Let the River Speak

His tiredness courses through him like shards. Every step is a struggle, every breath a battle.

Watching the waters of the river, he sees the weave of the waves. They do not call to him; he realizes, no, quite the opposite. The waters are pushing back at him, undulating in their resistance. He knows there have been others. Perhaps a young man like him, perhaps a woman, lost, so very lost. But now he feels the river is crying out to him; the dull roar tells him he is not welcome.

He yells down to the obsidian depths. “Who are you to tell me where I can and cannot go?” His heart pounds in his chest. Even the river will not have him. Then, his contemplation is interrupted.

“Let the river speak,” an old woman says. She seems out of place, though there is kindness in her eyes. She has been drawn to him, drawn to his pain.

“What if I don’t like what it has to say?” he asks of her.

“That is not your concern. You are here now; you have asked your question. Did you think you’d like the answer?” she retorts. He had not contemplated rejection.

“Let the river speak, son,” she says softly.

Crying, the man nods. He looks to the waters. The river rushes, as it always has. Should one choose to listen, it will speak. Let the river speak, she said.

This is no place for you, it says to him. I have had my fill of sentinels. My throat is full; my bed writhes with those who sleep but never sleep. I may yet make room for such as you, but not this night. Not this night.

He flees.