Read Online The River and the Book by Alison Croggon - Free Book Online Page A

had not only lost my home; I had lost its meaning. I had lost the rooftree that held my world together, the height and the depth of it, the hearth that warmed it. When I lost the Book, I lost my people and my place and the meaning of my name. I lost the picture that lived in its pages somewhere of my mother showing me its mysteries for the first time, and I lost the voice that led me through my doubts and fears and showed me the path forward. I lost my past and my future. I lost everything that told me who I was. And I lost my place in the village. If I was not the Keeper, then who was I?
    That night was the first time I tasted despair. But in the chill hours before dawn, I found that the ocean was not bottomless: there was a floor, a hard ground at last, where I stopped sinking. My soul looked around and found itself in a place of irredeemable bleakness: all was colourless, flat, devoid of hope. At that moment, I was sure that I would never again feel joy. At the same time, as I stared at that grey, shadowless world, I felt as if I were made of rock, as if nothing in me could be hurt again. A great stillness began to fill me. It wasn’t peacefulness exactly; it was simply that my soul had sunk as deep as it could go. The worst had happened, and I was still here. If I had not found that ground, I know I would have gone mad. Even in our village, I had seen people in great distress lose their minds. For some reason, I knew then that I would not go mad. I’m not sure what the difference is between those who collapse into madness and those who do not, and I don’t know whether it’s a curse or a blessing to remain sane. Perhaps there are darker miseries that would drive my soul through the stony ground it found that night. But I suspect that even if I stumbled into worse despairs, I would still be forced to suffer them in sanity.
    Gradually, as the first glimmerings of dawn began to lighten the world, I felt my body come back to life. I realized that I was cold to the marrow of my bones. I hunched the dew-damp blankets around my shoulders and shivered, waiting for the sun to rise. I felt utterly empty, as if everything that was me had been poured out and there was nothing left inside.
    I slapped my legs and arms, trying to get the blood moving in them, and then, realizing I was hungry, took some flatbread and bean paste out of my bag. I was nibbling my breakfast in the bows of the boat when I heard footsteps coming my way, walking carelessly so that twigs snapped loudly and leaves crunched. I didn’t feel frightened so much as shy, and I hid in the boat, hoping that whoever it was wouldn’t notice me in the brush; they had probably come down for their morning’s wash, and no doubt would welcome intrusion as little as I did. I peered through the branches and saw it was a stout boy about my age who, as I expected, was making his way to the edge of the river.
    To my annoyance he seemed to be in no hurry to leave, and lingered by the riverbank. I bit my lip and crouched in my boat, burning with impatience; I had my own needs to attend to, after all, and it would be polite for this person to go elsewhere. I listened hard: I could hear the constant voice of the water and a couple of ducks squabbling under the shadow of the bank. There was a faint shimmer where the river cast up a pearly light that threw no illumination onto the banks. After a while, I began to feel angry; it didn’t occur to me that I was in fact the intruder, not this inconvenient but innocent stranger. I suppose I felt too tired and sad to be fair.
    The light deepened and the world slowly filled up with colour, and still the figure sat unmoving on the bank. The sun edged over the horizon, sending its first level rays to dance in ripples on the river’s blinding surface. I blinked, dazzled, and decided that I would clamber out of my boat and walk around noisily to announce my presence; but I stopped, spellbound, when the boy began to sing.
    He had the most