The Skyriver

• Bethany Medwin
• Short Story
• 2022

A difference of opinion.
The rumours circulated, spiralling, spiralling…
It blew out of the world, the universe.
The time, the place.
The people.
No one knew the truth.

I was waiting, quietly, softly;
The moon rose, then waited, quietly, softly.
We were waiting in the night.

I think I gave up first, because the moon was still waiting when I left, though it had fallen lower, struggling to keep its eyes open.

But we both returned the next night; the moon and I.
We didn’t say a word to each other, for I couldn’t hear, and the moon couldn’t speak.
We waited, together.

It was many, many nights later.
The moon didn’t wait with me that night; I was alone.
Vulnerable.

What I found was different to what I imagined.
It was silver, like fish scales, and it swam through the air in a silky slither, like a snake.
But it was neither.

I knew what it was.

The Skyriver.

Some hear it. A splash, a whoosh, a sigh.
There and gone.

Some smell it. A rose, or a breath of salt.
There and gone.

I…
I saw it.
A silver river like a snake with water that flowed from its fangs.

That’s it. All I needed.
It was still there.
Waiting.

No one truly knew what happened, that night the moon was gone.
No one but me.

Don’t listen to the rumours.
I don’t know how many people waited, as I did, for a sign that the Skyriver still flowed through the world. I don’t know how many people smelt, or heard, or felt it in the mist.
The moon doesn’t know it either. No matter how long they wait, the moon and the Skyriver will never meet.

And those of us who go to find it will never tell. Every month, we go and wait, because we want to cherish those memories.
Even though…
It’s impossible to recall those memories.