The River of Toil
A world from here there is a river. A strong, rushing channel with a blue-green fury that roars over the Shaman’s incantations. The old men sat it is ‘The River of Toil.’
Across the River of Toil there is a bridge (or, at least, that is what the old men call it). A rickety bundling of jagged sticks barely spanning the breadth of the river, the old men say that entering the bridge over the River Toil does violence, not evil, to a the spirit.
When they are safe on the bank, travelers consider the bridge and the river; measuring the water’s rapidity, estimating the bridge’s endurance. The moment one is possessed with the temerity to tread on the bridge’s kindling, these contemplations become moot. The capacity of the bridge matters not, only whether it holds or fails. The velocity of the rushing water is but a figment of imagination, there is only the strength to reach shore should the sticks collapse. Equanimity is asphyxiated in the urgency of action – that is the magick of the River of Toil.
21 Feb 2010 2200 local Madibira, TZ
A week ago we contacted our first real adventure since entering the village. Deo made known to Boots a legendary beautiful waterfall only a few miles from Madibira. It seemed absurd to return from a global expedition not having seen a waterfall so even though the afternoon was growing long the expedition leaders (accompanied by porter McBride) began a trek of uncertain duration, duress or hazard.
Leaving the village we detected a trail leading into the hills beyond. As we walked the trail emaciated – scraggly bushes and brush grew bolder with each passing metre.
We walked through a cluster of thorny trees. The area was dotted with round, dark holes throughout. “What sort of holes might these be?” I asked Boots Himself, our resident expert on such things. He paused a moment.
“Probably better not to know.” Boots quipped, breaking no strides.
McBride straggled behind. He had helped himself to plates of chipsy mayai beforehoand and now found himself with the expedition’s worst case to date of “tumbly rumblies.” Despite his meager, sweaty protestations, we pressed on. The predators of the bush would be waking from their daytime slumbers soon – perhaps they would find a chunk of chipsy mayai left over for themselves.
After some time we came to an unexpected structure. Shrouded by overgrowth a large concrete cylinder rose a dozen feet off the ground. The expedition was under strict orders from EVHL Central Office to investigate and document all points of foreign infrastructure for later dissection and consideration as points of interest for sport hockey expansion and thematic tours. Atop the cylinder we found a curious steel trapdoor. What this mysterious structure might conceivably be eluded us. My own mind was vaguely tinged with uneasy memories of the Stephen King miniseries “IT.”
After a lengthy (1-2 minute) period of deliberation on whether or not to breach the cylinder, our thirst to know got the better of us. As the expedition Sergeant at Arms it fell to Boots to uncase whatever evil or glory might reside within. Slowly, the young Minnesotan crouched over the steel door, lifting from the handles on either side.
Inside the cylinder was . . . . something. What, precisely, we lacked the hydrological expertise to determine. There was a large amount of rushing/churning water within. What purpose this served is unknown. The village did not have any running water, save for the compound that held Katelyn’s house, but that zone was equipped with its own freestanding 500 galloon mini-towers. There were no other villages nearby enough to might have used the same tank. To be sure, the tank was likely too small in general to have served even a small general population. The whole contraption simply made no sense.[1]
We decided this meant good fortune for our expedition! (What choice did we have?) We closed off the pedestal as carefully as we found it and continued along the trail.
The sun was getting low in the west as we trod through the trail’s ever-diminishing pathway. Several times we took detours akimbo to the pathway through fields of wild roots, their natural organization heeding more clearance for our feet than the scare lines stomped through the brush by those who had passed this way unknown ages ago. After some time our ears detected the faint thunder of rushing water, our quarry was close by.
Rocky outcroppings made dawdling attempts to impede our progress but we were washed over with a new wave of enthusiasm. Bounding like Hearcles himself we made short work of the distance remaining. The rush of the falls seemed to careen off every branch and stone and creating an eddy of din, we could not hear one another.
Much like the miner on his way to neutralize a mine our progress was impeded by an unforeseen hydrological hazard. Perhaps, even, in an effort to protect us, the Almighty had laid a surging whitewater channel in our path. McBride, Boots and I parted ways to scout the rocky bank for a path across but there was none to be found. Then, we happened upon GIANTS’ KINDLING BRIDGE, a raggedy grouping of rotten logs and branches that extended just barely across the rushing waters of the River of Toil.
Ostensibly, we paused to consider our choices. In reality, we paused for nothing, because there were no choices. We were going across.
McBride, full of chipsy mayai, was the first to move. Wet, rotten bark stripped off the its logs at the touch of his feet. He took one ginger step, then another. A number of minor branches cracked in protest under the weight, but in all the bridge’s integrity abided McBride’s first steps.
Our hearts caught in our throats the net moment as McBride reached the middle of the bridge. Our man caught midway between the banks, the bridge’s sogged belly distended noticeably, promising to tear like the bottom a wet paper bag when tension is put on it.
Another step, thankfully, and the pressure abated. McBride had been delivered to the other side. Oh, no he hadn’t. He’d stopped to take pictures.
[1] Apologies to faithful readers of future installments (many of whom are ‘LOST’ fans) – this remains indefinitely a loose end. Sorry.
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