The frost had lifted, but the earth still held its chill. River stepped from the hut without hesitation, though he did not know the way.
Argos had waited at the edge of the clearing all morning, unmoving. The pup was growing quickly now, taller, sturdier. Not quite wolf, not quite dog. But in his stillness, something ancient.
River had gathered nothing. No satchel, no carved walking stick, no food. He carried only what he could not leave behind: the silence of the Mountain, the memory of the White Wolf, and the low hum of something in him beginning to stir.
He did not say goodbye. There was no one to hear it. And still, the trees bent slightly as he passed.
They walked in silence. Not because there was nothing to say, but because words had no place here yet. River breathed. Argos watched.
The wind shifted once, and River paused. He turned to the stone path he had once carved with Isla, barely visible now beneath moss and fallen needles.
The hut stood behind him like a memory unrooting itself.
He did not look back again.
Ahead, the land rose gently, then dipped toward shadow. There were no paths, but Argos seemed to know the curve of the world. At times, he trotted forward, then paused and looked back, not impatiently, but as if to ask: “Are you listening now?” River nodded. Not to the pup. To the space within himself that had begun to listen differently.
They camped beneath a lean of rock that night. Argos curled close. River did not build a fire. Instead, he pressed his hands to the cold earth once more. And though it did not speak, he whispered anyway:
“I am still yours, Mountain. Even in your silence.”
And somewhere, far above where stars begin, a wind shifted, not toward him, but around him. As if the world had paused to listen.
In the morning, there was no sun, only a pale silver diffused through the mist. It did not rain, but the air felt like breath exhaled by the earth itself.
River rose without speaking. He did not wake Argos; the pup was already watching him, ears forward, tail still. They moved like shadows between trees. The silence began to change.
It was not emptiness now, not absence. It had texture. Weight. It pressed against River’s ribs as he walked, not cruelly, but with intent.
He remembered once, as a child, sitting by the Mountain’s highest spring, watching steam curl from water. His mother had told him then:
“Silence doesn’t mean it isn’t speaking. You must learn to listen with something other than ears.” He hadn’t known what she meant. Now, he was beginning to.
By midday, they found a ridge where lichen clung to ancient stone. River paused.
Argos sat beside him, not panting, not restless, simply being.
From here, the valley spread below in muted greens and soft golds.
Not far, not near. Somewhere between.
River sat.
He did not pray.
He did not search the skies.
He placed his hand on the stone and let the memory of it rest in him.
And then—quietly, without reason or warning—he spoke aloud.
“I know you haven’t left me. I just don’t know who I am without your voice in my hands.”
Argos whined gently, low and short. Then placed his paw on River’s knee. And River, eyes open to the distance, felt the world shift. Not in reply. But in recognition.
They stayed there a long time.
River did not know if he would descend into the valley or turn toward the sea.
But he did know this: He was not searching. He was not waiting. He was walking the silence into form.
That night, the wind picked up. It wasn’t cruel, but it carried something in it, something River couldn’t name. A scent not of danger, but of change.
Argos lifted his head suddenly. His ears went back and then forward. He stood, body alert but calm. River followed his gaze.
Across the trees, through the thinning mist, a dim orange glow pulsed once, then faded. Not lightning. Not fire. Something older.
River stood. He did not question it. He did not ask the Mountain what it meant. He simply placed his hand on Argos’s back and whispered: “We go where we are called.”
They walked through the dusk with no torch, no guide. Only the hush, the glow, and the deep knowing that something ahead waited. Argos did not lead now. They walked side by side.
The silence no longer pressed. It walked with them. As if it, too, had somewhere it needed to be. And when they reached the edge of the trees—where the world began to open—River paused.
Before him, the land rolled downward toward a place he did not yet recognize. But it felt like invitation. He looked down at Argos, who sat at his feet, eyes fixed on the distance. “Tomorrow,” River said, voice steady. “We listen. We answer.” The pup did not stir.
Only the wind moved, circling them once. And in the stillness that followed, River could almost swear he heard the Mountain exhale.
But when the silence deepened, the Great White Stag stepped from the trees.
He did not move toward River, nor turn away. He only watched, still as marble carved by celestial hands. His eyes carried both absence and blessing.
The Stag knew River walked in light others mistook for shadow. And the Stag, keeper of silence, bore witness as he passed beyond sight. Not gone, only around the bend in the trail.
Notes:
‘a man called River’ was born in the pages of Endlessly Falling Leaves, available on Amazon in paperback and e-book/Kindle.