The River's Edge

The old man stumbled as his foot hit a rock, and he barely managed to clutch an exposed tree root in time to stop himself from tumbling down the steep hill. He looked at the root, observing the resemblance it held to his own gnarled hand. Both were worn, aged and twisted out of shape. The root supported him, and he held onto it; they were both stronger than they looked. They were different too, though. His hand was leathery and brown, covered with scars and spots he could no longer account for, but the root was hard and grey. Everything was grey. Once again certain of his footing, he resumed making his way down the slope. His legs had been much younger the last time he made this trip, and his youth had allowed him to ignore the path’s treachery. He didn't know how he would climb back up again. He didn't know if he wanted to.

Once he reached the bottom, his tattered boots crunched on the smooth stones washed up along the river’s edge. He found a rock large enough to sit on and he sank down, joints stiff from the cold. His thick clothes were once comfortable and warm, but now they were just threadbare rags, defenseless against winter’s bite. Absently, he twisted the chipped, tarnished band on his finger. He looked back at the hill and the grey shapes emerging from it— lifeless trees reaching toward the heavens; cold, sharp stones jutting from the sides; weathered tombstones standing in neat rows above.

When he closed his eyes the hill was green and shimmering, the light bouncing off of the river to paint the land around it. The hilltop grew wildflowers instead of graves, and he was among them, holding the string of a kite as far away as death. He had his whole life before him and the world to explore, and the breeze from the river whispered of magic and adventure. The sounds of life were all around him, in the busy murmur of the town, the laughter of the children, and the wildlife collected by the river.

He opened his eyes and everything faded, the landscape returning to muddled grey. The town was silent. Most of its people had moved away long ago; only those occupying the graveyard above the hill were left. The only life now came from the river. He shifted slightly to face it. Unlike the town, the river still flourished. There were ways to cross it when he was young, spots where the rocks were high enough to stand on, wooden bridges. The bridges were long gone now, covered and washed away, and even if he could find the rocks, he couldn't fight the currents. He stared at the horizon where the water and sky met, and in a moment of vertigo the world flipped upside-down— the grey clouds moved like a gentle stream, while the river roared and flashed like a storm. He blinked and the world righted itself. In the distance, the old man could see the faint outline of a bird, only distinguishable by the familiar sound of the albatross’ cry.

The albatrosses roosted on his island. They were the first things he saw whenever he came to shore. First the birds, circling and calling around the island— only a small patch of green in the distance— then the rocks, littered with feathers and nests, the small dock, and when he rowed up to shore, he could see the wooden house in the fields. It wasn't large, wasn't much to look at, but he had built it himself. It was theirs, and she had loved it. She had loved everything about the island, saw beauty everywhere— in the birds, the sea, the fields. She was always painting them. He had always thought she was the most beautiful thing on the island, even when her hair went grey, and her hands shook, and her sight went, and she couldn't paint anything.

That’s where he left her, sleeping forever on their island with the dried-up paints and empty nests. The old man wanted to sleep. He was tired, and the cold air weighed heavily on his limbs. He sat on the rock and stared toward the horizon, still and serene as the landscape around him, until he heard it. The breeze had changed. When he was young it sang of adventure, now it sang of comfort and rest. A shape began to appear in the fog and the old man smiled. The first time he saw her, she had been smiling. His boat had flipped and he had climbed up on shore muddy and cursing, and there she was— hair loose, dress splattered with  paint— just standing on the banks laughing at him.

The old man’s body ached and groaned as he stood. She was calling him, and he could hear the sea in her voice. Her words sounded of lapping waves and calling sea-birds, and she promised him rest and peace. He began to walk toward her and with each step he became younger, stronger. He stood tall and the cold didn't bother him— not the frigid air on his face or the icy water seeping into his shoes.

A sudden gust of wind pushed him back and he threw an arm up to cover his face, but it was too late; the illusion had shattered. When he lowered his arm, the fog was just fog, and he was just a lonely old man. The sun was beginning to set. The old man turned back to the hill and began to climb.