This River Awakens

by Steven Erikson

  Oh, Roland.

  VI

  It was the morning of the funeral. I woke to the sound of metal hammering, crashing, clanging on metal. One of the twins let out a wail from the front steps which quickly fell silent. Outside, the hammering continued, frenzied, wild.

  I leapt out of bed and raced downstairs. I came to the porch, where Mother stood, smoking a cigarette, the twins flanking her. Their backs were to me. I stepped around them, to see my father with a two-handed wrench, in his t-shirt and jeans, wearing slippers. My father, almost unrecognisable as he swung the wrench at the machine, smashing pieces from it, huge dents in the cowling – which had mostly come away, revealing the insides.

  Ignoring us, ignoring everything else, he swung the wrench into the machine, over and over again.

  ‘Owen,’ Mother said calmly. ‘Take the twins inside.’

  I saw the shock on their faces, the wonder and fear in their eyes. Heart thundering, I grabbed them by their shoulders, swung them around and propelled them through the doorway. I then turned back, to watch. A sickening memory washed over me. The toaster.

  ‘Mom?’

  She sighed, not looking down at me, eyes on her husband, on my father. ‘It’s been coming. For some time. Not the best of days today, Owen.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘Not enough. There’s other news.’

  ‘Oh.’

  His hands were bright red, his hair hung in uncombed strands. He was impossibly thin and long-limbed, grunting and gasping as he destroyed his machine.

  When he finally fell to his knees, the wrench clunking on the driveway, she took a step forward. But he shook his head and she stopped, her shoulders falling slightly. He looked up at me, his eyes red. ‘I’m sorry, son.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No, Owen. I’m sorry. It’s the day for your … for you, I mean.’

  Mother said, ‘He means—’

  ‘I know,’ I said. Today’s for Roland. I know.

  ‘I’ll get ready,’ he said, climbing to his feet.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ Mother said, resting a hand on my shoulder. ‘We’ll talk.’

  ‘Okay.’

  * * *

  The cemetery was old, a burial place for farmers. Trees boxed it in except for the gravel track that came down from the crossroads. Four section fields met here, all of them fallow, messy with yellow stubble and crusted slabs of ice. The fields reached out in every direction to distant trees, a raised rail track, farmhouses, barns and combines.

  Crows crowded the leafless branches on all sides, all silent in the chill morning air. There was no wind and the grey sky seemed remote overhead. The air smelled of decaying leaves, a bitter taste of mud on the tongue.

  The new gravestone with Roland’s name on it was at the end of the family’s row – another Fraser sunk into this earth. I stood, flanked by my parents, close enough to read the names and dates on the other stones. An older brother, an older sister, a baby girl. All the names, all the dates within the past ten years, left me confused, a little frightened. So many children had died.

  The parson spoke on. I’d stopped listening to his words. God had no place here. The parson was just a stand-in, and it seemed as if the soft earth devoured his voice and everything attached to it. God wouldn’t step into this scene for fear of sinking, leaving not a trace. God – if he existed at all – lived in a desert thousands of miles from here.

  I looked around, at the barren trees, at the huddled black smears that were the silent crows. I looked over at the gravel track, and at all the cars and pick-ups lining the shoulders of the crossroads, their flanks splashed in mud. There was a graininess to every image my eyes found, as if I were looking out on the world through a thin layer of sand. It hurt to blink, it hurt as I jerked my head from one thing to the next.

  The sky was like porcelain, and I had a sudden sense that everything was about to break overhead.

  The people – all looking weighed down and tired – were huddled around the fresh mound. I looked down at the mud of the grave itself, the reddish clay that told me the river had once reached this far. I looked at the wreaths, then over at the black hearse, and finally at the man in black with the black-bound book in his white hands. I imagined he was holding a crow, wings spread out, reading nothing but unable to stop talking anyway, unable to let silence take over. The red wilted flower of his mouth moved to shape words. The sounds meant nothing to me, less than the whimpering of a lost dog.

  There were so many familiar faces in the crowd, so many complete strangers. None looked very human. Teachers, kids from school, other farmers, lots of old people. And Roland’s family – just the one boy left now, little Arnie, who looked so old he might have been a dwarf, with hands too big, a slowness to his gestures – moving the hair from his eyes, shifting weight from one leg to the other. He’s old enough. He’s stood here before.

  Roland’s father was squinting straight ahead, as if studying something beyond the line of trees, something on the western horizon, where bruised clouds squatted heavily against the flat line of the earth. Roland’s mother – who had given Roland her hands and her solidness and her strength – stood straight-backed beside her tall, thin husband, one hand on Arnie’s shoulder, her eyes holding on the parson with so much unblinking concentration I thought the droning man might burst into flame.

  It was the wrong time for words but still the parson kept talking.

  Roland liked it quiet. Everything quiet. He’d be scowling, a scowling face in the crowd. He’d rather listen to the water dripping from the cars. And then we’d talk about bears in the spring, coming down from the interlake, and we’d talk about how shooting them just broke the silence, shattered everything, ruined the whole season. Let the bears roam, leave them alone. Okay? Just leave them all alone.

  And then we’d head through the woods, down to watch the river as its cold skin fell apart. We’d be on the edge of summer, on the edge of our season of freedom, even though we knew it’d race past so swiftly – almost unnoticed – until autumn reined us in. And the bears sought caves to sleep in when the north winds came down and browned the forest leaves. Not a shot fired. Just free to live – it’s all we ever asked, all we ever wanted.

  Jennifer and her parents stood across from me. Sten still looked blue and shivering, as if he’d just crawled out from the river. His hands made darting motions, his hair hung in long greying strands over his broad, lined forehead. His wife – Jennifer’s mother – stood with her eyes closed, as if straining to hear the parson, her black-gloved hands folded around a small black purse.

  Jennifer was crying, quietly, just tears coming down from her eyes in a steady stream, eyes that wouldn’t leave my face.

  I wish you’d stop that now. You’re embarrassing him. We never cried. Except for Carl. There was nothing that could make us cry. Not even the body. We wouldn’t have cried like your dad cried, there on the ice. Or like Rhide, sitting there at her desk looking at my notebook, looking at my dragons. Don’t you see, Jennifer? We never cry ourselves. We let others do that for us. You should be like us, like how we were, like how we still are, like how we’ll always be. Me, Lynk and Roland.

  It doesn’t matter that it’s all over, Jennifer. So stop crying now.

  My eyes moved on, from one person to the next. I saw Lynk, tucked in between his large, red-faced father and his washed-out mother. The light that had once glittered in his eyes had dimmed now, replaced by something dulled and knowing, and he wouldn’t look my way, wouldn’t look down at the grave, wouldn’t look outside himself at all.

  I showed him the skull. The way Roland would’ve done. Remember when he ran from Fisk? Remember that, Roland? I don’t think he ever stopped, not from that point. Running, running wild, always running.

  He was ready for summer’s throne. He’d loosed the hounds. He’d scattered the mink and all Fisk could do was kill Roland. The wrong boy. I get it now. That throne had been Roland’s all along. But Lynk wanted it. And now
it’s his. No one standing in his way. Not even me. Lynk, the only one of us who didn’t lose his way.

  Lynk looked stripped down, shrunken so far inside, his skin wrapped around the thinnest muscles, the frailest bones. His parents always bought him things, rewards for nothing, and I could sense it all around him, like barricades, behind which something inside Lynk starved and starved, and withered and would one day soon be gone.

  I thought I sensed, then, how gauze-thin and fragile memories are, how they alone hold nothing up, not for long, not without fraying apart, not without letting everything fall, fly loose, race off into oblivion.

  It was all I had left, and it wasn’t – will never be – enough.

  I felt you pass out of me, Roland. There in the secret room, where winter’s air made the candles flicker. I felt your shaking passage, out and away from my life. You didn’t even say goodbye.

  The parson had finished. The crowd in its closeness was fragmenting, drifting back. Men and women came, pulling children, to Roland’s father and mother. They spoke quiet words, then, heads bowed, moved on, heading for their vehicles.

  ‘Owen,’ Dad murmured, his hand gripping my shoulder.

  I nodded, and we joined the procession.

  Standing in front of Roland’s family, I found myself facing Arnie.

  He gave a half-shrug that was Roland’s. ‘He liked you,’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘You’re just like him.’

  ‘Have to be now, don’t I?’

  Our parents were saying things. I heard my mother say something about friendship. I didn’t want to hear anything more.

  I half reached out to Arnie, wanting to touch him, to give him – what? I had no idea. My hand fell back down. I saw Rhide in a gathering of teachers, her hands punctuating her words – too far away to hear. ‘Watch out for Rhide, next year,’ I said.

  Arnie nodded.

  ‘Watch out for all of them, Arnie. All the grown-ups. All of them.’

  I was tapped on the shoulder. I nodded at Arnie again and then we were moving on, tugged on by the currents.

  Jennifer stepped in front of me. She’d stopped crying, her hands buried deep in her coat pockets. ‘Owen. Please?’

  I felt something relent in me. ‘Meet you outside my driveway?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Half an hour?’

  She sighed, looked down then up again. ‘Okay.’

  When the first car started up, one of the crows cawed sharply, and then the others joined in the chorus. I saw the parson glance over at the trees, his expression hard to read – maybe annoyed, maybe uncertain.

  It was over. The sound of scolding followed us all back to where the vehicles waited. It was, I think, all we deserved.

  VII

  ‘I stopped him,’ Jennifer said, watching Owen as he walked down the road. ‘At first, well, it was like it used to be. Like with Roland and all the others. But then I realised I was different, that I wasn’t the same any more. Because of you, and your mother, too, I guess. So I stopped it. I punched him in the nose. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you.’

  Owen looked strange in his grey Sunday clothes. But there was a glow in his face, something like what she’d seen there a long time ago. It wasn’t the same, though. It looked … harder, tempered, more resilient. She could see him thinking about what she’d said, but his words surprised her, took her breath away.

  ‘We’re moving,’ he said. ‘Back to the city. The gas station went bankrupt. I found out this morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ Oh. ‘When?’

  ‘At the end of school. We’ve found an apartment, near my old school.’

  She wanted to cry, but smiled instead. ‘I’ve got a good excuse for going into the city, then. Every weekend. All summer. I can sleep over.’ Oh hell, who am I kidding?

  His answering smile broke something inside her. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘That sounds great. It’ll be great.’

  ‘Well … Forgive me, at least?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s okay. I was just mad. It would’ve been better if you’d told me right away, that’s all.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  He shrugged. ‘I want to go down to the river. The Yacht Club. Where they launch the boats.’

  ‘Okay. Hold up a sec.’ She stopped and lit a cigarette. He watched her, of course, but with a sad expression on his face.

  ‘You hooked me,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sort of. The word’s vicarious.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t mean to.’

  He laughed. ‘Yes you did.’

  They started walking again, and entered the club grounds, stepping past the newly posted NO TRESPASSING sign. There were no cars in the parking lot, no car in front of the mobile home.

  ‘Reggie’s not here,’ Owen said, sounding relieved.

  ‘Who’s Reggie?’

  ‘The new manager.’

  They walked to the boat yards. All the yachts were still in dry-dock, covered in tarps. The concrete bed and the rail tracks were clear as they ran down to the water’s edge, disappearing under the ice. They stood side by side.

  ‘Do you believe in God, Owen?’

  ‘No. I was sent to Sunday school a few years back. I only went once. That’s how it was – is – with us. We try, every now and then. But that’s all. Just trying.’

  She wasn’t sure what he meant. ‘I hear Him sometimes,’ she said. ‘In music, and then I think, these days, He’s angry. But then I realise, it’s just me. He’s not really there, it’s just how I feel, how I am. And you know, sometimes it makes me feel good.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I don’t want you to go. To leave me.’

  He nodded again.

  ‘I don’t want to be alone again.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘What are we going to do, Owen?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was I, was I good for you? You know, was I…’ Her words fell away. She held her breath.

  Owen’s mouth quirked slightly. He looked at her, his eyes alive. ‘The best thing in my life, Jennifer. The best.’

  She slowly sighed.

  ‘I keep expecting to see him.’ His shoulders jumped in a helpless shrug.

  ‘I know,’ she said, pulling hard on the cigarette.

  They resumed watching the broken river’s endless grinding past.

  Two crows stood at the very edge, dipping their beaks at something in the water. Jennifer gasped as Owen – seeing them – raised both hands into the air and charged down the slope.

  Shrieking, the crows took to the air.

  VIII

  Two crows returning. The years sweep past under their wings. The clouds scud like motes before their eyes. Roll away these years. It is too late, too late to stop their driven flight.

  Memory and thought, each a shadow of the other. Scatter them now, back into the present time, and let them descend like tears.

  Once again I see the world beneath me, the brown worm of water, the forests and the cleared land. And the city beneath a mantle of steam and smoke, its air crowded with pigeons. But it’s not the same. It’s all changed, because it’s the way of the world, the way of life itself. And wisdom itself is not the gift it seems. I fool no one in the end. No one.

  The giant had a child’s face. I knew that from the very beginning, I knew that from the moment I set him free. It’s not the innocent who remake the world, after all.

  So remember me in this season’s quickening breath, when comes the thaw, the time for rebirth. Remember two crows, returning. Remember what they do to souls. The boy knows. He’s always known.

  Fly!

  I wish to thank the many people without whose support (all those years ago) the writing of this novel would not have been possible, or would at the very least have been highly unlikely … From the Lundin family, my father and my brother; my wife, Clare Thomas, and our son Bowen, who together give
meaning to my endeavours. I also wish to convey my gratitude to Susan Thomas and Peter Knowlson, David Thomas Sr, Harriet Thomas and David Thomas Jr, who each in turn took the wide-eyed Canuck in hand when it was most needed; friends new and old including Keith Addison, Pat Carroll and Mark Paxton-MacRae; for W. D. Valgardson and his advice of years ago that remains fresh in my mind to this day. I would also like to acknowledge my gratitude to the Manitoba Arts Council for their crucial support in the writing of this novel. And special thanks to my agent, Howard Morhaim, and to Simon Taylor and the great people at Transworld Publishers for giving this story new life. This was my first novel, and people said ‘it’s a bit long…’

  ALSO BY STEVEN ERIKSON

  The Devil Delivered and Other Tales

  The Malazan Book of the Fallen

  Gardens of the Moon

  Deadhouse Gates

  Memories of Ice

  House of Chains

  Midnight Tides

  The Bonehunters

  Reaper’s Gale

  Toll the Hounds

  Dust of Dreams

  The Crippled God

  Forge of Darkness

  Bauchelain and Korbal Broach

  Crack’d Pot Trail

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Archaeologist and anthropologist Steven Erikson’s début fantasy novel, Gardens of the Moon, was shortlisted for the World Fantasy Award and introduced fantasy readers to his epic ‘The Malazan Book of the Fallen’ sequence, which has been hailed ‘a masterwork of the imagination’. This River Awakens was his first novel, and originally published under the name Steve Lundin.

  He lives in Cornwall. To find out more, visit www.malazanempire.com and www.stevenerikson.com

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THIS RIVER AWAKENS

  Copyright © 1998, 2012 by Steven Erikson

  Previously published in the UK by Bantam Press, an imprint of Transworld Publishers.