Wren’s Wild Journey

Wren, a wanderer, canoes the Rio Grande, encounters spirits, and his soul is transformed.

Chapter One

My name is Wren. I'm a man of simple tastes carved from the quiet strength of simplicity. I find joy in my unadorned, calloused hands shaping wood or coaxing life from stubborn soil. I live a life unburdened by the tangled mess of complications. The scent of pine tar and the crunch of dry Earth beneath my boots are my hymns, sung loudest when I roam the backcountry with a pack slung over my shoulders. Exploring is my pulse; camping under a star-strewn sky, hiking trails that wind through jagged hills, and backpacking into places where the world feels raw and untouched. I'd take a hearty plate of good food any day, so long as someone else stirred the pot, because my kitchen skills are lacking, and I like it that way. I am a dry Earth kind of guy. I respect water but keep it at arm's length; a moderate river is fine, but the roaring chaos of big rivers or oceans sets my nerves on edge. I am free in the backcountry, where the land stretches forever, and the air smells clean. I like simple pleasures, the kind of things that make me feel happy and fulfilled.

When I was young, you'd most likely find me with my nose buried in books. I preferred the kind of adventurous book with pages dripping with the thrill of wild adventures. I loved to become a part of the tales of rugged explorers hacking through untamed forests, scaling wind-whipped peaks, or bedding down beneath a canopy of stars that fueled my restless imagination. I devoured every wilderness story I could find. Tattered paperbacks from my school's library, dog-eared volumes borrowed from friends, each one a window into the life I yearned to claim. I liked to imagine myself as the main character of those books. In the quiet of my room, I'd trace maps with my finger, dreaming of the day I'd swap the safety of ink and paper for the real thing: the backcountry, vast and unscripted, where the air was sharp and the ground unforgiving. I pictured myself as the hero of those tales, a wanderer carving my path through the wild.

Every story I read planted a seed, a promise that one day I'd be in the hiking boots feeling the weight of a pack on my shoulders, the one breathing the freedom of a world without walls. I longed to make memories not borrowed from someone else's pen, their triumphs, and stumbles etched into my bones by the Sun and the cold. Someday, I promised myself I'd write my own story. I didn't want a story with words on a page, but my story. I wanted to plant my footprints in the dust. I wanted to experience the world with my boots and the calluses on my hands from touching the wild things in wild places. I intended to chase the horizon where my dreams lay, not end it with a mind full of regrets.

My first real taste of the backcountry came the summer I turned 16. I'd saved every nickel from splitting firewood for neighbors, enough to buy a beat-up pack, a cheap tent, and a bus ticket to the edge of the nearest national forest. The books I'd devoured as a kid, tales of grizzled men wrestling nature, boys and their trusty dogs, had lit a fire in me, and now it was time to feed it. I stepped off that bus with nothing but a map, a pocketknife, and a stubborn streak, the dry Earth crunching under my boots like a welcome. That first night, I camped under a big sky that swallowed me; I felt the world shift. No pages, no borrowed dreams, just me, the crackle of a fire I'd built, and the wind hissing through the pines.

I didn't need much out there. A can of beans heated over the flames tasted better than any restaurant meal, mostly because I hadn't cooked it myself; I never claimed to be a chef. I'd hike until my legs burned, tracing ridge lines where the air was thin and the views stretched forever. Water stayed a cautious friend; I'd dip my hands in a creek to wash the dust off, but the thought of a raging river made me uneasy. The dry, rocky sprawl was my kingdom, places where I could work with my hands, mend a torn pack, carve on a walking staff, or whittle a stick to pass the time. Each trip carved another memory into me: the ache of a steep climb, the stillness of dawn, the freedom of needing nothing but what I carried. Out there, I wasn't just living; I was writing my own wild story, one step at a time.

For a decade, I roamed the veins of America's wild heart. The gravel roads twisting toward hidden hollows, trails snaking through the backcountry from the Smokies to the Sierras. Those years were a tapestry of dust and sweat, stitched with the solitude that fills a man up rather than hollows him out. But one memory stands sharp, etched into the marrow of my bones: the night I was treed by a pack of wolves in the deep Wyoming wilds. I'd been backpacking solo through the Wind River Range, chasing the kind of quiet only a high ridge can offer, when I caught their eyes glinting in the dusk, six lean shadows slipping through the pines, tracking me for miles. My scent must've carried on the wind, a dinner bell rung by my stupidity for not burying my food scraps deeper. The first howl sent a jolt through me, but when their paws crunched closer, I bolted for the nearest pine, scrambling up its gnarled branches as their snarls echoed below.

Perched fifteen feet up, I clung to the trunk, sap sticking to my palms, my breath fogging in the chill night air. Below, they circled, gray ghosts with yellow eyes, pacing, waiting, their patience a predator's art. My pack dangled from a branch, my knife too far to reach, and the tree swayed under my weight as the hours dragged on. The wolves didn't lunge or claw; they just watched, knowing time was their ally. My legs cramped, my hands numbed, but I didn't dare climb down, not with their low growls humming through the dark. Dawn broke slow and gray, painting the ridge in a thin light, and one by one, they melted back into the forest as if they'd grown bored of the game. I slid down from the tree with my knees shaking. When my boots hit the dirt with a thud, it felt like victory. I lost an entire night's sleep, a bit of skin, and pride. I carried that experience like a scar. That mental scar proved I'd danced on the edge and lived to hike another day.

Chapter Two

It was a crisp morning in Durango, Colorado, and I was at a laundromat, doing the mundane chore of laundry, the hum of washing machines a backdrop to the scent of pine still clinging to my clothes. As I folded my base layers, I conversed with a guy who looked like he'd just crawled out of the wild; his boots were caked with different dirt colors, and a frayed pack slung in the corner. His name was Silas, and I pegged him right: a kindred spirit, maybe even wilder than me, with eyes gleaming like he'd seen and laughed at the world's edges. Over the clatter of dryers, I learned he had guide experience, both dry and wet, leading packs through deserts and down churning waters. We talked for hours, swapping tales of the backcountry until the last sock was folded, the clock nudging just past noon. Hungry for more than stories, we grabbed lunch at a nearby diner.

Over burgers, Silas mentioned the Rio Grande, spinning a yarn about a canoe trip he'd guided last winter for a small group—their laughter echoing off canyon walls. I leaned in, hooked, picturing every stroke of the paddle in vivid detail. Then he proposed a plan: canoe the Rio Grande next winter, put in at Colorado Canyon, and take out at La Linda, a stretch he called both challenging for the inexperienced and beautiful for everyone. He offered to handle the logistics—maps, permits, gear—since he thrived on the nitty-gritty details, while I admitted I'm more a word-picture guy, painting the journey in my mind before we'd even launched. I offered for us to use my Old Town Expedition for a canoe, and he agreed it would be perfect for the trip. By the time we finished our meal, the idea had taken root, a shared dream stitched together over coffee mugs and the promise of a river waiting to test us. We became friends that day, and for the next year, we roamed the wild places in the western USA together. We'd work wherever we could until we could head out again for places we had yet to tread.

One spring afternoon outside of Ouray, CO, Silas and I were sitting on the tailgate of his International Scout, nursing mugs of black coffee after a morning of scouting trails; I shared a story about my hike through the Narrows at Zion National Park. I'd trekked it solo a few summers back, wading through the Virgin River until I hit a spot where the canyon walls squeezed tight, leaving a frigid pool as the only way forward. The water was a shock of ice against my skin, my pack dragging heavy as I swam, teeth chattering, doubt clawing at me to turn back. But I pushed through, kicking hard against the current, and when I hauled myself onto the slick rock on the other side, gasping, the view stole my breath in a whole new way, with towering sandstone glowing gold in the slanted light, the silence so thick it felt sacred. I told Silas I was glad I didn't turn back; it was one of those moments that carves itself into you. He grinned, shaking his head, his weathered cap tipped back so I could see the glint in his eyes. He knew the exact spot; he said he'd hiked the Narrows some years prior, but a flash flood warning had been in effect, forcing him to detour around that section via a dusty overland route. "Missed the swim, huh?" I teased, nudging his boot with mine. "You gotta go back some time, man, it’s worth every frozen second." He chuckled, sipping his coffee, and nodded slowly, like he was already picturing the trip. "Yeah, Wren," he said, "reckon I will. Can't let you have all the good stories." The idea lingered between us, another adventure waiting to be claimed, as the wind kicked up dust around us and the mountains stood sentinel in the distance. We agreed to talk about the Rio Grande trip after breakfast tomorrow. The rest of the night, we sat around the fire, drinking in the sweet crispness of the cool Mountain air. Wren and I found our muses in the free open spaces and the backcountry wilderness, where the world stripped itself bare and let us breathe. The endless stretch of dry Earth, punctuated by gnarled pines and rocky outcrops, sang to us in a language older than words. Out there, the air was clean, sharp with the scent of sage, and the silence was a canvas for our thoughts. We'd trek for miles, packs on our shoulders, chasing the horizon like it held some secret just for us. The wilderness didn't care who we were, it only asked us to show up, feel its pulse, and let it shape our souls.

Silas and I had roamed as vagabonds of the backcountry museum for five thousand miles until the Rio Grande welcomed us to its sandy throat. We shoved our canoe into the Colorado Canyon's embrace on a January afternoon. The river murmured secrets as we began our float, my first on this grand river. The canyon walls rose like jagged teeth, the water a shimmering ribbon threading south to the Atlantic, a grand drinker of tales older than the stones themselves.

We heard them first as whispers—faint, ghostly voices weaving through the wind—bandits, long gone. We could make out the sound of echoes bouncing between the North and South banks. A crow, our dark herald, cawed above, shadowing our run as we paddled with haste, paying in sweat and maneuverability. Heavy and wide, the canoe bucked beneath us, a stubborn beast we tamed through the afternoon's ride. We beached on the Mexican side by dusk, and after a couple of minutes, a group of vaqueros rode up, spurs glinting like stars. The ranch owner, a weathered grin beneath his hat, welcomed us after a short chat, and they all rode off to burn more of the invasive cane that is a nuisance choking the banks on both sides. We set up camp and had our evening grub, and later bedded down to slept soundly by the river's soft lullaby.

Dawn broke cold; I had coffee steaming in my battered stainless-steel cup. I was a little uneasy about our rushed packing of the boat yesterday, but my friend laughed away my frets. We spent 15 extra minutes organizing the gear and supplies to lower the loads center of gravity. Soon, our paddles were singing again, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. Santa Elena Canyon loomed ahead, twenty miles of wonders carved in stone. Rockslide, the first rapid, tested us two miles in, a churning gauntlet with no margin for error. Well, we erred and got a little wet.
Beyond Santa Elena, Fern Canyon stood desolate, save for trickles feeding shy ferns. We climbed and found a pool of virgin water beneath a seep, and we knelt to drink its sweet gift like pilgrims at an altar.

That night, two thousand feet below the canyon rim, I lay in the sand, gazing up through the slit of sky. I could see YAHWEH's hand as the stars wheeled overhead. I could feel the Earth slowly turn and the vibration of motion in my bones, the river's melody cradling me. I felt the moon's pull, a tidal force tugging my soul skyward, and I drifted into dreams of flight, wild introspection, and fantasy.

A couple weeks later, trapped by sandy winds in the flatlands of "The Unknowns," we waited out nature's assault. When the grip broke, we paddled free, chasing the river's thrill through silty bends and shallow bars. The Sun burned molten above; the water pulsed below, each stroke a vow to the unknown ahead. The canyon walls parted, revealing an endless blue sky, yet the whispers clung, bandit ghosts etched in stone, forgotten tales, a silent chorus.

A little further on the river, the walls of Boquillas Canyon rose like a jagged crown before us, its rapids roaring as we braced and pulled, hearts stitched to every wave. The river was both master and slave, testing and giving us life. Beyond the churn, stillness fell, and the crow returned, a shadow friend guarding our sleep with its piercing caw, a thread through the canyon's maze.

We ended our grand adventure near La Linda, offloading and dragging the boat out of the river on the edge of a well-worn sandy expanse. Two hundred twenty-three miles we'd come, from sand to starry slit, the backcountry museum alive with relics of firelight and echoes. The Rio Grande had carved us, too, a vein of life mirroring our souls. Beneath the stars, I lay forever bound to its wild whispers, river-blessed, a fleeting soul on ancient tides.

Chapter Three

Along the banks of the Rio Grande, where the water runs deep, and the reeds sway like silent sentinels, there's a stretch of river few dare to linger near after dusk. South of the river, the locals call it "La Susurra." North of the river, it is known as "The Whispering Reach" or "The Whisper," and they say it's a place where the Earth remembers things best left forgotten. During the day, it's a sun-dappled ribbon of muddy brown. The air is alive with the chatter of birds and the slap of fish against the river's current. But when night falls, the river changes, and its voice grows low and strange, and the air thickens with secrets.

Silas and I pitched our tent along the Texas bank of the river, where the flow hummed softly under the fading light of dusk. The Whispering Reach stretched out before us, its waters glinting like liquid obsidian as we unpacked our gear, ropes, a couple of pots, a sack of beans, a supply of venison jerky, and some dried beef sausage was a part of our chuck. I knelt by the fire, feeding it brittle twigs while my friend chopped onions and veggies with a pocket knife. The wonderful aroma was mingling with the earthy musk of the riverbank. Soon, the pot boiled with a rustic stew. It was warm and a defiant stand against the creeping chill of the night. We sat cross-legged on a blanket, our smoky meal in tin bowls, laughing over half-remembered stories. After we finished and cleaned up our mess, the night breeze shifted, bringing the sound of chanting that floated like ghosts across the water. The laughter periodically shrank in our throats and was replaced by the unsettling feeling of being surrounded by another realm occupied by unknown things, watching from the shadows beyond the fire's glow.

After dinner, we drank mugs of coffee around the campfire, and I felt the pull of the night calling me beyond the circle of light. Silas stayed in camp, and the crackle of burning mesquite disappeared as I faded into the night. I wandered away from the camp, drawn toward the dark ribbon of the Rio Grande. The wind sighed through some cottonwoods, a restless murmur that brushed against my ears, carrying with it the subtle chanting I'd sworn I'd heard earlier, a low, eerie hum that seemed to rise from the Earth itself. I paused near the water's edge, the cool dampness of the riverbank surrounding my neoprene boots, and tilted my head to listen. The sound was faint, threading through the breeze like a secret too quiet to grasp, yet it stirred something in me, a mix of unease and wonder, as if the night itself were alive, whispering to me.

As I stood at the muddy bank of the river, I looked up to see the stars that pricked the sky while the moon cast a silver thread across the water, my boots sinking slightly into the Earth as the chanting swelled, a tide of sound that seemed to rise from the Rio Grande itself. The night breeze swirled around me, threatening to blow my hat right off my head. I could scarcely make out a strange, wordless sound; it was low and echoing. The sound was like voices trapped in a dream. It wasn't a song of welcome or warning but something that hummed with a purpose I couldn't fathom. My pulse was racing; it became a drumbeat echoing the river's ceaseless murmur.

I stepped closer to the water's edge, drawn by an urge I couldn't name. The chanting pulsed louder now, vibrating through the soles of my boots as though the ground itself were alive with it. I squinted into the dark, the moon's thin light fracturing on the river's surface, seeing fleeting shapes beneath the water darting like shadows of fish too large, too deliberate, to be natural. A ripple broke the stillness, then another, spreading outward in perfect circles that lapped at the shore with an almost reverent rhythm. I swear I saw shapes beneath its surface, flickers of movement that vanished as I stared too long.
"Who's there?" I called, my voice sharp against the night, but the words sank into the air, swallowed by the chanting. No answer came, only the sensation of unseen eyes pressing closer, tightening the circle around me. I spun around, searching the cottonwoods and the swaying reeds, but the shadows held their secrets fast. The air grew heavier and thicker, with the scent of wet Earth and something faintly sweet like flowers that had long decayed.

My hand drifted to the knife in my belt, a reflex born of wandering roads less traveled. But what good was steel against a sound, against a feeling? The chanting shifted, its tone dipping into a mournful cadence that tugged at my chest, stirring memories I didn't own, like flashes of torchlight on stone, hands raised to a starless sky, a river that ran red under a forgotten moon. I shook my head, trying to clear the haze, but the visions clung like damp mist.

The water stirred again; this time, something broke the surface. It was a glimpse of pale, glistening flesh, too smooth, too long, to be human. It was gone instantly, leaving only ripples, and a shiver raced up my spine. The chanting reached a deafening volume, a chorus of the unseen. Suddenly, the wind began whipping the river into frothy waves. I stumbled back, my heart beating, as the realization sank in: whatever surrounded me wasn't just watching, it was calling me.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the chanting ceased. The silence was a deafening void that swallowed the night whole. The breeze subsided, and the water settled. The stifling weight began to lift. I was again alone with the gurgle of the river, save a quiet, single sound, a faint, silvery whisper from the river's depths: "You've heard us. Now find us."

I stood there, with the words echoing in my mind. The Rio Grande stretched before me, vast and unreadable, its secrets sinking back into the dark. I could turn back and flee to the safety of firelight and familiar trails; I could follow the whisper down the river into the night toward unknown forces that had chosen me for untold reasons.

Chapter Four

Suddenly, I felt a sharp prick against my arm, like the sting of a thorn I didn't see. I flinched, brushing at my sleeve, but found nothing there, no briar or insect to blame. A strange warmth blooms from the spot, spreading through my veins like ink through water. My legs tremble, unsteady beneath me, and the world tilts. As I catch myself, I crumble into the sand, the grains cool and gritty against my palms. My breath comes too fast, and the chanting swells louder now, pounding in time with my racing pulse.

The riverbank blurs and visions flood my mind, hallucinations, vivid as dreams but heavy with the weight of truth. I see times and people long gone, their faces flickering like reflections in the Rio Grande's restless flow. There's a woman in a woven shawl, her eyes dark and endless, singing to the water as she casts something into its depths, a bundle of herbs, a stone, a promise. Then, a sun-worn and weary man driving cattle across a ford that no longer exists, his voice lost to the wind. Children dance in a circle, their laughter threading through the chant, their feet kicking up dust that turns to stars. These aren't my memories, yet they feel like mine, stitched into my soul by the river's strange magic.

The sand presses against my cheek, my body sinking as the visions pull me deeper. The chanting is everywhere, inside me and around me, a chorus of voices from a past I never knew. The unknown forces tighten their grip, and I wonder if they've claimed me, if I'll become another whisper carried on the night breeze, another shadow beneath the water.

After what seemed like hours, I could push myself up from the sand. I stumbled back to the river's edge and stood rooted to the bank, the damp Earth sucking at my boots again as the chanting swelled on the night breeze. There was a pulse, a heartbeat threading through the air, the water, and the ground beneath me. The Rio Grande glistened under the moon, its surface a mirror for the sky, but now I saw more than stars reflected there. The flickers I'd glimpsed earlier sharpened, fleeting visions rippling across the water like a dream breaking through sleep.

First came a shadow, a silhouette of a figure cloaked in reeds, standing impossibly atop the river as though weightless. The shadow's head was bowed, and from it poured the chanting, a low, resonant hum that vibrated in my chest. The figure didn't move, yet it drifted closer, the water parting silently around it. Then, as swiftly as it appeared, it dissolved into the current, leaving only a ripple that spread outward, lapping at my feet.

The breeze kicked up, slightly warm and restless, and with it came another vision. This time, the water shimmered with a procession of dozens of shapes, vague and wavering, moving beneath the surface. They were human-like but not human; their forms stretched and fluid as though carved from the river. Their mouths opened and closed in unison, and though no sound escaped the depths, I knew their voices were weaving the chant that filled the night. Their eyes—too many, too bright—glinted up through the murky flow, locking onto me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

The feeling of being surrounded tightened, a noose of unseen presence. I stumbled backward, almost falling. My heart was pounding, but the vision didn't fade; it intensified. A tree with gnarled branches on my left resembled the shape of a hand, and it was reaching toward me as if wanting to touch my flesh. The reeds were undulating on my right, and the tips glowed faintly. The chanting was persistent, like a hypnotic rhythm calling to me like a siren from the sea.

There was a faint voice, so small that I could barely discern its sound beneath the din crashing around in my skull. "See us, it hissed, and be seen by us." The water swelled, and a sudden wave that shouldn't have been there rose a face from its crest. It was pale and eyeless. It hovered there, inches from my face, dripping river water that smelled of silt and Earth before slipping back into the river's depths.

My hands were trembling as I clutched my hat, the brim crumpled in my grip. The chanting didn't stop, nor did the visions. They pulsed now, a kaleidoscope of the impossible, each one more vivid than the last. A mist that resembled a child laughed and darted between the trees. A shadow encircled the moon's reflection, its surface glinting like obsidian. And through it all, I sensed that these "things" weren't just watching, they were waiting for someone, anyone.

My breath began to slow, and I closed my eyes, letting the chant fill my body. Fear no longer drives me; now, I yearn to understand. "Who are you?" I whispered into the night, my soft voice carried by the breeze toward the river. "I hear you. I feel you. I want to know you."

The chanting faded, just for a heartbeat, as if the Earth paused to listen. Then, a voice in my mind slipped through a crack in my thoughts. It was warm and cool at once, like the river itself, layered with echoes of laughter and sorrow. “Wren," it says; my name making a ripple in the dark. “You seek us where others flee. Why?"

I smile beneath my hat, a flicker of excitement chasing away the chill. "Because you're here," I reply silently, my words a thread cast into the unknown. "Because you sing, and I've never heard anything like it. Let me experience you—know you—let me be your friend."

A hush fell, with the chanting softening to a hum, and the air around me shifted. It's lighter now, playful almost, as though it, or they were testing me, tasting my intent. The water at my feet swirls, and the shapes I glimpsed before rise, not fully, but enough to hint at forms: shimmering, fluid, like reflections. The voice in my mind laughs, a sound like pebbles tumbling downstream. "Bold Wren," it says. "We are the Old Currents, keepers of this river's memory. Few ask to know us. Fewer still offer friendship."

"I'm not like others,* I think back, stepping closer to the water's edge, my boots sinking into the damp Earth. "Please, show me who you are."

The hum grows, wrapping around me like a cloak, and I feel them for the first time. They're ancient, playful, and profound, a chorus of spirits tied to the Rio Grande. Images flicker through my mind: forgotten floods, joyous dances along the banks, quiet moments of loss and renewal. They shared their essence with me, not as a burden but as a gift.

The chanting rose again; this time, it was a song meant for me alone.

Chapter Five

As I stood there, the chanting seemed alive. As I breathed in, it invaded my body like a warm liquid flowing down my throat and spreading its essence through my bloodstream, and its life synced with the rhythm of my heart. The river lapped at my boots, a soothing sound under the moon's watchful gaze. The shapes beneath the surface flickered again, but longer this time, deliberately. The river surged before I could step back, not with violence but invitation. The water rose gently, curling around my ankles, calm and insistent as if tugging them forward. The chanting sharpened, a chorus of mournful and ecstatic voices, and the night breeze carried a single, silvery word: “Cross.”

I exhaled, a shaky breath lost to the wind, and stepped into the river. The moment my foot sank beneath the surface, the world tilted. The humid air dissolved into a mist of iridescent hues of violet, indigo, gold, and the chanting swelled into a melody that vibrated through my bones. The Rio Grande was no longer just a river; it was a veil, and I had stepped through it.

I emerged in a vast, twilight realm where the sky shimmered with a thousand colors, like a stained-glass canopy spun from forgotten dreams. The ground beneath me was soft and mossy, glowing faintly with veins of light that pulsed in time with the chant. The air hummed with life that felt electric, ancient, and alive. And there, at last, I saw the spirits.

They were not shadows now but beings of luminous strangeness. Some were tall and willowy, their forms trailing wisps of mist that danced like silk robes in the breeze. Others were darting sparks of light with voices that chimed like bells. A few bore shapes almost human, almost, but for their eyes, endless pools of starlight, and their hands, which shimmered as if woven from the river itself. The chanting flowed from them, a song of memory and longing, weaving a tapestry of sound that held this realm together.

One spirit drifted closer, its form a cascade of silver and shadow, its voice a soft ripple in my mind. "You've come," it said, not with words but feeling, an echo of welcome laced with curiosity. I felt my voice catch and spill out: "What are you? Why do you sing?"

The spirit tilted its head, or what might have been a head, and the chanting shifted, softening into something tender. "We are the river's keepers; echoes of its forgotten. We sing to remember, and to be remembered." The other spirits pulsed brighter around them, forms swaying as if caught in an unseen current. I felt it too, a pull, a tide of emotion that wasn't theirs alone. I could feel joy, sorrow, rage, and peace, all woven into the song, all part of this existence.

Cautiously, I reached out, and the silver spirit met my hand with a touch like cool water. A flood of sensation followed, not just my own but the spirit's: I saw the rush of centuries flowing past, the weight of storms and sunsets, the quiet thrill of a child's laughter by the riverbank long ago. I gasped, swaying under its weight, yet I couldn't pull away. I lived, breathed, and became part of the spirits' endless dance.

Another spirit, a flicker of golden light, darted forward, brushing my cheek. "Stay," it whispered, a giggle in its tone. "Sing with us." The offer hung in the air, tempting and perilous. The realm pulsed with their presence, vibrant and eternal, and I felt the edges of myself begin to blur as if I could dissolve into this song, this river.

The chanting swelled around me, thrumming in my chest like a second heartbeat. I wasn't afraid, not yet. Hot and wild excitement burned in me as I pressed deeper into this otherworld. All the spirits noticed me then. Another figure stepped forward, a face like a swirl of light and shadow, and it spoke without moving its mouth: "You've joined the chant, wanderer. What do you seek?" Before I could answer, another one appeared, trailing wisps of mist, and it laughed, making a sound like breaking glass. They circled me, their voices weaving into the chant, and I felt myself drawn into it, my breath syncing with their rhythm. I roamed with them through groves of glowing trees and over rivers that flowed upward into the air, my heart racing with every step.

Time slipped away—hours, maybe days—and the excitement built to a fever pitch. I danced with a spirit whose hands were made of wind, ran alongside a pack of shadow wolves that howled the chant into the void and stood atop a cliff where the horizon bent backward on itself. Each moment changed me, peeling away the weight I'd carried from the physical world—doubt, fear, the ache of unanswered questions—I felt lighter, sharper, more.

But the river called me back. I felt its pull again, steady and insistent, and the spirits paused, their chanting softening. The first figure nodded, its swirl of a face unreadable. "You've sung with us. Now, you must return." I didn't want to leave—but the water rose around me, calm and familiar, and it took me. I walked out of the river, not into the spirit land but back onto the muddy bank of the Rio Grande. The night breeze was quiet now, the chanting gone, and the stars overhead burned brighter than I'd ever seen.

I was dripping wet, my favorite hat still clinging to my head, and I knew I wasn't the same man who'd stepped into the river. The spirits had left something in me—a spark, a hum, a piece of their wildness. I was a changed man. As I turned away from the river, I felt my perspective of the world shift. At that moment, I felt everything had changed. There was a depth to our existence I had only dreamed of.

I sat on the sandy bank of the river, thinking about what I had just experienced. It was now dark, but I could still hear the eerie sounds of chanting lingering on the night breeze, a haunting echo that wrapped around me like a shadow. Would Silas believe a word of it? I pictured his skeptical frown and dismissive laugh and decided to keep it to myself. Some mysteries are too wild to share.

I returned to camp and sat in my chair, nodding to Silas. "Why are you all wet?" he asked, peering over the rim of his reading glasses. I told him, "I needed a bath, so I stretched out in a shallow part of the river and let the water flow over me. "He remarked, "I was beginning to wonder when you were coming back!" He chuckled at me and returned to his book, the pages rustling like cottonwood leaves. I thought to myself, maybe someday I’d tell him about it, and I smiled, the eerie chanting still humming faintly in my ears, a secret, for now, best kept between me and the river's restless keepers.

The End
Written by The Noisy Wren