THE RIVER OF LIFE by Sorcha MacMurrough

Another powerful short story from one of our talented authors.

THE RIVER OF LIFE by Sorcha MacMurrough

This took first prize in a short story competition in which we needed to evoke setting as well as character.

The meandering river flowed slowly, gently, and almost cautiously through the idyllic countryside outside the minute hamlet of Fontdale. Its cascading formation had caressed its way from the mountains, through deep gorges, until it had finally settled itself on the valley floor. It ran smoothly, gracefully towards the ocean.

The river, anonymous to the passing tourist, was slowly being besieged by the weeping willows which had gradually begun to overhang both banks, arching towards each other, to eventually create a lush green tunnel.

The river banks were beginning to feel the effects of erosion as yet another tree had some within inches of slithering into the river's current. Water beetles and frog spawn lay isolated in stagnant pools which had become detached from the river during a recent storm and later dry spell. As if it were oblivious to the forces of nature, the river flowed on.

The morning sun was still trying to break through the clouds. A weak shadow was cast across the hump-backed bridge, leaving part of the road in darkness. Even the swallows beginning to nest in the gables of a nearby cottage did not interrupt the absolute calm of the early dawn. A long thin dark shadow lay across the bridge like a finger of doom as a gloomy, isolated figure hobbled along the rod verge and eventually draped himself across the old bridge wall.

In the bright light the figure materialised into a stout, older man. The contentment upon the rough, craggy face was evident as the man surveyed both the countryside and the river.

His name was Thomas, though in the past six or seven years he had heard been referred to by the young people of the town as 'old boy' despite the fact that he was not even near sixty.

The sparkling water glinted in the early morning light, taking him back down the years until he saw himself as a small boy engaged in various pursuits along the banks of this very river. He savoured his moment of nostalgia, the idyllic memories of his childhood, which he knew were simply too good to be true.

As a young boy, though, he had definitely raced numerous paper boats down the river, making imaginary bets with himself and hoping his selected boat would win.

The memories started to flood back as he gazed, mesmerised, into the murky waters. Thomas began to reminisce about the times when, as a young boy, he had fished his same stretch of river for perch. Even now he recollected how squeamish he had felt when putting the worms on the hooks.

As a young child, he had thrown stones into the river, in an attempt to figure out why they fell into the water, instead of blowing away in the wind like leaves.

As a teenager, Thomas had walked hand in hand with his girlfriend along these banks. As a married couple, they had walked here every Sunday, had picnics, sunned themselves, talked. It was here she had broken the news to him-the doctor had said she could never have children.

This sudden reminder of his dead wife and the disappointment they had had to endure together throughout the years caused Thomas' view of the river to blur as the grief filled his soul.

His wife had died unexpectedly seven years ago. He could have reminisced with her about this river, if she had still been with him.

When Thomas was at last able to glance back at the brightening river a few minutes later, his perception of it suddenly changed. He now reflected that this river too had passed through different phases in the course of its existence.

It had started off its life as a violent churning, wild entity, tumbling all before it, until it had gradually gentled, and eventually come down to earth, to settle contentedly upon the valley floor.

At times the river flowed slowly, turning corners, or made a dash, resenting being blocked by obstacles.

At other times the river flowed rapidly, almost ferociously, tumbling helter skelter, passionately, vibrantly.

But it had eventually wound down to a slower pace, and at last it reached the ocean.

In the same way, Thomas saw now, life began quickly, tumultuously. Youth was hectic, exciting, but as one aged, the years grew slower, more contented, and sadder. The ocean was symbolic of the life beyond, which, like the river, we would all one day flow into.

Thomas now knew he was in the slow, contented stage of his life. But did he want to be there?

Looking at the river now, in the hard glare of the summer sunshine, Thomas could see the river for what it really was. The river which had looked so majestic to him could be seen in its true light: it was stagnant and polluted.

Hurriedly Thomas left the bridge and began his journey home, chilled by the early morning breeze, and the realisation that the stagnant river closely mirrored his own futile existence.

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