He returned on the ninth day. Not because he had to. Because the earth called him back. The clouds had lifted, and a strange stillness had settled over the Mountain. It was not peace. It was the breath after the cry. The silence after the song.
River walked the path with the pup at his side, no longer carried, but walking now—light on his feet, shadow in his step. He carried nothing. Not sage. Not brush. Not offering.
Only the name, pulsing against his ribs like a second heartbeat. The cairn had held. The pine boughs had browned and curled. A single feather lay atop the stones—a hawk’s.
River knelt, as he had before. But this time, he did not cry. This time, he spoke.
“You were never named,” he said, softly. “Because I was afraid no name could hold you.” The pup sat beside him, silent, watching. “But I need to name you now,” River whispered. “So that you can go where names go. So that I can carry you in word, and not just in wind.”
He laid his hand on the stones. Felt nothing—and yet, everything. “I name you Argos,” he said. The word did not echo. It did not vanish. It simply settled.
Like mist into moss.
Like love into bone.
The pup let out a sound—low, round, almost a hum. Not grief. Recognition. River turned to him. “That was your mother’s name,” he said. “You carry her in you. But you are not her.” The pup blinked once, then turned his eyes back to the cairn.
They stayed until the shadows stretched long.
And as they turned to go, the wind picked up. River did not look back. He did not need to. He had given the White Wolf her name.
Now, she could rise.
He sang for the first time in years. Not to be heard. Not to remember. But because his body needed to. Because his soul had no other language left.
The pup slept beside him, curled into the curve of River’s arm. Outside, the wind had stilled. The hearth glowed, low and amber.
River hummed before the words came, tones like stones dropped into water.
And then, quietly, he began.
Go to sleep now, little light,
Dream where branches bend and sigh.
You are held in shadow’s flight,
Cradled where the spirits lie.
She is near you, do not fear,
Woven into root and rain.
She will whisper in your ear,
You will never call in vain.
You are made of mist and flame,
Star and stone and silver thread.
You are more than word or name—
You are what the Mountain said.
His voice faded, but the silence after it was deeper than before. The pup stirred, let out a sound like a breath through leaves, and nestled closer.
River did not cry. But his hands trembled. He had sung her home.
And for the first time in many days, he slept.
Notes:
‘a man called River’ was born in the pages of Endlessly Falling Leaves, available on Amazon in paperback and e-book/Kindle.