The River Girl

The girl knew the river could not be trusted. It crept from its banks and plucked unsuspecting creatures from the earth, carrying them back to its watery depths. The girl knew the river was dangerous. She approached it anyway.

She found a large flat stone that hovered above the water’s surface. The girl sat at the very edge, dangling her bare feet over the side. Her toes grazed the water. It was wet and cool and soothed the hot soles of her feet.

“Good morning,” the girl said to the river.

The brown water rushed by without responding. The girl didn’t mind. She hummed to herself as she kicked her feet. The girl had heard the old stories, the ones about the slippery creatures who once lived in the oceans and rivers like this one. This very river might have even had them once, but that was long ago. Before the water had thickened and browned. It still flowed, with a current the girl’s father warned her about, but nothing lived there anymore.

When the girl’s song ended, the only sound on the air was that of the gurgling water.

“Goodbye,” the girl said, waving to the water before scampering back to her house.

If she had glanced over her shoulder, she might have seen a bit of the river crest above the rest to wave back.

The girl came to the river every afternoon after that, even on the days it rained. Some days she read books to the water; some days she sang. Every so often, she just sat on the rock listening to the river. It seemed to have a lot to say.

One day, when the ground had hardened and frozen, the girl didn’t come. The river waited all afternoon, but the rock stayed empty. The next afternoon, when the girl still didn’t come, the river went looking for her. It swelled over its banks, rushing through the tall grass of the field and the cracked earth where the trees had once grown. It could not find the girl.

So the river returned to its bed. The rise in the water level was the only evidence of its weeping.

Some time later (the river was never much good at keeping time), a small line of humans picked their way to the river’s edge. The water stretched, splashing up onto the rock, but it did not see the girl.

“She always loved this place,” a woman with swollen red eyes said before covering her face with her hands.

“She’ll be happy here,” a man said, placing a thick hand on the woman’s shoulder.

Four men stepped forward with something wrapped in white fabric. The thick-handed man and red-eyed woman both kissed the white thing before the men tossed it into the cloudy water. While the thing still bobbed on the surface, the humans left—save the thick-handed man and the red-eyed woman. The white thing sank slowly and their eyes never left it.

The river was uncertain it wanted what the humans had discarded. The river had accepted so many human gifts. The more it accepted, the less fish and frogs and insects lived in its water. The gifts had left the river lonely, but curiosity finally won, and the river pulled the white thing into its depths. Once the white thing disappeared, the last man and woman left.

The river tore at the white fabric, determined to see what was inside. The humans did not usually wrap their gifts.

When the fabric fell away, the river was delighted to see it was the girl wrapped within. The water kissed her flesh away. Her bare smile was stark against the muddy river water. The river covered her in silt so she would stay warm and began to babble. It had so much to tell her.

***

Gabby Gilliam lives in the DC metro area with her husband and son. Her poetry has most recently appeared in One Art, Plant-Human Quarterly, The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Deep Overstock, Vermillion, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and Anti-Heroin Chic. You can find her online at gabbygilliam.squarespace.com or on Facebook.

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