The River Price

Once upon a time, alongside an ancient river, lived a man. He was past his seasons, yet wanted for nothing. Some years ago, before his back was creaking and arms shaking, he'd built himself all he would need for the rest of his life. He had a cozy little cabin, built atop a shallow hill that protected him from floods, and with it, all the tools and lumber needed to whittle his rods and paint his tackle pieces. He had a dog, raised from birth to be his fishing hound, sniffing out the spots along the well tread shoreline that would lead him to good luck in his casts. Each day, as the sun rose, he would rub the old dog's head and wake them up, make them a fine breakfast of smoked fish and wild herbs, and a pinch of black coffee. The old clay stove of his own making warmed them, and he would pull on his river jacket, snub the fire, and head down the path to the river.

Dawn to dusk, the man would fish the shore. He would fish the islets that rose and sank with the river's height, he would fish the old holes where rock gave way to deceptive caverns, and the crystal shallows so thin that his foot would barely sink in its flow. Along the shore, the hum and roar of the water was eternal in his ears, and its voice soothed his bones, inviting him to push deeper, to uncover more of its breadth. In all his years of fishing, he knew that this river had more secrets than there were stars in the sky, and he would not live long enough to uncover them. The thought to some would disturb them, but to the old angler, they held a truth that few others could hope to know. His life was one of peace, and happiness.

One day, as he was walking towards the river, he felt an absence. It took him until the strangeness was in view to realize that the rush of water, the giving life of the river, was not there. Its bed had gone dry, the mud and pebbles cracking in thirst that they had never known.

In all his years, through every drought, through every dry spell and beaver matriarch and landslide, he had never seen the river dry. "Curious." His words rang more than ever before, his voice loud in the silence of the dry river. His loyal hound looked to him for guidance, when a thought struck him. "I know!" The old dog barked. "I will follow the smell of water, and we shall walk to find where the river has gone!" Already, his nose was to the earth, and the man followed behind, looking at the minnows and tadpoles stranded in the empty bed.

A day passed, and the two companions slept beneath the trees. They waited in the morning for signs of the river's return, yet none came. So on they went.

Into their journey, they spied a bluegill, circling a pitiful pond no larger than a manhole cover. "An angler!" It cried out, ducking low into what remained of its home. Now, the angler was no fool to opportunity, but it was a solemn law of the pursuit that fishing was a battle of patience between two of God's creatures, and such poaching while amidst a mystery would be unbecoming. The bluegill, old and wise by its species standard, understood this. "Woe to us both, hunter of my kin. The river has gone! To where I know not, but the catfish, those wily schemers, spoke of trouble closer to its origin." The angler, a fair man in all things, asked the fish if it should like to travel with them, to discover where the river had gone. The bluegill agreed with some convincing, jumping into the man's bucket now filled. Weighed by the fish, they slowed their pace, but continued forward, sycamore and walnut groves watching them with anticipation, as they too missed the caress of the river against their roots.

The next day, The man ran out of breath when a beaver spotted them. "An angler!" It cried out, waddling close. The beaver was a friend of anglers. "Have you come to find the river? I heard tell from the raccoons that its a month's walk from here. They speak of a dire truth to it, and I am too scared to see it alone..."

The man agreed to walk with the beaver, but halfway through the journey, their food had run empty. The trees that relied on the constant of water had dried away, and there was little to forage or eat. The bluegill, ever wise, understood what must be done. "Partake of my flesh companions. Let it strengthen you for the journey ahead, but know this. My final request is that I be returned to the river, wherever it may have gone."

The dog, man, and beast did as instructed, the gift of life taken with the reverence deserved. The warmth of the meat sustained them for the next two weeks of travel.

Then they came to a place impassable, a valley of sheer cliffs where the river ate away at them. The man could not walk through the bed, for the rocks had become jagged, the shells of snails and whelks discarded to leave blood in his barefoot tracks. The beaver knew what must be done, for man was a remover of obstacles, and the beaver knew that he would be needed ahead. "Take my skin, and use it to guard your feet from the rocks old man. But I too must be returned to the river." They did as instructed, their bucket weighed down with the remains of the creatures. For two more weeks, the old man and dog walked through the valley, the thick hide of the moccasins protecting them. Above, ancient rocs and newborn eagles screeched over the loss of the river, the old cavern maws now open to the earth. Skeletons of fish littered the ground, piles of those too slow or dumb to escape its shrinking.

The man walked forward, until the river bed led into the city. It was here that his way was barred, a great iron fence blocking off the tunnel forward. His hound, his most loyal friend, stared at the fence. "I can remove this fence, master. Though it will cost me my life." The man, seeing no way through the closed entrance, hugged his friend close one final time. The dog, with its powerful jaws, ripped through the iron and shook loose the nails. The damage and blood from its face proved fatal, and his master needed no instruction on what he must do. He kissed the forehead of the animal goodbye, the pail too heavy now with the dead. He carried it in both arms as he ventured inside the tunnel.

Above, the poisonous world of men rumbled and shook, an earthquake that reminded him only of the lost river. But the tunnel eventually deepened, and the sounds and smells of plastic and metal shrank. A gust blew ahead of him, and he smelled the snow melt of spring, of jumping trout and salmon. Of the walleye and otters and pond skaters. Of the past, of his childhood, submerging into the deep clear water, a new world, alien below the surface and infinite in its majesty.

He found the river.

It was in a chamber below, the water calm as never before. It heard him arrive, and its familiar voice trickled up to his ears. "You have come, as I knew one of you would."

The man listened as the river spoke. "For a long, long time, I have given freely to your kin, angler. I have run across the rocks and filled the ancient earth with life. The creatures of creation rely upon my water for all things, but this has never been given freely. Always it came with an understanding that creatures lack."

It sighed out, the old man setting the pail down. "I have given too much, angler, and too much has been taken from me. I cannot return to my bed, unless a sacrifice is given."

"What is your price river?" He spoke, his longing for the return of its gift plain in his voice.

"My price is your craft. You must never take from my veins again, angler. Promise this, and I shall return."

The angler was outraged. He argued with the river, his frustration understood better than he realized. Yet the river would not be swayed.

He bit his lip. In the end, he agreed, solemn and defeated. The river spat forth a stone, and he picked it up.

Emerging from the tunnel, he tossed the stone into the dry, cracked bed. It split to reveal a geode of the most dazzling blue, and from inside, the water roiled out. It crashed into its banks and rushed down the way he'd come, the earth's thirst quenched once more.

With reverence, he deposited the remains of his companions into the flow. They vanished, becoming one with the river. Nearby, a canoe sprinted close, inviting him to ride. He obliged it, his knees tired and back crooked.

The eagles swooped into the water to grab at bass, the beavers built their homes amid the rush. The bluegill jumped and frolicked, speeding along the current. The trees and reeds and weeds breathed out, their leaves and vines turning the most brilliant green ever witnessed. Life flourished.

The angler felt a deep and terrible loss. How would he live without fishing?

Perhaps he would not. As the canoe brought him home, he took out his line, and confidently cast it into the water. It splashed with discomfort.

But as he stepped onto the bank, the river spoke again. "This was my price, Son of Man. The creatures of the earth will always be sacrificed before you, and always will their sacrifice be greater than yours. The fish, and beast, and companion were all willing to give their lives to see me returned, but you cannot keep your promise to see me well." At once, he realized his mistake, but it was too late.

"Thus I curse you, angler. You may fish for all your days, but you shall never catch a thing. I will warn all the creatures of the river to avoid your tricks, and your wiles. Your fellows will poison me and make my gifts anathema to you, and one day, I shall dry away forever, and no promise shall make me return." The roar of the water returned to familiarity, but the angler felt only its emptiness echo over his heart. With terrible understanding, he snapped his rod over his knee and returned home to a dreamless sleep.

For many years, the angler would spend his days traveling the river, telling others of his mistake, and helping all the beasts of the wood and city to understand and respect its secrets. Until one day, he too was returned to its embrace, and accepted once again by its waters.