River Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
The recent rains had caused the river to rise and flow more ferociously,
but the banks had not flooded. The rain
had been unusual, for it should have been snow, but the weather had been abnormally
warm.
The river was known for its transitive powers, providing wisdom
and introspection. It was said that to
see your reflection in the river was to know yourself. One man could discover his destiny while
another would see his inner failings.
The river was said to show you that what you were meant to see, whatever
that meant. An oracle without
accountability. Some would say it was
nothing but passing water. Any revelation
that was claimed was nothing but projection and conjecture. A man’s wishful thinking or his secret
fears. The water was just an excuse to
believe what you already wanted to believe.
Those with no faith can find the flaw in anything and can never truly
know anything. Those with unsubstantiated belief will find themselves the victims of
hope and hoax.
He arrived to sit at the river’s edge and
fast and meditate. He came seeking an
answer to the nature of his soul. He wasn’t
sure what to believe or what a mythical river could reveal, but he knew he
wanted to seek the truth.
The sun stood still in the sky.
It would stand still for three days. For three days he would sit still with it. On the third day it would rise and he would
rise as well and have his answers.
On the first night, the weather turned cold, like it should have
been all along. He shivered and shook,
but he did not waver in his dedication.
He had come for answers and the cold would not deter him.
The second day he grew tired and hungry and the headaches
began. His body was begging for relief,
but his will was stronger.
On the second night he had a dream. A woman arose from the river and crawled to
his side. She was young and beautiful
and fertile. He had hoped that they
would make love and that the dream would be no dream. She hadn’t come to fulfill some carnal
desire. She came to whisper a truth in
his ear – what was life and what was love and what it was that he truly
desired. He smiled as her whispering breath
tickled his earlobe. He had always loved
it when a woman had moved her lips and touched the softness of his skin. He enjoyed the moist lick of her tongue and
was aroused as her breath transferred to his skin. To have his flesh nibbled on and possibly bitten
harder than he should want, and being given the sharp reminder of life, and of erotic
pain that is pure pleasure. He woke and
could not remember her words, but could still feel the warmth of her breath.
On that third day he found inner peace. His hunger subsided and the pain of
dehydration was forgotten. He reflected on the beauty of nature and the simplicity
and order of life. He watched the
seeming chaotic flight of passing birds and saw structure he had never noticed
before. It made him happy.
On the third night, he had a vision. A serpent slipped from the river and slithered
towards him. It was sinister and
methodical in its approach. His fear
told him to run, but something, be it fear or free will, bid him stay. The serpent struck. It was terrible. It was painful. But god, it felt great.
The next morning, the sun began its rise in the sky. The days would be longer. The days would grow warmer before too
long. The world would bloom and grow and
be reborn.
He looked at his face in the river for a very long time. He contemplated purpose. Some men are capable of great things. Others of great pain and destruction. The choice was simple, a love of life or a
love of death. He had wondered what the
nature of his soul was. He had wanted
the water to tell him that what he was afraid to decide on his own.
The river was no more an oracle than any common mirror. All it did was reflect and offer the choice
of what to believe. He had seen what he
needed to see and learned what he wanted to know.
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