THE RIVER
This begins a series that I offer as a continuing story with various episodes appearing weekly. I hope you enjoy it.
The river had always terrified the boy.
It was established in his memory and imagination, waiting to intrude upon his thoughts, to strike terror into his heart in the dead of night or in his daydreams. Half a mile wide, it crossed his mind with no beginning or end, a raging torrent coursing through his life determined to have its way no matter how many lives it claimed. Millions of cold, white snakes appeared at first to cover its surface, writhing and squirming, coiled over each other and striking out into the air: a continuous, undulating passage of treacherous whirlpools and white caps of deadly ice-cold water. The spectacle held him with a hypnotic power. Just over the treeline of his wilderness home in the North Country, it cast through the gigantic, dark pines that stood as sentinels along its graveled shore--what seemed to be a malevolent force with a soul intent on laying claim to his. The boy swore to himself that he would fight it with everything he had. He would not lose his life like so many others. This natural fury could be resisted. He vowed that the river would not determine his fate. The entity surged on through the primal forests and his viens to an eternal sea not of this world. It harbored a secret unknown to him: great adventure and treasure awaited the man found worthy.
Every wilderness family had been touched by tragedies wrought by the water. Crossings attempted far upstream sent silent witnesses to the settlement: drowned oxen, cattle and horses tumbled past in the rapids, frozen in postures of fright; submerged wagons of broken boards drifted by with wheels missing; semi-clothed specimens followed that were no longer human, staring at nothing with black eyes, rolling far behind everything they had once held dear. Spring floods occurred occasionally without notice-silent, melted snows that shocked the system and took life quickly within minutes. Day or night, it didn't matter. The results were the same. The waters would rise and all would be lost. The strong currents wrenched apart everything constructed, with steel hands it took it all away, defying the people who struggled to wrest sustenance from the wild land the river ruled. Anything attempted on the loose gravel banks along the water's edge often resulted in calamitous accidents. Cords of driftwood would suddenly be deposited or withdrawn with thunderous cracks and clatterings according to the river's whim, an ever-changing collection of debris along its sides swept from other regions. Every so often, one of the colossal trees on its banks could no longer withstand the river's will. Ripping moorings from the earth, the tree would slowly careen in, taking along whoever, unfortunately, impeded its path. The swift, cold water was dangerous in many ways and could not be trusted, neither the river nor all it influenced.
The boy tried to warn his neighbors that the river was some kind of supernatural force, something in this world but not of it, that had invaded his mind like a spirit. They would not listen. They told his mother, "Your son Ezekiel is crazy! Stop teaching him so much and giving him books to read! You're filling his head with dreams and foolishness, and soon he will be good for nothing."
Zeke's mother ignored them. She had once been a teacher and had recognized in her young son the sparks of intelligence and creativity. She found him at three years old drawing a realistic picture of a deer with a crayon on scrap paper. Knowing that such early artistic ability is often a sign of cognitive sophistication, she set about to teach Zeke to read while he was still a toddler. The precious books of education that she had saved during the family's arduous journey to the wilderness meant everything to her. She had passed on to her son, through these books, the world of thought and reason, a love of learning that she felt made life worthwhile, no matter where a body might be or the hardships he might be enduring. Her son's precociousness and creativity were a constant joy, a gift she had given him for his own personal enrichment and enjoyment. With constant encouragement and nurturing, she had seen them return, demonstrated in his artwork and understanding. If no one else could appreciate his qualities and insight, it was just their loss.
Perhaps due to his artistic sensibilities and intellect, enhanced by the books he had studied, Zeke had known for some time that things were not as they seemed. Knowing their limitations, he did not completely trust his senses. He could easily represent the reality he perceived with sight by employing depth and perspective techniques on a two-dimensional piece of paper, and reasoned that the world of sight was also that easy, just two dimensions folded over third-dimensional spaces: an illusion of substance concealing a void in which anything could exist. Within this void, he believed opposing forces of good and evil operated and did battle. The beauty and terror of the natural wilderness world in which the lived, he understood as an extension and projection of his own imagination--enriched and intensified by an artistic eye and perceptions of the infinite, inherant in all things. The mysterious realm of the void sometimes "leaked through," encroached upon physical reality and this is how he felt the river came to be. Despite the dangers and his paralyzing fear, he endeavored to discover the true origin of the river's power, it's true meaning and purpose, not knowing that the risks he took would affect everyone's life, would change everything forever.
To be continued...
J. Wallace
The river had always terrified the boy.
It was established in his memory and imagination, waiting to intrude upon his thoughts, to strike terror into his heart in the dead of night or in his daydreams. Half a mile wide, it crossed his mind with no beginning or end, a raging torrent coursing through his life determined to have its way no matter how many lives it claimed. Millions of cold, white snakes appeared at first to cover its surface, writhing and squirming, coiled over each other and striking out into the air: a continuous, undulating passage of treacherous whirlpools and white caps of deadly ice-cold water. The spectacle held him with a hypnotic power. Just over the treeline of his wilderness home in the North Country, it cast through the gigantic, dark pines that stood as sentinels along its graveled shore--what seemed to be a malevolent force with a soul intent on laying claim to his. The boy swore to himself that he would fight it with everything he had. He would not lose his life like so many others. This natural fury could be resisted. He vowed that the river would not determine his fate. The entity surged on through the primal forests and his viens to an eternal sea not of this world. It harbored a secret unknown to him: great adventure and treasure awaited the man found worthy.
Every wilderness family had been touched by tragedies wrought by the water. Crossings attempted far upstream sent silent witnesses to the settlement: drowned oxen, cattle and horses tumbled past in the rapids, frozen in postures of fright; submerged wagons of broken boards drifted by with wheels missing; semi-clothed specimens followed that were no longer human, staring at nothing with black eyes, rolling far behind everything they had once held dear. Spring floods occurred occasionally without notice-silent, melted snows that shocked the system and took life quickly within minutes. Day or night, it didn't matter. The results were the same. The waters would rise and all would be lost. The strong currents wrenched apart everything constructed, with steel hands it took it all away, defying the people who struggled to wrest sustenance from the wild land the river ruled. Anything attempted on the loose gravel banks along the water's edge often resulted in calamitous accidents. Cords of driftwood would suddenly be deposited or withdrawn with thunderous cracks and clatterings according to the river's whim, an ever-changing collection of debris along its sides swept from other regions. Every so often, one of the colossal trees on its banks could no longer withstand the river's will. Ripping moorings from the earth, the tree would slowly careen in, taking along whoever, unfortunately, impeded its path. The swift, cold water was dangerous in many ways and could not be trusted, neither the river nor all it influenced.
The boy tried to warn his neighbors that the river was some kind of supernatural force, something in this world but not of it, that had invaded his mind like a spirit. They would not listen. They told his mother, "Your son Ezekiel is crazy! Stop teaching him so much and giving him books to read! You're filling his head with dreams and foolishness, and soon he will be good for nothing."
Zeke's mother ignored them. She had once been a teacher and had recognized in her young son the sparks of intelligence and creativity. She found him at three years old drawing a realistic picture of a deer with a crayon on scrap paper. Knowing that such early artistic ability is often a sign of cognitive sophistication, she set about to teach Zeke to read while he was still a toddler. The precious books of education that she had saved during the family's arduous journey to the wilderness meant everything to her. She had passed on to her son, through these books, the world of thought and reason, a love of learning that she felt made life worthwhile, no matter where a body might be or the hardships he might be enduring. Her son's precociousness and creativity were a constant joy, a gift she had given him for his own personal enrichment and enjoyment. With constant encouragement and nurturing, she had seen them return, demonstrated in his artwork and understanding. If no one else could appreciate his qualities and insight, it was just their loss.
Perhaps due to his artistic sensibilities and intellect, enhanced by the books he had studied, Zeke had known for some time that things were not as they seemed. Knowing their limitations, he did not completely trust his senses. He could easily represent the reality he perceived with sight by employing depth and perspective techniques on a two-dimensional piece of paper, and reasoned that the world of sight was also that easy, just two dimensions folded over third-dimensional spaces: an illusion of substance concealing a void in which anything could exist. Within this void, he believed opposing forces of good and evil operated and did battle. The beauty and terror of the natural wilderness world in which the lived, he understood as an extension and projection of his own imagination--enriched and intensified by an artistic eye and perceptions of the infinite, inherant in all things. The mysterious realm of the void sometimes "leaked through," encroached upon physical reality and this is how he felt the river came to be. Despite the dangers and his paralyzing fear, he endeavored to discover the true origin of the river's power, it's true meaning and purpose, not knowing that the risks he took would affect everyone's life, would change everything forever.
To be continued...
J. Wallace
posted by Purgatory Penman | 1:28 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home