This River Awakens

by Steven Erikson

I

  I wasn’t to hear what had happened at the Loupers’ until almost a week later. Days passed without seeing Jennifer and it didn’t bother me at all. In fact, as much as I enjoyed our times together, my mind was often drawn away, unscrolling in strange directions. The days seemed all too short, summer racing past all too quickly, and it made me feel uneasy as every word I devoured seemed to be pushing inside, forcing some kind of change.

  The first book I’d chosen to read, Les Misérables, was a handful. The writing was dense, the story in some ways simple but in other ways anything but. My mind dwelt in a country far away, in a history I knew nothing about. Too late, I realised I should have tackled the history books first. I kept reading, determined to finish the book before I went on to the next one. The stranger with his gifts had been older than me, a lifetime gathered behind him. Or her – Les Misérables sometimes felt like a romance. And under everything, there was something else, a kind of faith. Not in God, but in some kind of mysterious force that lived in the land, that made people the way they were without them even knowing it. It felt like the faith mothers should have – whatever it was that made them decide to be mothers. In any case, I wasn’t sure whether the stranger was a fairy godmother, or a tyrant. The question felt important, because I felt that stranger’s hands, shaping my future.

  My unease spread its murky tide across my days and nights as the dry, unyielding summer stretched on. Momentary relief came with Jennifer, of course – I thirsted for the taste of her, the breath that was anything but innocent, the body that knew what it wanted. She’d made me insatiable, with or without her, and what I needed and explored twisted into itself, a thick knot closing off a secret place.

  I didn’t know if my new knowledge was a good thing. I didn’t know if the path I was taking was inevitable, if everyone took it, but the way the knot fed on its own tension struck me as too desperate to be normal.

  Even in going together, Jennifer wasn’t the constant I’d imagined her to be. So far, our time together unfolded in a single dimension. Each and every time, we’d look into each other’s eyes and become animal. Wordless and drifting through the other senses with nothing more than instinct guiding us. At least it felt that way with me, and at least it seemed to be the same with Jennifer. She indulged herself with me the same way she indulged herself with cigarettes. Animal pleasure, something she could pull inside her body and hold there for as long as she wanted. She exhaled us both with the same look in her eyes. It was more than enough for me – it made me feel privileged to be possessed. But, even with all that, I knew my life was unfolding in other directions as well.

  A new adventure was under way, and like the river it flowed between the worlds, from what I’d come to know, to what lay outside. Mistress Flight flowered, slowly, guided with deliberation and care. The old man and his unexpected friendship had drawn me into a place filled with possibilities, each dusted off and shown with pride. A life on the sea, ancient ports that had seen imperial triremes of Rome, a war conducted only on bitter cold nights when ice tumbled in the North Sea troughs and the hounds hunted shadowy wolves down below …

  Every story, every poem, seemed to roll like waves, and when I looked at Mistress Flight, watching Walter nurturing her back into bloom, I felt the tug of adventure, the wandering pull. Of course, she had only the river, through lands where only the shallowest surface showed man’s hand, but like Walter often said: you walk across the world one step at a time.

  Gribbs had a way of opening worlds in my mind. New words, new ways for old words. He showed me that things could mean more than one thing – that important things always did. It made reading the books even harder.

  * * *

  We were getting close – Mistress Flight was almost ready. Walter said that today was the day he’d winch her over to the rails.

  The morning was bright, clear and hot. I left the house, seeing only Debbie – riding off on my bike, which she’d asked to borrow so it was okay. Mother had taken to sunning herself down by the riverbank. Father said she already looked like an Amazon, but she said she wanted the tan to last, and that meant at least three hours a day, usually in the morning before the bus brought William and Tanya back.

  I walked down the driveway and emerged on to the road.

  ‘Owen!’

  Lynk, Roland and Carl were down by the bend, near the end of the playground. They jogged my way. Lynk looked different, taller maybe. More likely it was just because I hadn’t seen him in a while. Roland looked the same – for some reason, that seemed natural. He would never change.

  ‘Got back yesterday,’ Lynk said.

  I shrugged.

  Roland asked, ‘What have you been up to? Apart from feeling up Jennifer, that is.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Roland wants to go for a look,’ Lynk said, pushing the hair from his eyes. ‘I say fuck that. It’s either washed away or rotted to nothing. Who the fuck cares? I want to take my minibike out.’

  ‘There’d be bones,’ Roland said, his eyes on me.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘Not today. What about tomorrow? Or Friday?’

  ‘All right,’ Roland said.

  ‘Forget it,’ Lynk said. ‘I got better things to do.’

  I ignored him. ‘I think it’s time to see, to see what’s happened.’

  ‘Who the fuck made you boss? Sometimes you act like it’s yours. Like you fucking own it or something.’

  ‘It’s all of ours,’ I insisted. ‘What’s got into you, Lynk? Too scared or something? Go play on your minibike, then, what the fuck do I care.’

  ‘You ain’t got one.’

  I looked at Roland. We both laughed.

  Lynk took a step towards me, then stopped as I swung around to face him. He hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Let’s go, Carl. I’ll double you.’

  ‘Nah, I’m heading home.’

  ‘Forget that. Let’s go.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  Lynk rushed Carl, getting him into a headlock, then throwing him down on to the asphalt. ‘Come on,’ he said, standing over him. ‘Let’s go.’

  Carl stayed down, his face red and his eyes filling with tears. He sat up and wiped his nose, leaving a wide smear on his tanned forearm. ‘No. Fuck you.’

  Lynk kicked him in the face. Carl folded up, rolling on to his side. Bright blood glistened on the black road surface.

  Without another word, Lynk stalked down the road. He spun and walked backwards for a few steps, looking at Carl, whose nose gushed blood, then he turned and picked up his pace.

  Roland’s face had darkened. He stared at Lynk. ‘I wish we’d never found it,’ he said.

  ‘Me too.’

  Carl slowly climbed to his feet. His t-shirt was red, as was the hand he held up to his nose, pinching the nostrils. He breathed loudly through his mouth. ‘I’m going home,’ he said thickly.

  He looked small, broken, as he cut across a yard and disappeared behind a house.

  His blood was bright on the road between me and Roland.

  ‘Friday?’ he asked.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘See you.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  When I arrived at the yards, Mistress Flight sat on the rails. Walter crouched beside the main winch, reeling out an arm-length of cable. A bucket of grease sat beside him. ‘Walk this to her bow,’ he said, not looking up. ‘You’ll see where to attach it on the cradle. We need to firm up on this end before we release the side cables and remove the brakes. How’re you doing this fine morning, Owen?’

  ‘All right, I guess.’ I picked up the heavy, greased cable and carried it to Mistress Flight. A ring had been bolted into the wooden cradle between the blocks. I opened the cable’s clasp and locked it over the ring. ‘Ready over here,’ I said.

  Walter straightened, one hand on the cable as he approached. ‘Feels right,’ he said as his hand reached and tested the clasp. He went back to the winch and started it up. The motor sounded loud. I watched the cable tighten. Walte
r disengaged the pull but left the motor running as he walked to the first of the side cable winches, which were hand-cranked.

  ‘Unclip the first one there,’ he directed.

  I did so, and leaned back as Walter turned the handle, keeping the cable straight as he walked me to him. We repeated the procedure with the second side cable.

  ‘Time to knock out the brakes,’ Walter said, grinning. He wore blue coveralls, grease-stained and threadbare. He squinted at me. ‘Is that a frown you’re wearing there?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I packed us a lunch.’

  ‘Sea rations?’

  ‘God, no! A feast, my friend. Only the best for our inaugural voyage. You ready?’

  ‘Yep.’

  His face bright, Walter took out a rag and wiped his hands. He tossed it to me and I did the same, though mostly the rag just spread the grease evenly over my hands. I tossed the rag back. He reached for it, missed, then bent down and picked it up.

  He went to the tool-shed and returned with a mallet. ‘Good thing Reginald Bell’s on a supply run today.’

  ‘Are you going to get into trouble?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not.’

  The brakes were just wooden blocks set against the cradle’s steel wheels, each held in place with a steel pin. Walter pulled the pins out, then with an expert swing he knocked each brake out cleanly. The cable creaked with the third and then the fourth ones. ‘By the numbers, eh?’

  I nodded.

  ‘We’ll need to fuel up. When she’s down at the waterline, take the line looped over the prow and secure it to the gas dock. Once she’s afloat, we can pull her alongside.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Until this moment I don’t think I’d believed we’d actually get this far. Sometimes I’d suspected Walter was just humouring me, making all this into one of his tall tales. My heart pounded as I walked alongside Mistress Flight as she slowly backed down the rails to the river.

  Walter stopped its progress when the muddy water lapped the base of the cradle. I clambered on to the frame and retrieved the line. The gas dock was to my left when facing the river. I carefully played the line out as I walked over to it. I secured it, then straightened and waved at Walter who still waited beside the main winch. He didn’t move. I waved again, both arms, but he still seemed to be waiting.

  ‘Okay!’ I called. ‘All secure!’

  He gestured and then Mistress Flight edged into the water. Her stern settled alarmingly to my eyes, but finally rose just before her newly repainted name disappeared in the brown swirl. She rose free of the cradle, swung out into the current. I scrambled to make sure the line would hold, and watched as the woven rope lifted out of the water, pulling tight and shedding droplets as the current embraced the old yacht.

  Walter reversed the winch, drawing the cradle back out of the water. He’d said he was going to leave it on the rails up top, moving it aside tomorrow. We wanted as much daylight as possible.

  I stood on the gas dock, studying how she rode the water. She was beautiful, her new trim gleaming, sitting even and high. It was a few minutes before I realised that Walter stood beside me.

  I sighed. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You said it. Let’s haul her in and secure the stern line. Nice knot you managed there. Just like I showed you. We’ll fill the tanks and then see what the old Sea Horse can do, eh?’

  II

  ‘As the crow flies, it’s about sixteen miles to the locks. Of course, we’ll be doing some twists and turns.’ Gribbs cocked his head. ‘See any company?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Feel ready to take the wheel?’

  ‘Sure.’ The boy moved up beside him. ‘Stick to the middle, right?’

  ‘As simple as that.’

  Owen set both hands on the chrome-plated wheel, spreading his legs wide. Gribbs stepped back to give him room.

  ‘Let’s play a game,’ he said.

  ‘What kind of game?’

  ‘Stay at this speed. Stay in the middle. The game’s called What can you see? Pretend I got a blindfold on. All I can feel is the wind through the ports. All I can hear is the Sea Horse. I’ve got a blank space in my head and it needs filling. It’s up to you to fill it. What you choose to tell me is all I’ll have to go by. What you choose to tell me shapes my picture. But so does what you choose not to tell me. If you tell me everything, I might get confused. If you don’t tell me enough, I might misunderstand. Same for if you tell me the wrong things.’

  ‘How do I know if I’m doing it right? How can some things be wrong?’

  ‘Because you paint my picture before I do. But it’s more than just a picture. You’ll see after we’ve been playing for a while.’

  The boy was silent for a few minutes. Gribbs sat back, reaching into the backpack and removing his Thermos. He poured a cup. ‘Want some Coke?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Gribbs pulled a can from the bag and handed it over. Owen pulled the ring off with a snap and a hiss. He swallowed a mouthful, then set the can down on the teak surface on the other side of the wheel.

  ‘The water’s red and brown,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s not flat, even though there’s no real wind. It’s, uh, it’s spreading out around us, bulging in places, rising up from underneath. It twists on itself, too. You can see it because of the sunlight. The sunlight shows you the shape of the water. Its surface. But you can’t see into the water. It’s too muddy, and the sunlight only lives on the surface. Am I doing it right?’

  Gribbs smiled. ‘You tell me, son.’

  ‘I’m doing it right. I started in the right place. It starts with the river—’

  ‘It’s a river?’

  ‘The sunlight follows the current. The water spreads out from under us, but it follows its own path, and we’re being carried along. But it doesn’t care about us. It’s chosen its path all on its own. It doesn’t need to be seen to be there.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Yes. It carries stuff all the time. Dead stuff, lost stuff. It carries … uh…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Uh, history, I guess.’ He drank some more Coke. ‘A river. The river. Over it, over us, is the sky. Blue and no clouds at all. Just blue and the sun. It’s got nothing to tell us. It’s background, it’s what’s behind everything else. It doesn’t tell us anything, it just shows us what we need to see.’

  ‘Excellent. Go on.’

  There was a growing excitement in the boy’s voice, and an undercurrent of tension. ‘I keep seeing too much. I have to keep closing it down. I have to decide what’s important.’

  ‘What’s important? Remember, you’re not just giving me the gift of your eyes, you’re also giving me the gift of your mind.’

  ‘Are you going to take your turn?’

  ‘When you’re done. Now, I see a brown river, and a blue, cloudless sky.’

  ‘You must see more than that! After all I’ve described!’

  Gribbs smiled and sipped his tea. ‘Oh yes, but you’re not done yet. I want to hear your voice, not mine.’

  ‘The river spreads out to its banks. It was higher a while ago. But now it’s pulled back, shrunken. You can see what it once covered. The clay is brown – no, grey. Sometimes the sunlight shows it blue. The clay looks smooth, but scarred. Cracked, maybe. Too far away to be sure.’

  ‘Use your mind and take me there.’

  ‘It’s cracked, drying up, but that’s just the top layer. Like a skin. And you can also see that the skin was once wet. There’s bird tracks in it.’

  ‘Birds?’

  ‘Birds.’ Owen fell silent.

  Gribbs cocked his head. Something important here.

  ‘Birds,’ Owen said again. ‘They’re everywhere. They talk for the world. They talk with their voices for every tree they find. They talk the distance between trees, with their voices and with their wings. They scream when against the blue background. But when they’re on t
he river, they’re silent.’

  ‘Birds,’ Gribbs said, nodding.

  ‘Gulls. White and blue and grey, but mostly white. With hooked yellow beaks. They say nothing on the river. They just ride the current, and watch. Their heads never stop turning. The birds in the trees are different, smaller. They’re just shadows, like they’re showing the meaning of something – of movement! Not in words, not in talking aloud, just in what they are. Birds. They map the world, I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘No. I’m sure. But the river just carries them, and they stay silent – not always, but mostly. And the others stay on the banks, in the trees. They mark the river’s flow, but stay in one place. So that’s how your world is mapped. How your picture is painted.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No. There’s some things we don’t have to know about. We don’t always have to know why. Noticing’s enough. Sometimes it’s too much.’

  ‘Is it too much this time?’

  ‘They’re silent on the river. The river says enough, because it’s there and doesn’t care if we’re here or not. The birds know it, and that’s all they need to know.’

  ‘Do the birds care if we’re here or not?’

  ‘I think so. I think they watch us for the river.’

  ‘Is my picture complete?’

  ‘No. I have to talk about the trees. They’re small, starting partway up the bank. Bushy, lots of twigs, lots of leaves, as if they’re in a hurry. The bigger trees are inland a ways, past the bushes, the thickets, the bracken.’

  ‘Bracken?’

  ‘Sure. That’s a word.’

  ‘I know. Go on.’

  ‘It’s all dying.’

  Gribbs sat up. ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t see it, but you know it.’

  ‘Owen—’

  ‘No. There’s people. Right now there’s none in sight. But their current rides under the river. Hidden, the water black and poison. And the roots of the trees – their hold is desperate, but hopeless. The people are here, and they won’t be stopped. They come with fire, and steel. The sunlight never shines on them – it just blinds them. They’re burning out the roots, pulling down the trees. The birds scream against the blue backdrop. None of it is here, in front of your eyes. It’s behind. It’s underneath, in between.’