The River - (c) 1997 - William Edward Ilse

The River

I was relaxing on the bank of a river; lying on my back in the grass with one foot dangling in the water. Above the high canopy of willow and elm branches, sparse cottony clouds drifted across the cerulean sky. I was drawn to memories of my childhood when I had spent so many days lollygaging along the creek near my home. I had never felt such a enveloping sense of serenity.

Although the river flowed smoothly past me, in the distance I could hear the sweet melody of rushing rapids. In the back of the auditory orchestra, the percussion section was provided by the sounds of nearby civilization. There was a rustling of paper and plastic, the sporadic clanging of pans or perhaps steel trays, and engaged, though indistinguishable, voices. Where these were coming from, I had not a clue, nor did I care in the least. I had found my refuge, was far away from the fray and that was enough. I was a happy man; let the world go about its business.

Pulling myself up on my elbows and gazing around, I began to realize that I was unfamiliar with the place. I was raised in this city and, being an avid hiker, was very well acquainted with the numerous creeks and ravines that dissected its length as it stretched along the hills of the north shore of Lake Superior. From my vantage point, however, I could see no familiar landmarks. More surprisingly, there were certain aspects of its geography that I felt that I would have remembered. Instead of feeling lost, though, I was intrigued by the mystery of the unknown and the spark of youthful adventure it brought to my spirit.

Just a few yards north of where I was lying, a stone bridge arched the river. There were many stone bridges in the area, but this one was different. Strangely perfect, it looked as if it had been painted there.

Looking upstream, past the bridge, I could see that, about fifty yards away, the river turned into this straight stretch from an easterly source. As it made the turn, it width was dotted with a series of seven flat-topped rocks. Downstream, to the south, about the same distance, the river turned westward out of sight. Upon standing, I could see where, passing between two sentry-like jagged rocks, it quickly became a torrent of rushing rapids as it cascaded into an unseen destination.

I lay back down and began to reflect on the events of the day. I had been at the office and under a great deal of stress. I remembered getting into the car and driving toward home. In my fleeing, I must have come across a park and walked down to this spot by the river. I was only speculating, though and, at that moment, was distracted by a young voice singing in the distance. I sat up and, looking across the river, scanned the scenery for its source. The opposite side was a fairly steep, densely forested hillside.

The only break in the forest was a path that led from the western base of the stone bridge into the woods. I rose to my feet again and walked to the head of the bridge. Looking across, I had a clear view of the path as it climbed the hill to the crest, a distance of about two hundred yards. Over the crest, I could distinguish the roofline of a very large, almost castle-like, structure. The ends of the building were behind the trees on either side, so I could not determine the relative size. The architecture of the roof and the size of the turrets told of a structure of a grand scale. I could only conclude that it was the rear view of a local catholic university.

About a third of the way down the path, a boy of about ten or twelve was making his way toward me. As I waited for him to descend, I began to examine more closely the structure of the bridge. On the eastern approach, where I stood, there were ten steps leading to the main arched portion. Obviously, its purpose was for foot traffic.

Each of the steps was carved out of a single stone and the higher in position of vertical placement, the finer was the cut. Though the risers were all equal, each of the treads was slightly shallower than the next. The lowest, of sandstone, ran a depth of about three feet, and the last, apparently laser-cut from some bright white stone, had a tread about a foot deep. This construction technique gave the stairway a sweeping feeling, a drawing effect.

As the boy came closer, I saw that, in fact, he was in his late teens, tall, with a wiry tan build and blond, sun-bleached hair. He was dressed in typical college attire and was wearing a brown leather jacket. During his descent from the hilltop and, I assumed, the campus, he continued to sing the song that first drew my attention. While, at first, I couldn't hear the words, as he came closer, the words began arriving, individually at first as on tiny breaths of wind and then, finally as he approached the stairway, I could hear them clearly.

Suddenly, he stopped and looked northward. I turned to see what had drawn his attention and saw a much younger boy, perhaps three or four years old standing on the first of the flat rocks on my side of the river. He squatted down and leapt to the next stone. Again, he squatted and jumped, landing on the third island. The older boy continued watching, without showing any other reaction. I, on the other hand, was becoming very concerned for the youngster's safety. As he coiled for the jump to the middle rock I called out to him to come back. The sound of my voice reached him as he sprung and, distracted from his focused goal, looked my way. Losing coordination, he missed the target and slipped from the rock, hitting his head on the edge as his body plunged into the current.

I ran up the bank and scanned the waters for sight of him. The water was crystal clear and the bottom, a bed of brightly colored stones, seemed to be at a depth of about six feet. Clear as it was, I saw no trace of him. Frantic, I dove in, but the current, considerably stronger that I had earlier determined, drove me hard against the eastern bridge abutment. I had no option but to frantically pull myself out of the water.

Looking downstream from the base of the stairs, I saw the older boy standing waste-deep between the jagged sentry-rocks above the rapids. Like a shortstop waiting for the batter's swing, he was bending over with his arms outstretched into the current. In a flash, he lowered his arms so that his chest was submersed, scooping the little body from the watery grave. With little effort, he navigated the rocks to the west bank and carried the child to the base of the bridge. He climbed the steps on the other side and laid the tiny corpse on the bridge floor. I stood motionless.

Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a small musical instrument. It was much like a pennywhistle, but had a mouthpiece on each end. Putting one end in his mouth and kneeling next to the gray body, he leaned over and gently positioned the other mouthpiece between the little blue lips. He began to play the same melody that he had earlier sung. He played a muffled stanza the filled the little chest. Removing his mouth, the exhalation from the little dead boy's lungs repeated the stanza, only clear and sweet. The older boy patiently continued through each verse of the song, waiting for the echo to play it back. With each exchange, the color of the child turned lighter and lighter until, as he finished the song, the skin was approaching a brilliant yellow-white.

The resurrected child stood and turned toward me, eyes twinkling with some secret amusement. I had to look away. From the top white-stone step, he called out, "Did you like the song, Daddy?" His words shocked me; why did he address me as his father? I had no sons, only daughters. My only son was stillborn following a midterm amniotic rupture. Choking back my emotion, I swallowed hard, turned toward them, and began replying, "It was the most beautiful song I've ever…".

As I spoke, I saw that only the older boy remained. He was standing tall and proud with a flash of joy emanating from his broad smile. I was shaken by the disappearance of the child, but regained my composure and continued, "You are a fine young man, would you please sing that song again for me?" He walked to the center of the bridge and pulled himself up onto the south wall. I returned to my grassy bed and lay back down to listen.

He began by playing the haunting, beautiful melody on the instrument again. Being greatly comforted by its sound, I was again settled into the pure peacefulness of the place as he began to sing:
(Listen to the song from the album, “The Calling”)
"I came to bright, shining river.
My feet felt the morning dew.
My ears heard the lark sing its story
The one that he heard from you.

Now just when the lark is a'startin,
And sings but a verse half through,
He'll stop and he'll 'gin start the story;
The one that he heard from you.

But I'm not a lark in the forest,
I'll sing the full song so true.
The one that my fatherr sang me;
The one that he heard from you.

For the lark is a bird of the mornin'
He sings just the start of the tune
For that is his lot and his calling;
The one that he heard from you

But I'm not a lark in the forest,
I'll sing the full song so true.
The one that my father sang me;
The one that he heard from you.

No fanfare did herald my crossing
no clock there called out 'coo-coo'.
'Twas just when I heard the sweet calling;
The one that I heard from you."

When he finished, I looked up at him. He was still sitting there, straddling the wall, with his back toward me and looking to the west.

I began to ask the first of a thousand questions that filled my mind when, suddenly, there was the shout of a man's voice in the distance. A tremendous flash of light followed and a blast that violently shook the earth. The boy lept from his perch. He ran back across the bridge and down the steps just as the bridge crumbled and collapsed into the heaving river. White smoke rose so thick from the riverbed that I could no longer see across.

Like an aftershock, a wall of intense heat blew through the place, defoliating the landscape and leaving nothing around me but a scorched, barren wasteland. My shirt was blown to threads, but I seemed to be unharmed. I struggled, but couldn't rise. I felt like I was melting into the burning soil. The wall of white smoke continued to rise from where the river and the bridge were. It plumbed into a mushroom head directly over me. Continuing to struggle, I felt surrounded and captive. A woman came into my view and, looking down at me gravely, wrapped something around my face. I tried to fight her but couldn't move my arms. I began to kick wildly only to find that my feet were soon bound as well. Just as quickly as she appeared, the woman vanished and I was left alone.

Stillness followed, but, in the distance, were those same faint sounds that I had heard earlier; Clanging, talking, rustling of plastic. A gentle rain began to fall from the cloud of smoke that rose from the river. The drops that hit my face felt wonderful. I opened my mouth and lapped up what I could. They became large and sweet, like being fed perfect berries by a goddess. I was soon refreshed and began to look around again. The freshly soaked earth began to tremble slightly, then pulse gently. With an almost musical rhythm, the vegetation began to burst through the soil. Bluebells, hollyhocks in full bloom and pirouetting grapevines full of ripe red grapes danced onto the stage. The grass sprouted into a thick carpet, tickling the back of my neck. In a matter of a few moments, the entire scene was back as it was, with the exception of the billows of brilliant white rising from the river next to me.

The background noises began to rise to the forefront of my consciousness while the visions before me faded to the back. I became aware that several people were standing around me. I looked beyond the edges of the thing on my face and saw a doctor looking directly at me. He put his hand on my arm and said, "Well. You really surprised us." I blinked to urge him to continue. "I don't know how much you remember. You drove yourself here, complaining of chest pains. We were discussing your health when you said that you were dizzy and suddenly passed out. You had gone into cardiac arrest. We had to setup the defibrillator and give you a shock to get your heart going again. You are very lucky to have come in when you did".

I was overwhelmed at what was happening to me. I helplessly looked all around the room at the nurses, the cords and tubes joining the equipment and me, the bright lights reflecting off of the stainless steel. My chest was still cramped and aching and my lungs felt congested and sore. I responded hesitantly,

"I remember…talking to you…and passing out…and having a really good dream…
It felt so good that I didn't want to wake up…"

Putting her hand on my arm, the nurse asked, "What was your dream about?"

I looked up at her and realized…

"I don't remember."