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The river Khyber weaves its shallow story at the base of an impressive pass, a valley cut into a mountain range so vast as to confound the eyes, torture the photographers, and silence the poets.
Yet the river ambles on, a part of it all, licking the toes of giants with profound lethargy.
Several kilometres before it descends into an unknown forest, fenced in by the dramatic rock walls, a monastery sits quietly inshore of a small wooden pier, from which a motorboat drifts casually into the abyss.
Nobody watches it leave, for they do not expect it to return.
Its occupants, the boat’s captain and his father, are under the impression that somewhere within the sprawling labyrinth set out before them there exists the reality of an ancient tale, passed on for centuries by the locals of the nearest village, two hours downriver.
The story tells of a tree almost half the height of the mountains that surround it, growing on an island of its own in the middle of the river. Underneath its thickest branch there is a single knot which, it is told, will grant those who look upon it their greatest desires.
But the tree lies far beyond the limits of what has so far been explored. You cannot travel there, so says the fable – you must be taken. Place your faith in the river, and allow it to guide you through the forest.
There is little more the two men can do then as they pass the pier than switch off the motor and wait, with fond ambition as they amble onwards, under the river’s control.
For a while, they are confident, and as any trace of civilisation disappears after just a day of travel, it is as if progress has been made. For a week the novelty of exploration keeps them contented, the river unrelenting in its plodding progress through the dense green, remarkably devoid of all but plant life.
Expectation maintains their spirits for the first month; hope gets them through the second. After three months, the captain’s father wonders vainly if they should turn around, but the river’s current flows only one way, and they do not know where they are.
Time is forgotten as the men succumb to the will of the river. A year passes and only a fraction of their journey is complete. The tree is all they have now. They hang onto the thought of it like a cliff-hanger would that final branch or ledge.
The years pass on and so does the captain’s father, leaving him alone, commanded by a river barely three times the width of his boat, boxed in by obnoxious walls of green and, beyond that, the cold face of the mountain on all sides.
The captain grows old. He cannot remember much of his village. Almost half his life has been spent in this boat, atop this river, beneath these mountains. How he wishes he could see through the trees for once, beyond the lifelessness that suffocates the inner forest. He is so tired these days; he barely looks out for what he once thought might solve his problems.
As the darkness descends once again, he remembers the days before his life became a matter of routine, when he used to wake with hope instead of regret, adventure instead of bitterness. As he falls asleep now, he hopes it might be the last time.
------
The tree’s roots that had long before woven themselves into an underwater barrier bring the boat to a jarring stop and summon the captain awake.
He does not take long to realise where he is, or to scramble towards the trunk with a youth like excitement not dissimilar to that which saw him once embark on this journey. Circling the trunk with the utmost concentration, he comes across an oval shaped break in the bark – a knot – and above it sees a branch stretching out as thick as the hull of his boat. It’s here.
The knot is almost twice his size, and as he brings his face up to the trunk, looking deep into the swirling yellow and brown, the tree remains motionless, unassuming and sturdy – it shows him nothing. He brings his face in closer, his stare intense, demanding his reward.
Nothing.
Weary, and without breaking his gaze, he allows his eyes to slacken, too tired for confrontation, too worn for anger. But as he stumbles backwards, with a single step and the slightest change of perspective, he looks into the knot and understands.
The stories were true.
He collapses at the base of the trunk and weeps, for he sees what it is that he and all those before him truly desire, and that it is no longer of any use. Carved into the wood is a map of the river through the mountains. It is the way home.
Yet the river ambles on, a part of it all, licking the toes of giants with profound lethargy.
Several kilometres before it descends into an unknown forest, fenced in by the dramatic rock walls, a monastery sits quietly inshore of a small wooden pier, from which a motorboat drifts casually into the abyss.
Nobody watches it leave, for they do not expect it to return.
Its occupants, the boat’s captain and his father, are under the impression that somewhere within the sprawling labyrinth set out before them there exists the reality of an ancient tale, passed on for centuries by the locals of the nearest village, two hours downriver.
The story tells of a tree almost half the height of the mountains that surround it, growing on an island of its own in the middle of the river. Underneath its thickest branch there is a single knot which, it is told, will grant those who look upon it their greatest desires.
But the tree lies far beyond the limits of what has so far been explored. You cannot travel there, so says the fable – you must be taken. Place your faith in the river, and allow it to guide you through the forest.
There is little more the two men can do then as they pass the pier than switch off the motor and wait, with fond ambition as they amble onwards, under the river’s control.
For a while, they are confident, and as any trace of civilisation disappears after just a day of travel, it is as if progress has been made. For a week the novelty of exploration keeps them contented, the river unrelenting in its plodding progress through the dense green, remarkably devoid of all but plant life.
Expectation maintains their spirits for the first month; hope gets them through the second. After three months, the captain’s father wonders vainly if they should turn around, but the river’s current flows only one way, and they do not know where they are.
Time is forgotten as the men succumb to the will of the river. A year passes and only a fraction of their journey is complete. The tree is all they have now. They hang onto the thought of it like a cliff-hanger would that final branch or ledge.
The years pass on and so does the captain’s father, leaving him alone, commanded by a river barely three times the width of his boat, boxed in by obnoxious walls of green and, beyond that, the cold face of the mountain on all sides.
The captain grows old. He cannot remember much of his village. Almost half his life has been spent in this boat, atop this river, beneath these mountains. How he wishes he could see through the trees for once, beyond the lifelessness that suffocates the inner forest. He is so tired these days; he barely looks out for what he once thought might solve his problems.
As the darkness descends once again, he remembers the days before his life became a matter of routine, when he used to wake with hope instead of regret, adventure instead of bitterness. As he falls asleep now, he hopes it might be the last time.
------
The tree’s roots that had long before woven themselves into an underwater barrier bring the boat to a jarring stop and summon the captain awake.
He does not take long to realise where he is, or to scramble towards the trunk with a youth like excitement not dissimilar to that which saw him once embark on this journey. Circling the trunk with the utmost concentration, he comes across an oval shaped break in the bark – a knot – and above it sees a branch stretching out as thick as the hull of his boat. It’s here.
The knot is almost twice his size, and as he brings his face up to the trunk, looking deep into the swirling yellow and brown, the tree remains motionless, unassuming and sturdy – it shows him nothing. He brings his face in closer, his stare intense, demanding his reward.
Nothing.
Weary, and without breaking his gaze, he allows his eyes to slacken, too tired for confrontation, too worn for anger. But as he stumbles backwards, with a single step and the slightest change of perspective, he looks into the knot and understands.
The stories were true.
He collapses at the base of the trunk and weeps, for he sees what it is that he and all those before him truly desire, and that it is no longer of any use. Carved into the wood is a map of the river through the mountains. It is the way home.
The river Khyber weaves its shallow story at the base of an impressive pass, a valley cut into a mountain range so vast as to confound the eyes, torture the photographers, and silence the poets.
Yet the river ambles on, a part of it all, licking the toes of giants with profound lethargy.
Several kilometres before it descends into an unknown forest, fenced in by the dramatic rock walls, a monastery sits quietly inshore of a small wooden pier, from which a motorboat drifts casually into the abyss.
Nobody watches it leave, for they do not expect it to return.
Its occupants, the boat’s captain and his father, are under the impression that somewhere within the sprawling labyrinth set out before them there exists the reality of an ancient tale, passed on for centuries by the locals of the nearest village, two hours downriver.
The story tells of a tree almost half the height of the mountains that surround it, growing on an island of its own in the middle of the river. Underneath its thickest branch there is a single knot which, it is told, will grant those who look upon it their greatest desires.
But the tree lies far beyond the limits of what has so far been explored. You cannot travel there, so says the fable – you must be taken. Place your faith in the river, and allow it to guide you through the forest.
There is little more the two men can do then as they pass the pier than switch off the motor and wait, with fond ambition as they amble onwards, under the river’s control.
For a while, they are confident, and as any trace of civilisation disappears after just a day of travel, it is as if progress has been made. For a week the novelty of exploration keeps them contented, the river unrelenting in its plodding progress through the dense green, remarkably devoid of all but plant life.
Expectation maintains their spirits for the first month; hope gets them through the second. After three months, the captain’s father wonders vainly if they should turn around, but the river’s current flows only one way, and they do not know where they are.
Time is forgotten as the men succumb to the will of the river. A year passes and only a fraction of their journey is complete. The tree is all they have now. They hang onto the thought of it like a cliff-hanger would that final branch or ledge.
The years pass on and so does the captain’s father, leaving him alone, commanded by a river barely three times the width of his boat, boxed in by obnoxious walls of green and, beyond that, the cold face of the mountain on all sides.
The captain grows old. He cannot remember much of his village. Almost half his life has been spent in this boat, atop this river, beneath these mountains. How he wishes he could see through the trees for once, beyond the lifelessness that suffocates the inner forest. He is so tired these days; he barely looks out for what he once thought might solve his problems.
As the darkness descends once again, he remembers the days before his life became a matter of routine, when he used to wake with hope instead of regret, adventure instead of bitterness. As he falls asleep now, he hopes it might be the last time.
------
The tree’s roots that had long before woven themselves into an underwater barrier bring the boat to a jarring stop and summon the captain awake.
He does not take long to realise where he is, or to scramble towards the trunk with a youth like excitement not dissimilar to that which saw him once embark on this journey. Circling the trunk with the utmost concentration, he comes across an oval shaped break in the bark – a knot – and above it sees a branch stretching out as thick as the hull of his boat. It’s here.
The knot is almost twice his size, and as he brings his face up to the trunk, looking deep into the swirling yellow and brown, the tree remains motionless, unassuming and sturdy – it shows him nothing. He brings his face in closer, his stare intense, demanding his reward.
Nothing.
Weary, and without breaking his gaze, he allows his eyes to slacken, too tired for confrontation, too worn for anger. But as he stumbles backwards, with a single step and the slightest change of perspective, he looks into the knot and understands.
The stories were true.
He collapses at the base of the trunk and weeps, for he sees what it is that he and all those before him truly desire, and that it is no longer of any use. Carved into the wood is a map of the river through the mountains. It is the way home.
Yet the river ambles on, a part of it all, licking the toes of giants with profound lethargy.
Several kilometres before it descends into an unknown forest, fenced in by the dramatic rock walls, a monastery sits quietly inshore of a small wooden pier, from which a motorboat drifts casually into the abyss.
Nobody watches it leave, for they do not expect it to return.
Its occupants, the boat’s captain and his father, are under the impression that somewhere within the sprawling labyrinth set out before them there exists the reality of an ancient tale, passed on for centuries by the locals of the nearest village, two hours downriver.
The story tells of a tree almost half the height of the mountains that surround it, growing on an island of its own in the middle of the river. Underneath its thickest branch there is a single knot which, it is told, will grant those who look upon it their greatest desires.
But the tree lies far beyond the limits of what has so far been explored. You cannot travel there, so says the fable – you must be taken. Place your faith in the river, and allow it to guide you through the forest.
There is little more the two men can do then as they pass the pier than switch off the motor and wait, with fond ambition as they amble onwards, under the river’s control.
For a while, they are confident, and as any trace of civilisation disappears after just a day of travel, it is as if progress has been made. For a week the novelty of exploration keeps them contented, the river unrelenting in its plodding progress through the dense green, remarkably devoid of all but plant life.
Expectation maintains their spirits for the first month; hope gets them through the second. After three months, the captain’s father wonders vainly if they should turn around, but the river’s current flows only one way, and they do not know where they are.
Time is forgotten as the men succumb to the will of the river. A year passes and only a fraction of their journey is complete. The tree is all they have now. They hang onto the thought of it like a cliff-hanger would that final branch or ledge.
The years pass on and so does the captain’s father, leaving him alone, commanded by a river barely three times the width of his boat, boxed in by obnoxious walls of green and, beyond that, the cold face of the mountain on all sides.
The captain grows old. He cannot remember much of his village. Almost half his life has been spent in this boat, atop this river, beneath these mountains. How he wishes he could see through the trees for once, beyond the lifelessness that suffocates the inner forest. He is so tired these days; he barely looks out for what he once thought might solve his problems.
As the darkness descends once again, he remembers the days before his life became a matter of routine, when he used to wake with hope instead of regret, adventure instead of bitterness. As he falls asleep now, he hopes it might be the last time.
------
The tree’s roots that had long before woven themselves into an underwater barrier bring the boat to a jarring stop and summon the captain awake.
He does not take long to realise where he is, or to scramble towards the trunk with a youth like excitement not dissimilar to that which saw him once embark on this journey. Circling the trunk with the utmost concentration, he comes across an oval shaped break in the bark – a knot – and above it sees a branch stretching out as thick as the hull of his boat. It’s here.
The knot is almost twice his size, and as he brings his face up to the trunk, looking deep into the swirling yellow and brown, the tree remains motionless, unassuming and sturdy – it shows him nothing. He brings his face in closer, his stare intense, demanding his reward.
Nothing.
Weary, and without breaking his gaze, he allows his eyes to slacken, too tired for confrontation, too worn for anger. But as he stumbles backwards, with a single step and the slightest change of perspective, he looks into the knot and understands.
The stories were true.
He collapses at the base of the trunk and weeps, for he sees what it is that he and all those before him truly desire, and that it is no longer of any use. Carved into the wood is a map of the river through the mountains. It is the way home.
Heh, nice.
I thought that it motored through (sorry), after starting in heavy detail. I also though that spending years travelling down a river would be a bit odd, given that one could walk around the world in less than a year. Surely a voyage of a fraction this length would lead to open ocean?
Still, a nice play on the 'don't know what you're looking for till you find it' line.
I thought that it motored through (sorry), after starting in heavy detail. I also though that spending years travelling down a river would be a bit odd, given that one could walk around the world in less than a year. Surely a voyage of a fraction this length would lead to open ocean?
Still, a nice play on the 'don't know what you're looking for till you find it' line.
Very good. I liked that a lot. I reckon that story clinched it for SSC10.
Verdict in a nutshell: The luscious beginning led me into an adventurer's solitude and ultimately to a delicately pessimistic view on dreams - their (more often than not) unattainability. 9.0 out of 10.
Heh, thanks.
It was an attempt at a Kafka-esque fable really, and admittedly bears no real relevance to the actual Khyber river or pass, both of which I know very little about.
It was an attempt at a Kafka-esque fable really, and admittedly bears no real relevance to the actual Khyber river or pass, both of which I know very little about.
Hopefully this gets a GAD now.
Finally got round to reading this, glad I did, really nice with an underlying moral. Definitely deserves the GAD. :-)
Oh I'm so sorry for the late pop. I promised myself I wouldn't comment on any of the stories I'm catchin up with but I couldn't resist.
I loved this. Perfect perfect ending :)
I loved this. Perfect perfect ending :)