Apricot Press

Beyond the town, its gold-lit streets, beyond the forest, beyond that last wind-stripped tree, the silver river cuts its way to the sea. The river is moonlight. The river is the colour of an opal, plucked from a box of garnets and slipped onto a pale finger. Mother says don’t go to the river. Mother says stay inside and hide from the first fall of snow. It’s cold and dark in the forest; there are wolves and worse hiding in the trees.

For years we listen to Mother, her warning carries weight as we grow. The town is safe, it is our home. But then, with the changing of the seasons, the winter takes her. We watch the men split frozen soil with picks and shovels. She’s buried under weak sunlight and we hold hands. Two small fists clenched against the cold, it feels as though the blood is running from our bodies – as if the frost will take us too.

When spring thaws the earth, we pack our rucksacks. With food and water for the journey, we strike out on the road. Under dappled leaves we travel as one, quiet in the forest for we daren’t make a sound. Somewhere in the depths of the woods we find a lake and see ourselves, our symmetry glimpsed again, like splitting cells. We drink, but no amount of water quells the itch in my throat. We fill our canteens, sleep in the boughs of an ash tree, and in the morning we set out again.

We pass the last trees at the hem of the forest the following evening, and climb to the top of a sloping meadow. There we find tiny blue flowers that open like eyes. From the ridge we see the river, the ruptured vein of its estuary bleeding into the flat sea. We have never witnessed such water. Our eyes widen at the impossible sight, as if the sky had fallen in on itself.

The last sun lingers on the ridge, as we pick our way down the scree to the river bank. Behind us, night closes on the forest. Where the ground levels off, the river is loud. Our thirst is lust as the gush of water consumes our senses. You lick your lips and the scratch in my throat is catching, making my skin hot. The air is electricity and sweat.

At the water, I put my face to the stream. But you strip bare and I can see you now, as if for the first time. Your body melts with the current of quicksilver. Don’t go to the river, Mother said. Don’t go to the river. The Kelpie will take you.

I do not hear the sound of hoofbeats, until they are upon us. Hard as granite and urgent as the tidal pull, but you are already under the water. The ground is shaking now, light clefts the sky. I hold my breath, and then dive deep…

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