Keeper of the Duskveil: The Legacy of Blood and Water

I sat in the chair my grandmother seemed to occupy her entire life. It embraced me with the memory of her shape. For a moment, it was as though her arms were wrapped around me – holding me tight, keeping me safe. I was carried back to memories of childhood, curled in her lap for a bedtime story. She would stroke my hair, or pat my leg in time with the rhythm of her words. That chair and her lap had always been one of my most favourite places in the world.

Returning from my reverie, I became aware of the house around me. The air felt heavy, burdened with absence. This house, now barren, had once been alive with her presence. She had constantly hummed, not a tune I could name, and never twice the same. Her cheerful melodies seemed to breathe life into these walls and everything within them. Now, the silence pressed down like a weight in the absence of her vibration.

I looked around the room, settling on fragments of my childhood. The Russian nesting dolls, that had entertained me for hours. A Tibetan sound bowl, that Gran had used to calm me if ever I had been inconsolable. An ornate frame that held a picture of me and my Gran at a local gypsy fair – I remembered the wiry old man who had offered to take our picture for a few dollars and my begging Gran to allow him to capture a memory of our happy day.

Lost to myself as I surveyed the treasure trove of memories, something unexpected caught my eye. It was a glint of something stashed beneath the hearthstone.

I stepped forward needing to check what I had actually seen, my pulse quickening. There it was, a corner of something metal, strangely bright despite the dull patina. I knelt on the floor and carefully reached for it. A strong tremor passed through my fingertips as they brushed against the edge of a box, made of tin and dented with age. This was clearly a special treasure, hidden away. But why? My heart skipped a beat, as my mind raced with a myriad of questions. Was it Gran’s? I had to know.

With a gentle tug, the box slid free from its confinement. It felt well-worn, as if handled often, cherished, then concealed where no one would find it – except now, impossibly, I had. A shiver of anticipation moved through me, fear and curiosity combined.

I sat on the floor with the tin in my lap. Excitement trembled through me, stirred with hesitation. To open it felt like trespassing upon something sacred, something that may have never been meant to share.

Closing my eyes, I steadied myself. If I were to lift this lid, I would do it slowly, with presence—with reverence, honouring what it might hold. Carefully, I pried the lid open. Inside lay a parcel wrapped tightly in oilcloth, filling the tin so completely I had to turn the box upside down to coax it free.

It rested in my hands and I let the weight of it settle. I carefully pulled back the fabric protection to uncover an exquisite leatherbound book. The cover with ornate carvings twined across it was rich brown and warm to the touch. I closed my eyes and let my fingers move across the carvings as if casting them to memory. I opened my eyes to gaze upon the loveliness of it and my breath caught as I noticed the faded soft gold letters embossed upon it: Journal of the River’s Keeper

It seemed an odd collection of words – mysterious, almost ceremonial – and I couldn’t begin to imagine what they meant.

The Duskveil River flowed right beside the cottage. It had been as much a source of anguish as of pleasure during my lifetime. Gran had worried when heavy rain threatened to burst its banks, and she had spent summers sitting in the shade of the willows planted along its edge. Her connection to the river had always run deep – that much I knew – but to call herself the Keeper of the River felt strange.

I flipped open the front cover. The first entry, dated 3 March 1956, was written in my grandmother’s unmistakable hand. The letters were steadier than the ones I had grown used to seeing in her later years, but it was her writing all the same.

Tonight the river spoke to me for the first time.

She had written of going to the river after her own grandmother’s passing, seeking calm reassurance. Nightfall had settled, low and thick, colouring the water black yet there seemed to be a light shimmering from within. She described standing barefoot on the stones, and feeling the current against her skin. She had heard not just the water, but many voices woven together. Generations of Keepers whispering as one. She could even make out the voice of her own grandmother, Selene, amongst them.

The voices told her, what she had always known deep down: that she was chosen. That her blood carried the duty of care for the River. That she was now the Keeper of the Duskveil.

She wrote of her fear, and of the tether to something dark, powerful and inescapable. Something that would forever bind her to the Duskveil River and to the town of Malithorne. She described visions: floods both cleansing and destructive, of children baptised in its waters, of lovers sealing vows, of death carried away in silence. The river is both life and death, a blessing and a curse.

The entry ended simply: The River claimed me tonight. I now belong to it and it to me.

I sat back reeling. Reading her words felt like déjà vu, as though I had written them. My heart raced; my skin flushed. I read and reread the entry until I had calmed myself enough to continue.

I turned the pages slowly, reading very little, searching for what, I didn’t know but sensing it was here. Eventually, I found it. The last entry - 15 April 1989. I paused, drew a breath and began to read.

While my hands tremble as I write this, the river steadies me. It always has. My bones echo the hum of its current but now my time as Keeper of the River has drawn to a close. A new chapter now begins in you, Aurelia.

She spoke of watching me grow through childhood. She confessed to knowing the river’s song already existed within my soul. She had seen how I lingered at the water’s edge, listening to the currents, even as a small child, as if I already had a sense of what was to become my destiny. The Duskveil had chosen me, as it once chose her.

Being the Keeper of the River, is not a burden, she wrote. It is a bond – one of love, protection, honour and integrity. This journal is my legacy to you, a gift, but it will be the river that is your true teacher.

She warned me not to mistake stillness for acceptance, nor shadows for cruelty. The river will be patient with you, but it will also be testing. There will be times that it will be frightening, yet it holds so much healing. Place your trust in the river, for it has placed its trust in you. Let its voice guide you when your faith in the world falters.

When you read this, I will have returned to the river, as all Keepers do. The power of the river is most potent at first and last light. When you feel ready, go to the water. Stand in it. Listen. I will speak to you whenever you need me. In the water, you will feel your spirit rise with a strength you do not yet know you hold. Guard that strength. Honour it. Become the Keeper of the River. It’s important.

Her name closed the page:

Thalassa Wren, 1918-1989, Keeper of the Duskveil River, 1956—1989

My face wet with tears of emotion, my hands trembling as they held the journal, my journal, I knew what I had to do.

I rugged up warm and headed down to the river.

The last of the lingering summer warmth was yielding to the slight chill of autumn, as the vibrant greens gave way to the golds, oranges and reds. The river whispered my name “Aurelia”, pulling me closer, drawing me in. The river possessed a depth of darkness I’d never noticed before. The current was alive with the voices of my matriarchs – how had I never truly listened until now? Gran then came to me, louder than the others, as if she had stepped forward or they had moved back.

“Stand in the water, Aurelia. Let your body absorb the knowledge of all those who have gone before you. Don’t be afraid. This has always been your destiny. Trust in everything you know and all that you have yet to learn. The river will be your teacher, your protector, your friend. Step into the water. Soak up your heritage.”

And so I stepped forward, into the water of the river that I was now the Keeper of. The water was dark and bitingly cold, but only for a moment. As my feet pressed into the light shingle at the river’s edge, golden light rippled through the water, and a warmth spread through my entire being. Before me stood the women of my lineage—all Keepers of the River. It was then that I realised the importance of my heritage and the honour being bestowed upon me and I wept.