkness or the scars of time to those who came after; rather hiding the thoughts like a half-forgotten trinket in an old chest. Then the day came when the river did not come to us as the moon’s shadow retreated.
Still, we put on our dresses woven of silver light and the silver bells and did the twirling, swirling Ariashja Dance. But the water didn’t come. We danced a second night to no avail, and, when the sun finally lit the Musjianu Woods and Surusjadu Mountain from which the silver water flowed, we trudged along the dry river bed that meandered through the woods.
The white silt beneath our feet slowly turned to mud that steadily grew wetter and wetter as we stumbled along. When the sun rested high above the horizon, we could finally drink of the water. Gulping it down gleefully, we splashed in the water; our feet too tired to dance. Some hung silver ribbons and bells from the trees on the riverbank and let the wind play its own tune as it swayed the leaves and branches of the old birch and oak trees.
The river’s water waned as the moon waxed, withdrawing further and further from us. It seemed as if years passed before the moon waned once more. This time, we waited on the riverbank for the moon to send the Eshmarashja’s waters to us, stealing glances at the distant opal-white peak of Surusjadu. Old memories of the Shadow Years stirred silently within our breasts and were left unspoken even though the other elders’ eyes held the same fear I knew they could see reflected in mine.
When the water didn’t come on that first night even though we danced and danced until our rushing blood and pounding hearts filled our ears, we set out once more. We would go to the Eshmarashja if its silver waters wouldn’t come to us.
As we walked along the riverbed the only sound was the silver bells we still wore. Even the trees of the Musjianu stood as silent sentinels. We walked and walked, further and further away from the village, passing the oaks with their silver ribbons, the birches wearing silent silver bells, only hastening once the riverbed turned damp and cold.
We reached the water thirsty and lightheaded, drinking deep from the water we scooped up with cupped hands, splashing the shallow waters on our faces, dancing with tired legs and blistered feet that the Eshmarashja healed.
The moon waxed and the moon waned and we dressed in silver, tied what we needed in bundles carried on our backs, and went in search of the receding silver waters. Our lives soon took on a new routine as we travelled further from the village to find the water each time the moon waned. The Surusjadu towered in the distance and seemed unchanged as we travelled towards it. All too soon we no longer returned to the village when the moon waxed. We danced less and less until, one month, no one bothered to dance at all. Our old festivities faded to little more than a bittersweet memory of a pleasant dream.
When we finally reached the opal-white foot of the Surusjadu, the silver water was there; flowing from the rock to collect in a deep well before making its way to the damp riverbed where it seeped into the sand. The sky was clear but here the smell of rain filled my senses and made me forget for a moment about my aching feet, my dust-stained dress, and the tattered bells still tied to my wrist. Yet my sorrow, though hidden, remained. Even while the others drank deep, my thoughts turned towards the sorrow that ached in my chest as I realised that this was truly all that remained of the Eshmarashja, all that remained of the respite after the Shadow Years. That the Shadow Years would return.
I filled a bottle with the silver water before drinking deeply one last time. Then, while the others were still drinking and dancing, I slipped away; retracing my steps along the dry riverbed. Beneath the oak trees crowded on the riverbank, one of the old, small boats still lay. Its wood was moss-covered and worn to silver-grey, but it would do.
Placing the bottle of water in the boat, I plaited the wild vines into long reins, and whistled and called in the tongue of the owls. Seven answered me, gliding closer in the fading light beneath the trees.
“Adventure!” they hooted among themselves and hopped-flew between the oak branches. “Adventures in the great beyond!”
Picking up one of the acorns on the riverbank while the owls came closer, I weighed it in my palm before dropping it into my pocket. I slipped the harnesses and reins onto the owls and climbed into the boat. With a last look back and a silent farewell we were off, soaring into the sky, trailing the glittering, silver-white silt behind us as we headed towards the moon.
Soon everything around is were a deep black – all except for the shining moon before us and our single sun far behind. At my feet, the silver water pulsed with light. I picked the bottle up, held it in front of me, and gazed at the light for what seemed like years before removing the cork. With one wild swing of my arm I scattered the silver water into the sky. The droplets remained suspended, pulsing their light for all to see, highlights against the black backdrop of space. Then I saw it in the distance – a tiny, light-blue dot suspended within the vastness. The owls must have seen it as well; they were already heading towards it, the silver droplets swirling in our wake.
As we neared the blue planet, I looked down at my now wrinkled and age-spotted hands holding the reins before some green broke up the monotonous blue surface of the planet far below. But my journey was not yet done.
Taking the acorn from my pocket, I dropped it, watching as it tumbled to the planet’s surface until I couldn’t see it anymore. But it would remember. Onwards.
Sleep came slowly. I laid down in the boat and, as I drifted off, I thought I heard the bells of the Ariashja dance in the distance and wondered whether someone would one day find the old village, the ribbon-decked oak trees, our footprints in the dried mud by the waterless fountain, and hear the echoes of our songs, of the silver bells, if they would remember that we were there. If they would stand on the dry riverbed and say, “A river once ran here.”
