How Far is the River?

Between the boy and the river stood a mountain. The boy was young and the river was small, but the mountain was big.

The thickly forested mountain hid the river, but the boy knew it was there. He had never seen the river with his own eyes, but from the villagers he had heard of it, of the fish in its waters and of its rocks. He wished to touch the water and know it personally.

He stood in front of his house on the hill opposite the mountain, and gazed across the valley, dreaming of the river. He was about twelve years old, a sturdy boy, with untidy black hair and shining black eyes; he had fine features and a clear brown skin, but his hands and feet were rough and scratched. He was barefooted; not because he couldn't afford shoes, but because  he liked the feel of warm stones and cool grass.

It was eleven o'clock and he knew his parents wouldn't return home till evening. There was a loaf of bread he could take with him, and on the way, he might find some fruits. Here was the opportunity he had waited for. His mother and father had gone to visit relatives for the entire day and had left him on his own. If he came home before dark - before they returned - they wouldn't know where he'd been.

He went into the house and wrapped the loaf in a newspaper. Then, he closed all the doors and windows.

The path to the river dropped steeply into the valley, then rose and went round the big mountain. It was frequently used by the villagers, the woodcutters, milkmen and mule-drivers; but there were no villages beyond the mountain, or near the river.

The boy passed a woodcutter and asked him how far it was to the river. The woodcutter was a short but powerful man, with a creased and weathered face, and muscles that stood out in hard, ugly lumps.

‘Seven miles,’ he said, which was fairly accurate. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I am going to the river,’ said the boy.

‘Alone?’

‘Of course.’

‘But it is too far. It will take you three hours to reach there, and then you have to come back. It will be getting dark. Besides, it is not an easy road.’ ‘But I'm a good walker,’ said the boy, though he had never walked further than the mile from his house to his school.

The path was steep, and the boy had to run most of the time. It was a dizzy, winding path, and

he slipped once or twice. The hill was covered with lush green ferns, the trees were wound in creepers, and a great wild dahlia suddenly reared its golden head from the leaves and ferns.

Soon, the boy was in the valley, and the path straightened out and rose. He met a girl who was coming from the opposite direction. She held a long curved knife with which she had been cutting grass. The bangles she wore made music when she moved her hands, and it was as though the hands spoke a language of their own.

‘How far is it to the river?’ asked the boy.

The girl had obviously never been to the river, or she may have been thinking of another one,

because she said ‘Twenty miles’ without any hesitation.

The boy laughed and ran down the path. A parrot suddenly screeched, flew low over his head,

a flash of red and green. The bird disappeared amongst the trees.

A trickle of water came from the hillside, and the boy stopped to drink. The water was cold and sharp, but very refreshing. However, it seemed to have the effect of making him more thirsty. The sun was striking his side of the hill, and the dusty path became hotter, the stones scorching the boy's feet. He was sure he had gone halfway; he had walked for over an hour.

Presently he saw another boy ahead of him, driving a few goats down the path.

‘How far is the river?’ he asked.

The village boy smiled in a friendly way and said, ‘Oh, not far, just round the next hill and straight down.’

The boy, feeling hungry, unwrapped his loaf of bread and broke it in halves, offering one portion to the village boy. They sat on the hillside and ate in silence.

When they had finished, they walked on together and began talking and talking; the boy did not notice the smarting of his feet, and the heat of the sun, and the distance he had covered, and the distance he had yet to cover. But after some time, his companion had to diverge along another path, and the boy was once more on his own.

He missed the village boy; he could not be seen. His own home was also hidden from view by the side of the mountain. The river was not in sight either. He began to feel discouraged. He was sorry he had finished the bread; he might want it later.

He was determined to see the river. He walked on, along the hot, dusty, stony path, past mud-huts and terraced fields, until there were no more fields or huts; only forest and sun and loneliness. Now there was no man or any sign of man's influence only trees and rocks and bramble and flowers - only

silence...

The silence was impressive and a little frightening. It was different from the silence of a room or street, it was the silence of space, of the unknown, the silence of God....

Then, as the boy rounded a sharp bend, the silence broke into sound.

A sudden roaring sound. The sound of the river.

Far down in the valley, the river tumbled over rocks. The boy gasped, and began to run. He slipped and stumbled, but still he ran. Then he was ankle-deep in the painfully cold mountain water. And the water was blue and white, and wonderful.

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(Slightly adapted)