He did not wail as other newborns did. He simply opened his eyes, wide and unblinking, and exhaled his first breath in silence—watching, waiting.
The wind had settled, the fire crackled low, and the first sound was not the cries of a newborn, but the deep inhale Isla took as she reached for him.
The Hermit wiped the child clean and swaddled the infant in a soft cloth, his expression unreadable. Then, gently, he handed him to Isla.
She cradled the boy against her chest, his tiny hands grasping at nothing, his skin warm against hers. She saw at once. The shape of his eyes, the soft, unmistakable roundness of his features. A boy of light hair, pale as wheat, and eyes blue, clear, bright. She traced the curve of his cheek with her finger, pressing her lips to his forehead.
The Hermit watched, silent, as understanding dawned. Isla exhaled, shifting the child in her arms. She had carried him within her, but she had not been prepared for the love that rose in her now. It was without demand, without condition. It was endless, as the leaves that fell from the trees drifted to the earth only to rise again with the wind.
“He is wholly beautiful,” the Hermit said at last, his voice softer than she had ever heard it.
Isla nodded. “Yes. And he is mine.”
The seasons turned, and River grew. He was quiet but never absent. The animals came to him. The great white wolf with her golden eyes would watch over him as he played in the clearing, her pups tumbling at his feet. Finn, the high-spirited terrier, became River’s shadow, always at his side. Midnight, the little black cat curled against his belly as he slept, her purr a soft, steady song.
River did not often speak. But he listened. To the wind. To the trees. To the murmurs of the stream. With small hands, he pressed the earth, feeling the pulse beneath it. When the hawk soared above the hut, he lifted his arms as if he, too, could fly. Isla watched him and marveled.
He belonged to the Mountain. He belonged to the Ocean. He belonged to all things, and yet, he belonged to no one. Emrys did not return.
Five winters passed, and River grew with the vibrations of the Mountain. Isla taught him what she could, but often, it was he who taught her. His patience. His joy. The way he saw the world not as separate pieces, but as one great whole. And the winds, messengers from the stars, wove through the tall pines in laughter and song only River could hear.
The morning mist hovered low over the clearing; the scent of autumn leaves and moist earth filled the air.
Isla stood at the edge of the hut, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup, watching as River played in the golden light of early autumn. The white wolf lay stretched nearby, her eyes half-lidded, ever watchful. Finn nosed at the fallen leaves, chasing their rustling edges like a creature still young enough to think they were alive.
Then, River stilled.
His tiny hands, always reaching, always sensing, curled into his chest as he lifted his head toward the path leading down from the Mountain. The white wolf stirred, her ears pricked forward, and Finn let out a low whine before settling at Isla’s feet. The world seemed to stop.
And then he came.
Emrys stepped into the clearing like a man emerging from another world. His frame was leaner, his hair longer, and now, all silver flowing to his shoulders once again. The lines on his face had deepened, but there was something luminous about him.
River did not hesitate. He ran, feet barely touching the ground, and reached up, hands grasping at Emrys’ tunic. Emrys knelt, wordlessly gathering the child into his arms, plunging his face into the boy’s mass of golden curls. He kissed his face, eyes, hands, and each tiny finger. Emrys knew he was holding pure love and grace.
The child had taken to him instantly. There had been no hesitation, no fear—only trust, only an unspoken understanding that neither Isla nor Emrys could fully explain.
It was Emrys who finally broke the silence. Emrys inhaled deeply, taking in the boy’s scent—earth and wind, innocence and light. His fingers traced the golden curls, reverent.
“I wish he were mine, Isla.”
“Yes, I know,” she murmured. Emrys nodded, his gaze steady. “He is beautiful, Isla.” His voice was quiet, reverent. “And I will help you raise him. I already love him as my own, for he comes from you, whom I have never stopped loving.”
The morning was quiet, save for the whisper of the wind weaving through the trees. River rose as the first light touched his face, blinking slowly, listening. The Mountain was waking with him—the rustling leaves, the distant call of a raven. At twenty-five years old, his strong hands still pressed into the earth as he sat up, feeling its steady pulse beneath his palms. He knew it was alive. He had always known.
River’s words were felt more than heard, carried by the rhythm of his presence. The animals understood. The trees understood. And that was enough. Finn trotted toward him, his wiry coat moist with morning dew. Midnight stretched from the crook of his knee, the little black cat blinking up at him with slow, knowing eyes. The white wolf watched from a short distance, golden eyes steady, unblinking. Her pups were gone now, grown and wandering, but she never left River.
River rose and moved through the forest, his bare feet silent against the fallen leaves. He did not need to think about where he was going—the Mountain led him where he was needed. The air was heavy with something unsaid.
He followed it.
And then, he saw it.
A tiny fawn collapsed against the roots of an ancient tree. Its breathing was shallow, its body trembling. River knelt beside the wounded fawn, pressed his hands into the earth, and then his fingers hovered just above its trembling flank.
He did not speak, but he rocked gently, his body swaying in a rhythm as old as the trees. A sound rose from his throat. It was not a hum but something older, something low and resonant, rising from his throat like an echo of the earth itself. The fawn, its sides heaving, turned its dark eyes toward River. It did not startle at his touch, did not shrink from the vibration in his voice. A warmth passed between them, not light, not power, but something softer. Something without a name.
The wind’s whispers stopped. The trees leaned in. The white wolf settled at River’s side, her golden eyes unblinking. The moment stretched, weightless. Then, the fawn exhaled. Its shuddering eased. The pain in its gaze dulled, then disappeared. And when River lifted his hands, the fawn struggled to its feet—unsteady, uncertain, but whole.
River smiled, his primal song fading into the vibrant air of the Mountain. The fawn held River’s gaze for a moment longer before bounding into the trees, leaves swirling in its wake. River did not watch it go. Instead, he lifted his face to the sky, his rocking slowing, his hands pressing against the earth.
The Mountain had always understood him. And he, in turn, had always understood the Mountain.
By the time evening fell, he had returned to the clearing and the hut. The white wolf settled next to him. Finn curled against his legs. Midnight tucked herself beneath his chin as he lay back in the grass. The stars above stretched wide, endless, and knowing.
Autumn’s leaves suddenly floated, turning and gliding like ballet dancers to the Mountain’s forest floor. River stood and turned among them, arms flung wide, laughing as they tangled in his blond curls. He spun, feet light on the earth, his joy uncontainable. The wind swayed to the music of thousands of tall pines, and something unseen—something newly born—entered the world, waiting. River lifted his face to it, unafraid. His lips parted, and his voice, soft but sure, carried up into the wind, into the ancient pines.
“I am. I am!”
He shouted it to the stars as he reached to touch them, to the Ocean beyond, to the unseen that had always watched over him. He turned again, dizzy with delight, the world a blur of color and light. The leaves tumbled around him—falling, falling, endlessly falling. River’s voice rang clear in the silence between all things.
And all the trees clapped their hands.
Notes:
Origins is excerpted from the pages of Endlessly Falling Leaves, available on Amazon in paperback and e-book/Kindle.