15June
Tonight the river still haunts me, its dark water a mirror for the thoughts I cannot shake. I had just slung my modest evening catch a handful of silvershimmering minnowsinto a wicker basket and was making my way back down the narrow path toward my rickety cart when a sudden roar stopped me dead in my tracks, as if lightning had struck my very soul. It was no illusion. From the thick, soupy mist over the River Derwent came the same sound again: not a shout, but a dying wail, a raw animal terror that sent a shiver down my spine. A womans cry, torn apart by the howling wind in the crowns of the ancient oaks, barely rose above the roar of the river, yet every word was clear enough to hear. She was pleading, pouring the last strength of her spirit into that scream. Beside her, another voice gasped in frantic bursts, water splashing up to the bank.
Without a seconds hesitation I hurled the basket, and the silver fish scattered across the wet sand. Stripping off my heavy woolen coat and the battered work trousers, I was left in a threadbare shirt. I plunged into the black, chilling water, the wind snapping at me like a maddened beast, whipping the waves into my face with foam and spray.
The swim was a nightmare. The current, usually lazy, had turned treacherous, its cold fingers clawing at my legs. Near the rivers main channel, where the water grew especially dark and deep, a girl was flailing desperately. Her dark hair, tangled like seaweed, rose with each surge, then fell back into the inky abyss, threatening to swallow her whole. The young man she had begged for helppresumably mehad already reached the opposite bank. He did not look back; his movements were sharp, frightened. Grabbing a small inflatable dinghy, he scanned the shore with the wild eyes of a hunted animal, then backed away along the forest edge, eager to disappear into the trees that might yet save him.
The girls cries faded; she no longer broke the surface. When I, exhausted beyond words, finally arrived at the place where the water churned in slow, ominous circles, my heart sank to my boots. I gulped a massive breath, plunged into the icy fog, felt for the slick fabric of my coat, clutched the limp body from behind, and, using my free hand as a paddle, kicked desperately, thrusting my legs toward the bank. Each stroke burned my muscles, each breath was a ragged moan, but I kept going, clinging to life and to the fragile hope cradled in my arms.
I hauled the girl onto the shore, my own fatigue forgotten as I set to work. My hands, accustomed to hard labor, moved swiftlypressing, turning, delivering mouthtomouth breaths. Murky river water burst from her lungs, and she coughed a hoarse, broken rasp before steadier, shallow breathing returned. I needed to warm her. I gathered the dying embers from an old campfire, built a quick platform of flat river stones, layered a thick blanket of pine branches over it, and gently laid her upon the makeshift bed. I covered her with the only coat I owned, still smelling of smoke and sweat, and gathered my scattered belongings, pulling the soaked clothes over her stiffening body. Then I lit a fresh fire, extending trembling, frostnipped hands toward its warmth.
The heat rose slowly, as if reluctant to penetrate my frozen flesh. She lay motionless, a faint plume of breath the only proof she was still alive. The cold water and the shock had taken their toll, but I knewjust as I knew every bend of this riverthat she would awaken with time. I felt that certainty deep in my bones.
I lifted my face to the sky, a ceiling of low, heavy clouds. Not even the moon could pierce that leaden veil; the world felt empty and bleak. I stared at the dancing flames; they carried me back to that cruel, grey evening that had stolen everything from me.
It was that same summer when Lila, our little son Arthur, and I set off for a weekend of fishing, a ritual we repeated almost every year. Leaving my wife, Mary, and baby Arthur to unpack our gear in the tent, I pushed off from the bank in our aging but trusty boat.
Warm up with a cuppa while I bring back the catch, love, I called cheerfully to Lila, my face breaking into a carefree grin. Well have the best fish soup in the world!
Just be careful, Victor, Mary warned, eyes fixed on the gathering clouds. The weathers turning.
Dont worry, I know every stone out here! I shouted back, oars slicing the glassy surface.
I dropped my lines into my favourite spot and settled into the familiar ritual of waiting. Suddenly the sky blackened as if night had fallen early. A fierce wind bent the trees to the ground and a wall of water crashed from the heavens. The boat spun, the current shoved it sideways, and a deafening snap echoedmy hull had struck a hidden submerged log like a dagger. Air hissed out, and in an instant the boat turned into a ragged piece of rubberized canvas.
I tried to swim, but a searing cramp seized my leg in the icy water. The rivers fury was relentless; I was knocked against something hard and darkness claimed me. I only awoke three days later, lying on a hard wooden pallet inside a hut that reeked of smoke and herbs. Standing was a battle of dizziness and nausea. At the door shuffled an ancient man, his face mapped with deep lines, like a living chronicle.
Get your bearings, he grunted, setting a steaming bowl of broth on a rough wooden stool. Drink this herb tea; itll stop the bleeding. Have some porridge, or youll lose your breath altogether.
Where am I? I croaked, and the mention of some distant, unfamiliar county sent a cold shock through me. I was far from home, dozensmaybe hundredsof miles away.
The woods took you hard, the old man said after a pause. Hunters dragged me here barely alive. Thought youd never make it back.
I tried to rise again, but he waved a withered finger at me.
Stay put, dont be a hero. Youve lost enough blood. Moving now will just bring death. Rest and recover.
What about my family? My wife, my son theyll think Im dead! desperation cracked my voice. I imagined Marys tears, and my heart clenched like a knot of stone.
What news can I give you? the old man sneered. This isnt a postoffice town. Its just forestwolves howl, bears roar. No one sends letters here.
How do you survive? I asked, genuinely curious.
Herbs, mushrooms, nuts, berries. In winter we stash supplies. Hunters drop by now and then with a few treats. Thats how Ive lived these twenty years, he answered, sighing heavily before shuffling back onto his pallet. Sleep. Youll need your strength.
He soon fell asleep, and I stared at the dim glow of a splintered log on the table. The shadow it cast danced on the walls, and in those flickering shapes I saw Marys face and Arthurs tiny hands. A yearning so sharp it made my teeth clench. Outside, the wind howled, swallowing any hope.
Days blended together like knots in a rope. Every modest movementturning my head, sitting up, lifting a spoonfelt like a tiny triumph, a grain of joy in a sea of hardship.
Eventually I could stand, though still on crutches. When I finally stepped out of the hut, the world was a blinding white, a fresh blanket of snow covering everything.
How do I get out of here? I asked the old man, trying to keep panic from my voice.
Theres no way, he replied bluntly. You cant walk yet, and the road to the main track is a days trek at least. All the paths are buried. Youll have to wait until spring. If you recover, Ill see you to the road.
What about the hunters? Can they help?
Hunters move to other fells in winter. They come back in autumn or spring. Maybe someone will notice you then, but the chances are slim. He shook his grey head and jabbed another log into the stove.
The memory of the river surged back, the shock of the water, the scream of that girl. My heart tightened with the familiar ache. I stoked the fire with a few dry twigs, rose, and went back to the girl. Her breathing grew deeper, more even, though consciousness still lagged. I adjusted her coat and returned to the flames, letting the past pull me once more into its relentless whirl.
The old man remained a man of few words. When I could move around the hut, he began helping in small ways: shovelling snow from the doorway, fetching firewood, stoking the stove. The grub he gave mean odd porridge of root bits and herbsno longer repulsed me; hunger and survival overrode disgust. The tea he brewed from summergathered herbs reminded me of Lila, who always added mint and thyme to her brew. Those recollections were both sweet and bitter, like a wound that never fully heals.
Winter stretched on, seeming frozen in time. When spring finally nudged the snow aside, it did so reluctantly, inch by inch. After two more months of battling the remnants of winter, my legs regained some strength, and the old man lay down, exhausted.
I cant take you to the town as we promised, he rasped, his voice frail. Im down for the count now. I lifted you, now I must mend myself.
How will you survive alone? Come with me! There are doctors, a hospital in town!
No doctors there could fix you like that, he waved a weak hand. All they know is cutting. Weve beaten gangrene with herbs and bandages. Go on. Ill pull through. Not today, anyway.
He gave me directions, and I thanked him from the depths of my heart. I set off, the path that seemed straight in my mind quickly turning into a chaotic maze. I walked until darkness fell, never finding a trail. I spent the night beneath a canopy of spruce, waking to a quiet rustle behind me. Turning, I saw, halflit, a pair of glowing green eyeswolves. Without a thought, I scrambled up the nearest tall pine, clinging to its bark until sunrise, nails digging into the bark as the pack, sensing futility, slipped away into the night. I considered descending as a death sentence.
Morning found me sliding down the slope, my spirit battered but unbroken. Days passed, each a blur of encounters with a wild boar, a lynx perched on a branch, and endless nights perched in trees to escape the cold. I ate what I could findlast years berries, roots, sipped from forest streams, slept in brief intervals, ever alert to every crackle in the underbrush. Giving up was never an option; I had to reach my family, alive.
Two weeks later, amid the endless, ruthless forest, I stumbled upon a dark rectanglea derelict cottage. I crawled to it, nearly losing consciousness from exhaustion, and the relief that washed over me was almost painful. It was an old hunters bothy; the rusted latch on the door barely moved. Inside lay dust, dry pine needles, and the faint scent of mice. A single grimy window showed a wide bunk with a thin mattress, a rolledup sheepskin, a sack of salt in a cloth bag, a box of matches, a halffilled sack of oats, and a tin mug.
I went outside, gathered twigs, and found a small clearing where I built a fire. I boiled water from a stream in a tinned can and steeped dried redcurrant leaves and mint Id found in the cottage. The first sip of the hot, aromatic brew made me feel almost happy. I locked the door, barricaded it with a stick, and curled into the dry sheepskin.
Sleep claimed me like a dead man finally at rest. A bears roar woke me later, close enough to send a shiver through my bones, but the solid larch walls gave me a strange sense of safety.
What to do next? Roaming the unknown woods felt suicidal. Still, there was shelter, a bit of food, and relative safety. I decided to stay, to wait out the worst, and to return home later if possible.
Matches were few, so I learned to spark fire with flint, dried mushrooms and berries over the stove, and collected medicinal herbs, recalling the old mans lessons. A monthor perhaps longerpassed. One dawn, distant gunshots and barking dogs pierced the silence. I burst from the bothy in my thin shirt, sprinting toward the sounds, coughing and stumbling over roots.
Voices answered. After what felt like an eternity, four hunters emerged, having stumbled upon this part of the forest. They led me back to civilisation. The journey to my hometown took more than a day, hitching rides on passing trucks, eyes wide with panic. At last I stood before the familiar door of a rented flat, heart hammering as I knocked. A man in a stretchedout Tshirt opened it.
He claimed to have lived there for three months; the previous tenants had left after the husband drowned.
Drowned, the word hit me like a hammer. So Lila thinks Im dead
Where to go? What to do? How to live now? The world swirled before my eyes. I drifted, aimlessly, until I found myself at the precinct. I stumbled in, breathless, and tried to explain.
Guys, I need to find my family! They think Im dead! Please help me!
They asked for detailswifes name, sons name, relatives, friends. They promised to look.
Later I went to the warehouse where Id worked before the tragedy, only to see the gates barred and a foreign logo hanging over the building.
Theyve moved, the caretaker said, sweeping debris. To a new address. I dont know where.
The city I returned to felt alien, indifferent. My last hope was an old school friend, Stephen. I hurried to his flat, only to be met by his exwife, Natalie, whose face hardened instantly.
Were divorced. Hes moved on with someone else in another town. As for Lila, Ive never heard of her, she said coldly.
A couple of other mates existedone staying with his inlaws in a cramped flat, another on a halfyear posting abroad. They each gave what little money they could; none could take me in.
Lila had no friends; shed come to the city for me, worked from home knitting exquisite sweaters and hats for clients Victor never knew.
The police kept stalling, their answer a looping record: Weve opened a case. No results yet.
A temporary ID arrived after a month and I began hunting for work. By the river, men in overalls gathered around a scrapped truck, waiting for a job. I stepped forward.
A battered lorry pulled up, a head in a cap stuck out the window:
Builders needed? Three of em! He shouted, and a handful of men rushed into the vehicle, which roared away.
Soon another truck offered me a job with accommodation. I looked at my potential partnera weatherbeaten, lost man much like myselfand accepted. We drove far out to an abandoned industrial site, a hulking, halfruined warehouse smelling of chemicals, cheap spirit, and mould.
The work was simple and disgusting: pumping oily, foulsmelling liquid from barrels into bottles, screwing on caps, slapping fake labels, and packing crates. We slept on those very crates. Food came once a weekbread, pasta, canned stew. Every few days fresh barrels arrived and the finished product was taken away.
A month passed, and pay was a whisper. When I asked, the reply was curt: First you work for food and a roof, then well talk. They confiscated my passport on entry for registration and refused to give it back. I tried to leave one night; two burly guards stopped me, making it clear that walking away without documents was a terrible idea.
One and a half years of this grim captivity eroded everything in me except one thing: the desire to be free. I escaped with a few hundred pounds Id managed to scrape together loading the same stew.
When I reported the kidnapping and extortion to the police again, my case dragged on for half a year. Finally, when a new passport arrived, the officer dryly noted, Next time, think carefully about the statements you make. Your storys messy; you could end up in trouble for false reporting.
I went to old friends asking for a wash, a spareAnd as the first light of dawn broke over the misty riverbank, I stepped onto the familiar path home, the echo of that desperate cry forever etched into my soul.
