Come to the River - A Short Story

I see a man off in the distance and I am concerned for him. His clothes are in tatters, his face is dirty, and he always looks so tired and hungry. I call out to him and he smiles at my approach.

“It is good to see you again,” he says. “How are you doing?”

“I am well,” I reply, “and how are you today?”

“I’m alive,” he says faintly and I notice his eyes focus into the distance for a moment. I can feel the pain in him. Despair.

“Will you walk with me?” I ask him.

“Certainly. It is lonely in the wilderness.”

I nod in agreement. I don’t think he can perceive my sadness although I do not hide it from him. He doesn’t ask where we are going and I think that maybe this time he will drink from the river. Maybe this time he will agree to join with us as we gather around the streams of life.

When he sees where we are going he doesn’t protest. We stand looking over the river amidst the lush green and the trees that are nourished by the clear running water. He squints, not understanding what he is looking at. The side of his lip curls up and he shakes his head slowly.

“You should come with me out to the wilderness,” he says to me.

“I do,” I reply, “and we haven’t found anywhere worth living in that desert.”

“I get lonely when you’re away,” he says quietly.

I put my hands on his shoulders and look into his gaunt and shallow eyes. “Then come and stay with me,” I say, a tear welling up in my own eye. “Do not go out into the wilderness anymore. Spend time by the river, drink the pure water and let it wash you. Join with us and you will not be lonely. You can still go out into the desert but make your home here and be filled with good things.”

He looks at me, eyes unstaring.

“Is it so hard to see?” I ask pointing at river, the village, and the city in the distance. “Come to the river, be filled, thirst no more, learn to be clean, clothe yourself in new clothes, eat with us, laugh with us, we love you!”

“What is wrong with my clothes?” he asks suspiciously.

“They are in tatters friend!”

He huffs at me and eyes up my own garments, recently washed and still quite new.

“It’s not like that,” I say. “You go out into the wilderness in rags. Do they protect you from the heat of the sun or the cold of the night? Do they shelter you in a storm? I am concerned for your well-being.”

“The river is for soft people,” he said at last. “None of you know what it is like out in the world. None of you know how to survive in the heat or the cold. The river makes you soft.”

I looked at him in disbelief. Malnourished, limping, and hunched over; even the least of the river dwellers could stand the wastes better than him. But he did not understand this.

He turned to leave.

“Wait,” I say as I take off my coat. “Take this,” and I wrap it around his shoulders.

A look of pain and surprise came over him and then a grateful smile and tears. “Thank you,” he choked. “It is so cold in the wilderness at night. You have always been such a good friend to me.” And with that he turned and stumbled away from the river, thirsty, hungry, dirty, limping, and wretched to go back to living among the hyenas and buzzards; and I wept for him.