Immortal Remains

It was midnight when I left the path to visit the river below. The argentine lunar light just illuminated the rocks I walked on, enough that I could avoid nettles and patches of glistening, wet moss. A few moments later, when I had lowered myself down from a high boulder, I was level with the water. It spun rapidly past me, with the velocity of a Bedlam escapee, and tumbled across the stony bed, sending white flecks of rabid froth up to the shingle.

The beautiful, majestic Dean Bridge arced above me, sheltering me and my surroundings slightly from divine strikes. It provided us with a pitch black divide in the deep blue witching sky, allowing for a slight degree of spatial navigation in the dim light. I heard the clack and split of a trap crossing above: some late night reveller returning from a gay party, no doubt.

Birch, beech and hazel waved their boughs at me as a thin gust spiralled westward through the deep valley. I pulled my long coat tight about me and shivered – I was going to meet him again. An ancient man. He would have to travel a while from the coast, but the gentleman would be here, soon, to dispense his watery wisdom.

I let my haunches sink onto a silt-smoothed piece of basalt, and glanced to the other bank. The hill rose steeply to meet the new houses on the other side – a great, but treacherous back garden for the fortunate rich. My leather knee-highs made a satisfying crunch in the fine, moist pebble grit as I shoogled them about. Reaching for the watch at my breast, I noted that he was late.

As I thought this, there was a sudden cease in all sound. The babble of the river stopped. The playful leaves grew reverent. The cart had paused in its midnight traverse. I looked to the water, and there he rose from it: glistening with trapped moonshine. He flexed and rippled with glorious fluidity in front of me and came to set by my side, laying his trident on some weeds.

We conversed for some time, it seemed days, about numerous things: his life back at his home; the state of the New Town, his small Athens; other worlds; the movement of the heavens, other eternal happenings. Then the time came for me to ask him the question I had come to ask. To the eerie transparent avatar in front of me, the moonbeams within him refracting and reflecting, I gave my query: ‘Are you happy with it?’

He paused. He looked down – his coral crown shifted about his head. Minutes passed, but the silence remained. The water in the river was still as artisan-blown glass, remarkable in its seeming solidity. An aquatic face rose to meet mine. He gave his answer. It was lengthily vague, but I gleaned this much: it was not positive. The Enlightenment had stalled much of his work. Many Grecian projects had yet to be completed. Towers and monuments to others overshadowed his. I was given much to think about: pleasing a deity is not simple. I still had others to consult, however. The possibility of my reward was still plausible.