River Boy

by Tim Bowler

  She wondered whether he would complete the circle and cover the bottom of the painting with black, too. But, to her surprise, he leaned back in the chair and looked toward her.

  “It’s finished, ” he said.

  Three hours had passed, and they were both exhausted. She stared at him, then back at the picture that had cost them so much.

  And, still, she saw no boy.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “It’s not one of his best, ” Dad said.

  He held it up to the kitchen window and studied it with Mom. Jess sat at the table, saying nothing, glad they hadn’t reproached her for what she’d made Grandpa go through to produce this; she hadn’t realized, until they’d told her a moment ago, that they’d been watching her and Grandpa painting from the upstairs window.

  “I think he’s ruined it, ” said Mom.

  Jess instinctively looked around; but there was no danger of Grandpa hearing. They’d put him to bed exhausted, and she doubted whether he would wake for the rest of the afternoon. The effort of painting had taken everything he had.

  Yet there had been an elation in him as she’d wheeled him back to the cottage, a sense of pride in his voice as he told Mom and Dad that he had finished his picture. He had even talked of feeling better, stronger; but she knew that was wishful thinking. He would sleep now, and tomorrow morning they would decide what to do about the hospital.

  All that mattered was that he was content, whatever the merits —or otherwise —of the picture.

  Mom spoke again. “I still don’t understand why he called it River Boy when there obviously isn’t a boy. ”

  Jess gazed out of the window at the stream. Somewhere out there another boy was waiting; waiting for his own big challenge, whatever that was. The challenge he had asked her to help him with.

  She frowned.

  There was only one river boy she knew, and his being and hers were now strangely interwoven. The more she thought of him, the more his nature seemed to flow through her like the river itself. Yet it was the painting —inexplicable as it was —that had first created in her mind the mystery of the river boy. To the painting, he owed his existence. Just as now, in a strange way, the painting —thanks to his urging — owed its life to him.

  She did not understand this final outpouring of Grandpa’s spirit. Perhaps it was a work of genius for later, greater minds than theirs; or perhaps just the last, spluttered vision of a dying man, his brush held up by the hand of a trembling girl.

  Late in the afternoon he woke and asked for a little soup. Dad made it and took it in, and sat with him for a while; then came back and called to Jess. “He’s asking for you again. ”

  She looked up at his face and saw the pain there, and tried to think of something to say; but he turned quickly away and clattered the tray down on the kitchen table. Mom looked him over quizzically.

  “I’ll go in, ” said Jess.

  Grandpa lay in his bed, head back, mouth open, eyes half-closed. She reached forward and straightened the pillow, which was slipping to the side. He opened his eyes fully and met her gaze, then, with great difficulty, stretched out his hand and took hers.

  She knelt beside him and waited to see whether he wanted to speak. For a long time there was silence, punctuated only by slow, uneven breaths, then his lips moved and she caught a whisper of words.

  “Thank . . . you. ”

  He said no more for several minutes, but continued to hold her hand and look into her eyes. Then the mouth moved again. “I’m so . . . I’m so . . . ”

  “Don’t tire yourself, Grandpa. ”

  “So . . . proud of you . . . so . . . proud . . . ”

  “I’m proud of you, too, Grandpa. I’m proud of both of us. I — ” She broke off, seeing his lips quiver. He spoke again, slurring his words slightly. “Tell me . . . tell me . . . what I can do . . . for . . . you. ”

  She looked down, trying not to cry, trying not to think that these might be his final hours with her. She had nothing to ask of him, at least nothing for herself. What could she ask for, when he had given her so much? The only thing she still yearned for was to see him show love to Dad. But love could not be fashioned just by the asking.

  She looked into his face again. “Just be happy, Grandpa, ” she said.

  In the evening he seemed brighter. He joked with them all and talked of feeling better, and of thinking he maybe wouldn’t need to go to the hospital at Braymouth after all but would see out the rest of the vacation and then perhaps go home and start living again —only with no more painting, he added: painting was too much like hard work, especially with a slavedriver like Jess pushing him on.

  She listened and laughed at his jokes when he wanted her to. It was good to see him happy and relaxed. It did indeed seem as though a burden had lifted from him, and to hear him talking of the future, as though there were a future, filled her with hope. Perhaps he would pull through this after all.

  At sunset she walked off alone by the river, down to the place where they had painted together, and she stood by the water’s edge and gazed westward at the fading glow in the sky.

  Tomorrow? What would tomorrow bring, and how many tomorrows did he really have? He had talked as though there were many, yet for all her rejoicing at his happy spirit, she saw only one tomorrow. She would live that first, before she thought of any more.

  A shiver of cool air wafted over her and passed; and she remembered her debt, and why she had come out. She looked down at the unsleeping river. “I can’t see you, River Boy, ” she murmured, “but I know you’re there, whoever you are, whatever you are. And . . . and I think you can hear me. ”

  She lowered her voice still further and went on, speaking to the river. “I don’t know why I think you can hear me. Maybe I’m just hoping you can hear me. Maybe I’m just hoping there really is some kind of magic about you and you’re not just an ordinary boy. ”

  She stopped, trying to understand her thoughts; but they ran faster than the river itself.

  “I don’t know why you think I can help you with this thing you’re scared of, whatever it is, but . . . I’ll come to the source tomorrow at dawn, and do what I can. ” She frowned. “But I won’t stay long because I’ll have to get back to grandpa. ”

  She stopped suddenly, feeling yet again that strange presence she had sensed before; and, in that moment, she knew she had been heard.

  In the night she woke, pressed into consciousness by strange yearnings. She sat up and wiped her eyes, and looked toward the window.

  Once again the moon was bright upon the sill, and as usual, the sound of the river raced through her like a stream of chattering thoughts. She stood up, pulled her bathrobe on, and crept down to Grandpa’s room.

  The door was open, and she saw the bell that Dad had put by the bed so that Grandpa could ring if he needed them. But Grandpa needed no one.

  He was deep in sleep.

  She stood there for a moment, watching him, then slowly and softly walked forward and sat down on the chair by the bed. He did not stir.

  She leaned forward until her face was close to his. She had so much to say to him; but she did not want to wake him. Not when he was sleeping so soundly.

  She opened her mouth to whisper.

  He moved slightly, only a tilt of the head toward her, and she thought for a moment she had disturbed him. But then the breathing resumed its pulse, and she knew he was still asleep.

  Strange, she thought, watching him: here, close to death, his face now seemed almost childlike, as though he had reverted to his youth. He seemed like a young man again, lying asleep after a hard day working at his studio.

  She thought of all the things she wanted to say and fumbled in her mind for the best way to express them. But when she opened her mouth to speak, all that came out was a sigh. “I love you, Grandpa. ”

  And she knew that was enough.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In the darkness before dawn, she scribbled a note to Mom and Dad and left it
on the kitchen table.

  GONE FOR A WALK. BACK SOON. J.

  And stole from the house.

  Not that they would see it, she thought; she should be back before they even stirred. It shouldn’t take that long to reach the source and see the river boy, and even though he’d said that the thing he was going to do would take time, she was resolved to be back before anyone, especially Grandpa, woke up.

  The stars were still visible as she set off up the slope, but the darkness was giving way to a gray haze, and she knew she had no time to lose if she was to make it to the source in time for dawn. She hurried up the hillside, picturing as she walked the waterfall gushing down that rocky gorge and remembering the river boy as she had first seen him, standing at the lip.

  Perhaps this was how she would see him today, tall, erect, gazing over the torrent from its most dangerous point, just as Grandpa himself had no doubt done many a time.

  But when, after an hour’s hard walking, she found herself peering up at the fall from beside the upland lake, she saw no figure standing there.

  Only sky, lightening by the minute.

  Any moment, she felt, the sun would burst over the eastern peak, as yet cut off from view by the sides of the gorge. She looked over the rock face and studied its surface; then, with some trepidation, started to climb. It had looked easy enough from farther out —she’d seen plenty of cracks and ledges —but halfway up, the handholds ran out. She clung there, scanning the rock on either side of her and trying to fight off the sense of vulnerability creeping over her. The nearest handhold seemed to be a small ledge to the right, close to the fall itself.

  She paused, then reached out. After an agonizing moment when she thought she was losing her balance, her fingers slid over the rough extremity of the ledge, and she gripped it, breathing hard; then, with an effort, stretched out her foot, pushed it into a fissure a few feet below her, and hauled herself across the face of the rock.

  She was over the plunge pool now and only a few feet from the torrent itself. She waited for a moment, trying not to be frightened by the thunderous sound of the water, then reached up and, to her relief, found there was a large crevice and several more just above it.

  The climb was easy now, and she quickly clambered up, glad to be free of anxiety. At the top, level with the shining lip of the fall, she saw the ground rising once again, but this time only a few hundred yards. And she knew the source was near.

  She scrambled over the rim of the rock and wandered on upward. The sun was over the cut of the hill now, and the sky was growing brighter. The stream had narrowed but still ran down with surprising force.

  There was no path at all here, but none was needed. As she walked, the rocks grew sparser, the ground mushier, and she saw, as she climbed farther, that the stream was now being fed by smaller tributaries that straggled down into it from the higher ground.

  But the main stream was clear to see, and she followed this, growing more and more impatient, more and more excited, until at last, a few hundred yards farther on, she found the source, a marshy area of peat and moss and bog cotton grass, the water bubbling out of the ground and dribbling down the slope in a tiny stream that, though gentle at first, quickly cut a channel through the soft soil and grew in power and energy and speed.

  And there, sitting on a rock at the very heart of the source, was the river boy.

  He wore, as usual, nothing but the same black shorts, despite the cool of the early morning, and didn’t seem at all surprised to see her. He said nothing but simply nodded, somewhat gravely, to her.

  She stood before him, feeling slightly awkward, and waited for him to speak. But he seemed lost in thought and certainly in no way grateful to her for dragging herself up here in the early hours of the morning to help him with a thing he hadn’t even told her about.

  She was just starting to feel a little nettled about this when he smiled at her.

  “Thank you for coming, ” he said.

  She felt herself blush, but he merely smiled again, then nodded past her.

  “Look. ”

  She turned and gazed back down the slope in the direction of the fall, and there, below her, clear in the morning light, she saw the valley rolling away to the west and the river weaving a path through it toward the sea.

  And, far away in the distance, to her astonishment and joy, was the sea itself, floating, it seemed, like a deep blue cloud.

  She looked down at the stream. It was hard to believe that this tiny current was linked to that full-bodied ocean whose outer limits she saw in the distance.

  She thought of Grandpa again, standing here as a boy, gazing at the sea in just the same way, lost in wonder, no doubt, as she was. What had he thought in those far-off days, as he stood here, alone with the sky and the wind? How had he seen all this, with his artist’s eye?

  She sat down beside the river boy, her eyes still on the ocean.

  “I didn’t know we could see that far. ” She found she was whispering, as though she were in some sacred place. “It’s like . . . it’s like . . . ”

  “Like seeing a whole life, ” he said.

  “A whole life? ” She looked around at him, though she already sensed what he meant.

  “The life of the river. ” His eyes remained fixed on the horizon. “It’s born here and it runs its allotted distance, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes straight, sometimes twisting, sometimes calm, sometimes turbulent, and it keeps on running until it reaches its end in the sea. I find that comforting. ”

  “In what way? ”

  “Just to know that whatever happens to the river on its journey, it’ll end up in something beautiful. ”

  “But death isn’t beautiful, ” she said, thinking of Grandpa.

  “It’s dying that isn’t beautiful, ” he said, still gazing at the sea. “But, then, living isn’t always beautiful either. This river will have its battles on the way, but it’ll keep on running because it has to. And even when it reaches the end, it’ll already have started renewing itself here. I find that comforting, too. ”

  She wasn’t sure what he was trying to tell her, but she said nothing. He was silent for a while, then he spoke again. “I’m leaving this place today. ”

  She looked at him. “Leaving? But why? ”

  “It’s time to let the river go. ”

  “Let it . . . go? ”

  He nodded. “I’ve got to let it go now. I mustn’t hang on to it. But there’s one thing still to do. ” He glanced at her. “I’m going to swim down to the sea. ”

  She gave a start. “Are you out of your mind? It’s twenty-five miles away. ”

  “As the crow flies. Forty-three and a quarter miles if you follow the river. ”

  “Forty-three and — ”

  “It’ll take several hours. But the current will do lots of the work. I should be able to make a steady four miles per hour. I know I can do it. I’ll walk and wade from here until I can start swimming. ”

  She stared at him, unsure whether to be concerned or impressed. But his next words threw her mind into turmoil.

  “Come with me. ”

  “What? ”

  “Come with me. Please. I’m a bit scared of going on my own. ”

  “But — ”

  “Please. ” His eyes burned with that fire she had seen the first day they met. “It’ll be tough, but you can do it. You were born to swim. Haven’t you always wanted to do something like this? ”

  The vision danced inside her, madly enticing: a journey from source to sea —it was indeed the kind of challenge she had always craved as a swimmer. But she knew what her answer had to be. “I can’t leave Grandpa. You know I can’t. ”

  The fire in his eyes seemed slowly to dim, and he looked away, back toward the sea; and she felt a sudden, almost overwhelming sadness as she realized how much this strange boy yearned for her to swim with him; and though she knew she could not join him, she sensed that she was failing him, and —in some strange way —herself, too.<
br />
  He spoke again, his voice as far away as the sea toward which his mind now seemed to travel.

  “Your grandfather will be all right. You don’t need to worry about him anymore. ”

  She looked at him, wondering how he could speak with such certainty or whether he was just trying to be comforting. But he merely glanced toward her and nodded. “I’ll see you. ”

  And without another word he stood up and set off down the slope toward the fall, walking only in the stream. She followed, a few steps behind, not in the stream but clumping over the uneven grass. Before long the head of the fall loomed before them, and she stopped close to the edge, wondering what he would do next.

  He stood there, motionless, at the very lip of the fall, the water streaming past his legs so fast, she felt it must surely carry him away. But he was as still as a rock, gazing ahead toward his far-off destination. Then, without a word or glance toward her, he dived.

  Her mouth dropped open, and she stared; and in that moment, she saw crystallized the perfect symmetry of the river boy as he moved through the air, a creature of beauty and grace, part fish, part bird, part human, part something else: something she could not define but that defined him — a part he had shared with her.

  He plunged into the pool and surfaced a few feet beyond the throw of the torrent, his black hair streaming amid the bubbling eddies: then he turned and struck out across the pool toward the outlet, the current moving him swiftly down. He reached the shallow part of the pool, waded to the end where the stream rushed away down the slope, climbed over, and strode off through the trees, the water washing around his feet.

  A moment later he was gone.

  She looked at the rush of water close by her as it slid over the fall like a shiny tongue, then scattered into flight; and she, too, felt the urge to dive, to throw herself from the top, and race and chase that foaming torrent.