by Tim Bowler
It didn’t look dangerous; this was only a smallish waterfall, not much higher than the top board at the pool back home, and she had dived off that often enough. There were no rocks directly underneath, the plunge pool was good and deep; and the river boy had just done it. She had her swimsuit on, as always, ready for action; all she had to do was throw her T-shirt and shoes down, walk to the lip, compose herself just as he had done, and dive.
But she knew she could not.
And she knew why not.
With a pang of shame, she drew back from the fall and started to climb down.
But that now presented serious problems. Coming up, it had been fairly easy to see the handholds and footholds, but this way was different. She tried to retrace the route she had taken on the way up, but the rock now felt strange and hostile, and a short way down, she stopped.
She had lost her way already. She held on tight, the water roaring in her ears, and glanced down. Below her was the outer edge of the pool, a few feet to the side of the plunging water. She was too far to the left; she had climbed up closer to the torrent.
She glanced to the right at the water thundering past her and the glistening rock face. The descent seemed much too dangerous here, yet she had climbed up this way, so it had to be possible.
She hesitated, then stretched toward the fall, searching for one of the handholds she had used earlier. To her relief, she felt a jutting rock too jagged to be slippery. She hadn’t seen it on the way up but she was grateful for it now. She edged to the right, holding on to it with both hands while she swung her foot around, struggling to find something to stand on.
After a moment she felt a crevice in the rock and tested her weight against it. It held, and she eased herself down a few inches, stretching her other foot out for something else to support her. For a few harrowing seconds she felt nothing but the shiny surface of rock against her foot, then at last she found a tiny crack, almost too small but mercifully wide enough to dig her toe into and lower herself a little farther.
She breathed hard and looked down.
She would have to let go of the jagged rock now and find something farther down to cling to. She scrabbled about with one hand and found another crack, then thrust out her foot, which brushed against a small fissure.
She tested its strength and lowered herself down. Below her, to one side, she saw another fissure and quickly pushed her other foot into that, twisting her face away from the spray, which now burst over her from the base of the fall.
To her relief, the rock face below her was covered with cracks. She eased herself to the left, away from the plunge pool, and a few moments later she was down.
She looked up at the fall, still feeling somewhat ashamed. It was no use telling herself that Mom and Dad wouldn’t have wanted her to dive, and that probably even Grandpa would have advised her against it.
The river boy had dived.
And she could have done so, too.
She ran down the slope, now anxious about the time. She had taken much longer reaching the source than she’d expected, and had not meant to linger there, and then there was the difficulty climbing the rock face.
As she ran, she thought of the river boy and his dream, and what he had asked her to do; and she found herself running faster and faster, desperate to catch up to him.
Just to say good-bye.
But she did not see him. He had gone on ahead, even though he was frightened. And she had never found out who he was, after all.
The sun rose higher; the air grew warmer. She raced on, down the slope and into the valley, and finally stumbled into the clearing by the cottage.
To her surprise, the car was gone.
And Alfred was standing there.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Something was wrong; something was dreadfully wrong. She could tell from his face; and there was a strange silence everywhere. Even the river seemed muted.
“What’s happened? ” she demanded.
Alfred had no gift for brevity, but he did his best.
“It’s your old grandpa. He’s had another attack, a serious one, and your mom and dad have taken him to the hospital at Braymouth. They couldn’t wait for you to get back. There wasn’t any time. It was all too quick. They got him in the car somehow and stopped by my cottage, and your mom rushed to the door to tell me what’s what and to ask me to come down here and look after you, and then she was back in the car again and they were off and — ”
“But Grandpa, is he —? ”
“He’s still alive. ” Alfred’s tone was as measured and unhurried as if he were talking about the weather, but his face betrayed his concern. “But I won’t lie to you, ” he said. “He looked terrible even from where I was standing and I could see he was in a lot of pain. ”
She glanced frantically toward the lane.
“I’ve got to be with him. I’ve got to get to Braymouth. I’ve — ”
But Alfred shook his head.
“Your mom said to wait here with me. ”
“But Grandpa! ” She stared at him in desperation. “I’ve got to be with him. Can’t you see? ”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “I understand how you feel. Really I do. But your mom reckons it’s best you don’t see him like he is. He looked so bad, it would really upset you, and it would upset him, too, I’m sure, to have you see him like that. You know what a proud old man he is. Your mom did say she thought it was maybe as well you weren’t there when it happened. ”
She turned away, unable to look at him. “But he needs me, ” she murmured. “He can’t die without me there. ”
“You must be brave, Jessica. Look, your mom gave me the mobile phone and said they’ll call just as soon as there’s any news. ”
“We could phone them, ” said Jess eagerly.
But he shook his head. “They won’t be there yet. Not for a while. You can’t go fast on the Braymouth Road, especially with a sick man in the car. No, you’ll have to be patient. ”
Jess turned away. Her mind was filled with pain, and it was the pain of failure. She had failed Grandpa by not being there at the very moment he’d needed her most.
She didn’t blame Mom and Dad for wanting to shield her from this. They were only trying to be sensitive to her and Grandpa. But the thought that she could not see Grandpa at all now filled her with distress.
Alfred nodded toward the door. “Come inside and have something to eat. It might do you some good. ”
“I’m not hungry. ”
“Well, let’s go in anyway. I’m a bit weary on my legs. I’m not used to moving about so fast. ”
She followed him, too stunned to think of anything but Grandpa. On the kitchen table was a plate of crusty rolls and a jar of honey.
“My daughter made those rolls, ” he said proudly. “She’s a pro at bread making. Go on, I promised your mom I’d make sure you had something to eat, and you don’t want me to get into trouble, do you? And anyway, you don’t know when you’ll get another chance to eat today. ”
She still didn’t want to eat; she couldn’t think of eating.
“Go on, ” he urged her. “Do it for me. ”
She sat down —anything to stop him fussing —and ate the rolls in silence, her mind locked on Grandpa and, to her surprise, an image of the river boy, driving his body stroke by stroke toward the sea. She did not know why that picture came to her so strongly when all she wanted to think of was Grandpa, but it grew in her mind, powerful and clear until it almost dominated the dark vision of the old man’s face.
She finished the rolls, then wandered out to the stream and sat beside it, wondering about Grandpa and whether he was still alive. It was possible he had not even made it to the hospital. Yet something told her he was still alive; and that he was thinking of her right this moment.
To her relief, Alfred left her alone with her thoughts. But then, about twenty minutes later, he came out and wandered over to join her. “I meant to ask you, ” he said. “What do you think
of the portrait? ”
She looked up at him. “What portrait? ”
“Your grandpa’s. The self-portrait. ”
She frowned. “I didn’t know he’d done a self-portrait. Where is it? ”
“In the sitting room. I was looking at it before you got here. ”
She hurried into the sitting room, but all she saw was Grandpa’s river picture propped against the wall. Alfred lumbered up behind her.
“Funny old picture, ” he said. “He’s captured it, though. ”
She looked around at him. “What are you talking about? That’s a river scene. ”
Alfred studied the picture for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Well, I’m darned you’re right! There is a river in it. Never saw that. Well, it figures. He always had a thing about the river. ”
“What do you mean? ”
“Well, he was obsessed with it. Used to spend all his time swimming. He was good, too. Could have been a champion long distance swimmer if he’d trained properly, but he never had the discipline. He used to go on about how he was going to swim the length of the river one day, all the way from source to sea. Well, I never saw him do it. Still, he left the area when he was your age, just after his parents died, so I guess he didn’t have the chance. I don’t suppose he’ll do it now. ”
His words entered her like bullets. She stared back at the picture and suddenly saw it as if for the first time. The dappled black for the hair, the misty trails in the water for the nose and mouth, the dark spots that could be eyes —there was a face here, a face she could not believe she had missed, a face she had seen only a short while ago gazing from the top of the fall.
There was no time to lose.
She ran into the hall, kicked off her shoes, and tore the T-shirt off. Alfred called through from the sitting room. “Everything all right, Jessica? ”
But she didn’t answer. Without a backward glance she rushed out of the cottage, down to the bank where Grandpa had finished his painting, and threw herself into the water.
And the river opened and took her into itself.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The first three hours she barely noticed. The time she knew only from the rhythm of her stroke, a rhythm so practiced and so regular, it was like watching the breathing of a sleeping child. And her body, a healthy, well-trained creature with an existence seeming apart from her, did her bidding and left her to her thoughts.
But her thoughts were painful things. They took her to a hospital bed in Braymouth; they took her to an unseen swimmer somewhere ahead of her, a swimmer so strong and so accomplished, she knew she was unlikely to catch him unless he stopped.
But he would not stop; surely he would not stop. What did he have to stop for now? She had let him go on, thinking she did not care.
In the futility of that thought, she plunged on in the chase, dimly taking in the changing form of the river as she drove herself down its slippery body, pushed on by the current and by the tide of her will.
Banks slipped by, and rocks, and eddies that pushed and pulled at her but didn’t hold her back. She glided down the river like a sprite, pursuing the boy she could not see yet sensed ahead of her, pulling her on, just as the sea pulled him.
And with every stroke, the images of Grandpa kept falling over her like spray.
Two more hours passed, three, four; but she was losing track of time. The more she swam, the more time ceased to matter. All that mattered now was here, breathing in, breathing out, head down in this weird, watery world.
She swam on, fighting the tiredness that was starting to seep through her body. The ecstasy of coordination she usually felt in her strokes was gone now. She knew she had never swum like this before, but there was still no sign of the river boy, and there was a long way to go before she reached Braymouth.
If she reached Braymouth.
She didn’t know how fast the current was moving her. It could take many more hours yet, perhaps more hours than she had the strength for. But she must not stop. She must keep going. She must try and catch the river boy, even though she was frightened at the thought of what he was.
Yet she knew there was no need for fear. There was no evil in all this, only magic. The river boy was not a curse but a benediction; a blessing in the history of Grandpa’s life and in her own small existence. And here she was, swimming after all, and with a challenge to match her greatest hopes.
She wondered what Alfred had done. Probably looked for her when she didn’t come back and then called the hospital; so no doubt Mom and Dad were worrying about her now, and maybe even Grandpa.
She felt a rush of guilt, but there was nothing to be done. She couldn’t stop; she wouldn’t stop. She would swim on and on, forever if need be, until she saw the river boy one last time.
And the river ran with her, like a dream wandering through a sleeping mind.
Despair, when it came, crept up on her slowly, like a dark predator fish that follows in secret, biding its time, knowing it will conquer in the end. She swam on, somehow, fighting this new sick feeling inside her.
She knew it was not a sickness of her body, which still fumbled on through its strokes, weary though they were; it was a sickness of the will, born of knowledge that after all this time and effort, without even a glimpse of the river boy, she would never catch him now; that even if she made it to Braymouth, Grandpa would be gone and his spirit swum away forever, and all she would have left was this empty trail.
Despair bit into her, and she saw Grandpa’s face in the darkness of her mind, the face she had always loved and smiled at, even when he hadn’t smiled at her. And she tried to hold onto that face, picture it, cling to it, as though it might give her strength; and, in a strange way, it did.
But she was so weary now, and her thoughts were of defeat. This was the point, she knew, that English Channel swimmers sometimes reach, the hurdle she’d read about that they have to overcome when doubts and fears crowd in, and urge them to stop and climb back into the boat, and go home.
But there was no boat here, only the verdant banks and sloping fields of an unknown land she glimpsed as she glanced up to snatch her tiny pocket of air.
There was no stopping now, no swimming to the bank for a rest or to walk. Where would she walk? Only the river could take her to him.
She threw her mind back to the swimming and tried to push herself on, tried to tell herself she had something in reserve. Every part of her seemed to ache now, every part of her seemed to beg her to stop: her arms, her legs, her shoulders, her thoughts.
She wanted to cry so much. She wanted to cry about Grandpa, about herself, about the figure ahead of her, somewhere out of sight; the figure in whose wake she followed, in whose wake she had always followed.
She had thought she might just catch him. But she was tired now, so tired, and living off the scraps of her spirit.
She stopped and treaded water, and tried to collect herself. At least coldness had not struck, too. Then sun was a long way past its zenith, and the water was well warmed.
She looked around her. The banks were still densely wooded, but the valley sides had receded with the miles, and fields now climbed away on either side, broken by hedgerows and stone walls. The river itself was widening all the time. She gasped suddenly.
Far ahead down the river, almost out of view.
A swimmer.
She watched, struggling with her feelings, trying to see more. It had to be him. It could be no one else.
She struck out again with as much energy as her exhausted body would allow. She knew this would be her only chance, and, if she didn’t catch the river boy this time, with what little strength she had left, she would lose him forever. She drove herself on, trying, when she could, to keep him in view.
Yet every time she looked, he seemed just as far ahead, just as far out of reach. She swam on, trying to break the distance between them, but still it refused to lessen.
What seemed like another hour passed; or perhaps it was only
ten minutes. She no longer knew or cared. She gauged time only by the depth of pain. She forced her attention from herself to the figure ahead, trying to ignore the growing feeling that he was an illusion, a trick of the mind, a creation of her longing.
She stopped suddenly, and lifted her face from the water, and tried to see the figure again.
And this time there was no sign.
It was gone; forever, surely. It had been no more than an illusion after all, a product of her insecurity. She breathed hard and swam on, knowing nothing else to do now.
And the strokes went on, mechanically, almost by themselves, it seemed, driven by no will of hers anymore but by the body’s remnant power; a power that was waning fast.
An hour later, or two hours later, or three, or however long it was, she looked up again from the belly of the river and saw the sun falling over the horizon ahead. She stopped and stared dumbly about her, having noticed or remembered little of her surroundings for some time.
To her surprise, she found herself in the middle of a small estuary. Just ahead were boats on moorings, and she could see flat, grassy land on either side, and a sports field, and the remains of an old fort, and farther down, a seawall, and slipways, and buildings.
And, for the first time, waves pushing in from the sea.
Braymouth. She had made it to Braymouth after all.
But she had lost everything.
She tried to swim again, breaststroke now, pushing the water back with tired, aimless strokes. But this time her body did not respond.
She had nothing left. Just enough strength, perhaps, to struggle to the bank and stumble the rest of the way. There was no point in staying in the water now. She had tried and failed. She turned to the right and faced the bank, and tried to steel her body to swim toward it.
But instead she found herself sobbing, sobbing as she had done that day the river boy first spoke to her. All was lost: Grandpa was surely dead, and his spirit had swum away without her into the sea. And only her tears were flowing after him.
The voice, when it came, was like the first time she had ever heard it: quiet and tender and concerned. Even the words were the same. “Why are you crying? ”