I have never deemed it possible to find myself consumed by the simplest of human emotions until today, the day of her arrival. Weariness. Distraught. Curiosity. A plethora of sensations I once assumed only inhabited the creatures known as mankind burst inside of me. The same beings who would dump anything and everything into me.

Once worshiped by charismatic and selfless people who praised and honored my waters. Who birthed stories around fires not far from my banks and gathered food and water from my body to survive, I, the Blackened River, have not found myself surrounded by compassionate souls since those times. Centuries it has been until her.

From every side of the riverbank, I have been detrimental to the creation of a village full of life and miracles, but alas the familiarity ceased once the tainted hands of unfamiliar visitors greedily settled and reclaimed the territory as their own. The strange menfolk from overseas paid no heed to the locals’ rightful fury at their blatant disrespect and mistreatment towards me, the river, using my waters for nothing more than to invade and terrorize. If my waves and ringlets could split open and shape a mouth in place, I would gladly speak and scream my disapproval, my rage. Being reclaimed by foreigners and outsiders was not a choice of mine, but what else could I do other than sit by idly as time moved on? Trying to hinder their advancements and travel did very little.

So I laid there, growing and stretching from one tail end of the bank to another. I silently rested there as man rowed and paddled over me, using my body for their selfish gains. I painfully remained at the wayside as some of my old worshippers screamed and begged from below ships, kept in confinement to be taken to places I knew nothing of. I despise those memories most of all.

As time blossomed and withered, objects, belongings, and garbage left by egotistical and discourteous humans were discarded into me, not once treating my vessel as the handiwork of God or a gift given to them from Mother Nature. Not like the native dwellers before them. No, I, the Blackened River have been used for any means. Instead of gold and riches being lovingly fed into me, bodies have been dumped and plummeted to the bottom of my belly. Human blood has seeped into my wet veins. Flesh has been torn apart and disintegrated into me, blending in with the watery grave.

But I must admit. I look forward to the days where my heavy heart is lifted — confessional days. Humans are a befuddling and chaotic group, full of greed and deprivation, but if one looks close enough, there is a spark of mystery and desire hidden in the depths of their darkness. A basic need for companionship, connection, and love. I anticipate the days and nights when their hunger for attention and their thirst for belonging overwhelms so they seek me out. Sitting on my shore, secrets pour out of their mouths and fall into my waters. Some are tiny white lies. Some are words and tales filled with promises and glee. Oftentimes stories full of trauma and decay are told, followed by tears thickened with anguish, bitterness, sadness, and numbness. Tales spew from the mouths of men, women, and children praying for someone to hear their confessions on those dark or happy days.

Accounts and woes flow inside filling me. But on this day, I am sure that this newest confession will be one to remember for the rest of time before I am forsaken and forgotten, left to dry up and converted into a foundation or crossing more useful for humans.

Spring. The perfect season to cleanse the mind and soul. My favorite time of the year.  Layers of fog float above my body. Chilling drops of rain fall from the heavens, possibly a sign of God’s disappointment and frustration. The leaves on the trees near the river’s edge waft with the current. Bits of branches, pinecones, and greenery lift from the ground and blow through the air, sometimes landing on me. Oh, how I welcome these moments. It is a stormy day satiated with clouds and frigid rain, strong enough to hide the tears and gut-wrenching screams I foresee.

I push my waves in anticipation of my newest confessor. Searching the riverbank, I finally spy dots. How strange. Black and white dots on a curvaceous object. It is not until the stranger approaches that I recognize the thing in their hand. An umbrella. Many of those have been left with me.

Trembling fingers curled around the umbrella is all I can make out. A face hidden by a mane of thick black curls. Keeping the window to their soul hidden, perhaps? Strange to do so in front of a body of water, but not unusual.

I shift my waves closer hoping to get a better peek at them. I take in her dress, the dark lace draped down her back, fabric so long the train threatens to dip into the water. Thick black boots poke out from underneath, soft yellow daisies tucked into the laces.

“I’m so sorry, Mama,” the guest whispers, sobs caught in the back of their throat threatening to wrack their body. At the sound of such a soft and delicate voice, I prepare myself to listen and provide comfort. Comfort, a new skill for me. “I didn’t think it was your time. Never in a million years did I think you’d leave me before Papa. Leave your daughter in a cruel unforgiving world.” A gloved hand nudges the curtain of hair out of the way and through the storm I am greeted with chestnut, reddened skin, and though protected from the rain, tears glisten on her round cheeks.

Her voice cracks as she licks her lips as if to keep more sobs from stumbling out. I watch as a handkerchief is pulled from her coat pocket and the poor piece of cloth that had seen better days clutches tighter and tighter in her grip.

 Heartache and sorrows dampen the fabric, adding another stain to the old ones already inhabiting it. I find myself wondering about the stories behind those stains left by not just the woman, but also her mother, her grandmother, her great-grandmother. How much generational pain, trauma, and grief does it hold? “This handkerchief, your kerchief . . . I do not deserve your precious cloth, I know, but I needed something to hold me together today. It’s been rough. The guilt . . .” A strangled sob leaves her frame as more tears dribble from her eyes. “I didn’t mean to harm you, Mama.”

I calm myself, halting my waves, as I wait to hear her speak again. For the first time how, I wish to converse with someone. With her.

I decide to move closer to the mesmerizing and perplexing being at my bank, her boots already coated with mud. Immediately a hint of pine and vanilla hits my waters. An intoxicating mixture of her sadness and guilt knotted together like a child’s blanket crudely, but lovingly knitted with accidental knots, like the one a mother tossed into me, her deceased son’s favorite coverlet, after a burial. But why the guilt? I affiliate pine to be a scent that permeates from the worst of the worst: criminals, slave traders, murderers, thieves. What has happened to create such a tang from the young lady?

I gently force a wave in her direction. Her attention averts down as a splash of my body runs around her boots. A small smile blooms on her face.  Grasping her dress in her hand, the mourning woman lifts the hem until it reaches past her thighs. Biting back a hiss of pain and exposing a bruised knee, she kneels in the mud.

“Hello there,” she says. I still. No one has spoken directly to me in centuries. “Yes, I know all about you, Blackened River.” Her gloved hand, a finger, dips into the water. I stir in reply.

 “My mama told me all about you. For years she’d tell me the history behind you. Stories about how God and Mother Nature created you for us. I remember her bringing me here when I was a little thing. It was the first time we met.”

I search my memories but cannot recollect them. I am quite positive I would have remembered someone as lovely as her.

She chuckles as my waves continue to splash around her knelt form and swim around her hand, soaking her gloves. “It’s okay, darling. That was a long time ago. A very long time ago.” A heavy sigh follows her words. “God, how I miss those days. I miss frolicking under the bare sun. I miss the smiles and laughter. I miss the innocence of it all.”

I rest my movements and wait for her to continue, the tranquility of myself easing us both. Her eyes appear to glaze over as a sort of memory replays in her head. “Mama used to bring me here hoping you would ease my pain. She was right, but it was only temporary. Nothing could stop the nightmares that haunted me. Everywhere I went the godawful dreams and the things that haunted my vision were there. I wasn’t always like this, a loner who’d walk along the woods talking to creatures and God’s creations like you. I had better things to do with my time until I met it.” The hiss that leaves her lips isn’t missed.

I have heard many chronicles during my lifespan, and I believe that this story will be akin to the ones told by other past confessors who were clueless about my listening. But then again, those humans did not care or acknowledge my presence as much. Dumping their secrets in it as they did their waste was all that concerned them. So, in my eyes, this woman, this human, is disparate from any other.

“Mama didn’t believe me when I told her about that day. She said I’d been listening to too many of her and Nana’s tales. Said I didn’t understand the difference between reality and truth, but I did. That thing was real, and it made me into the person I am today.” She scoffs. “Believe me, River, that isn’t saying much. I saw it in the dead of night. Not too far from here. Mama was too busy to bring me to you one afternoon. I understand now why she worked three jobs to take care of me and my brother, but as a little one, her absence left me hurt and wanting. Upset. Angry that she put work before me, so I went out on my own to search for you.”

I acknowledge my new companion with another soft splash, yearning to alleviate the burden and anguish staining her. And it does if only for a moment; my friend sighs in harmony with the breeze hitting against her back and the overbearing trees in the distance before continuing. “Yes, I needed you and I vowed that I would find you all on my own. I searched and searched. My scrawny legs only took me so far, but then I had to come to terms with the fact that I was lost. I was nowhere near you. I wanted you but couldn’t find you. I wanted my mama, but she was working and didn’t know I had left the house. I couldn’t do anything, so I did the same thing I’m doing now” — she gently wipes the tears from her face — “I cried. I don’t know how long I sobbed. I laid down in the middle of the woods, curled my arms around myself, and wailed until my throat grew raw. Nothing answered me until I heard something. A scream.”

I fall silent as she carries on, but it hurts. I despise the wretched noise of hurt in her speech. I scorn the fear lacing her words, but there isn’t much I can do about it except attend and pacify.

“I didn’t know what it was. I got up from the ground, not caring about the dirt and leaves stuck to my new dress Mama had saved up to buy me. I didn’t care about the spanking I knew I would get when she saw it. I didn’t care about anything when I got up because all I could focus on was the bright red eyes staring at me through the darkness.”

Full of bereavement that still haunts her to this day as much as it did when she was a babe lost in the woods that surround me, staring down at her shaking fists, she sighs before shutting her eyes. “It growled at me, but it didn’t move. I’m unsure if I wandered into its territory and it came to chase me off or if it was hunting its prey, but we stood there staring at one another. I’m not sure if it was hours that passed or only seconds, but before I could take a single step back, it lunged. I barely had time to think before I ran. I made it home somehow. I climbed up the raggedy ladder that I had hidden outside my window. I didn’t even get undressed. I just jumped into bed and shut my eyes, thinking it was all a dream until I looked down when a sharp pain ran up my arm.”

Hmm, now I find myself wondering what manner of beast had come upon this lady when she was nothing more than a child? I know them all well, for they drink from me and treat me far kinder than the humans have done.

Pulling her sleeve back and stretching out her arm, it is on display, and I cannot help the tremor wave I send at her feet. Three long faint scars mar her skin. Those are abnormal. Of course, when those who lived off the land had faced countless threats of mauling by bears and wolves, they would be met by claws and teeth, leaving with deadly wounds of similar fashion. But these . . . they appear to be . . . monstrous.

Dropping her arm, the sleeve droops down and returns as a veil to conceal from wandering eyes. She nods, a sniffle and cough follow. “I wasn’t crazy. I showed Mama in the morning, and she was furious. Not at the marks, but at my ruined dress. I didn’t realize it was almost shredded. I told her what happened, but she didn’t believe me.”

Unbeknown to her, the bowing of her head knocks a tear loose and into the stream. Into me and with that, pictures and sounds swim around, offering me an insight into what occurred between mother and daughter that fateful night.

“Katara, w-wh . . .” Her mother, exhausted after coming home from a thirteen-hour shift at the local nursing home, stuttered over her words as she towered over ten-year-old Katara. The brand-new dress she had spent countless hours sewing and stitching together — destroyed. Ruined. Almost in tatters. “H-how did this happen? What in the world . . .” She could barely form complete sentences as she fingered the gashes and tears clinging to her daughter’s shivering frame. Her motherly hands and fingers still showcased punctures from the needles to prove her diligence and effort to craft her firstborn a dress for the upcoming Resurrection service at church. Yellow and soft pinks laced with daises and puppy designs, Katara’s favorites. But by the look on her mother’s face, Katara couldn’t fathom the thoughts that brewed in her mama’s head. Ungratefulness. Selfishness. Hurt. But that was far from the truth.

“I . . . I saw it, Mama.” Katara finally uttered around the lump in her throat after finding the strength to wipe the tears still falling down her ripe, chubby face as she peered up at her mother.

“What? What did you do? Were you in the woods again? Dammit, Katara, I told you not to go there without me. You know the kinds of men who hunt in those copses. I —” She stopped as Katara shook her head at her words. “No? You weren’t in the woods? Then where —”

Little Katara had no other choice, but to stop the tears and tell her mama what she saw. “It wasn’t the white men from town, Mama, honest. It was the Creeper.” She gasped out the name, unsure if her mother heard her over her blubbering, but she did. Mama froze for a moment, astonished at the urban legend nickname.

“No, no, no . . .”

“But M-mama —”

“I said no!”

Katara jumped at the sound of her mother’s voice raised. That was not common in their household.

“It did this! I fell down lots running home a-and it k-kept coming and coming and coming and I didn’t know what to do! I’m not lyin’!” Katara begged and pleaded for her to understand the truth that the Creeper was real. The story her Pop Pop and second Uncle and great Aunt had told her during a blackout as they all gathered in the living room with nothing but lit candles and spooky stories to keep them company two summers prior was real. But again, Katara’s mama had had enough of hearing of the Creeper, and the Wolfman and the Stringless Lady.

“Katara . . .” Strange how her voice lowered, and though full of anger and annoyance, there was fatigue and fear. “I beg you; your uncle and Nana have begged you; please put your childish ways behind. I love your imagination, you know I do, but this…I’ve had enough. You’ve scared your baby brother half to death with this shit and I . . . I don’t want to hear about it no more. Do you hear me, young lady? Done. You did this to your dress, the one your grandmother and I worked so hard to make with the supplies we could barely afford, and you did this? It was no Creeper man or thing or whatever you want to call it!” The finality in her mama’s words shook Katara more than the Creeper’s long sinewy fingers grip around her leg.

I am brought back, no longer a witness to a cruel event that should not happen to anyone. “Mama said I was sleepwalking again, so I believed her until the next morning. My uncle woke me up asking me if I’d seen Mama and I told him not since that morning. He thought that was weird because she usually had breakfast on the table, and he was there to drive her to work. I followed him into her bedroom but she wasn’t there. We searched house until he found her in the den in front of the tv on our busted old couch. Dead. It was my fault,” she mumbles those last words before soft snivels follow.

I wish to shed tears of my own for her. To wash away her weeping and ache. To make it known that the death of her mother lies in no fault of her own, but mine. Where was I during her time of need? Was I deafened to her agonizing bellows and wails in the deep trees I call allies?

As if Katara can read in me what would be known as thoughts to her kind, she shakes her head. “It was my fault. There was so much blood. Claw marks like the ones on my arm were everywhere. It followed me home. If I hadn’t left home and been in the woods, this never would’ve happened.”

Such a sweet soul. Blame should be placed on myself. If not for me, then that little girl never would’ve left the comfort and safety of her home looking for me. It was not her fault, and Katara needs to understand that before the guilt consumes and swallows her whole.

“I don’t blame you,” Katara whispered to the river. “I’ve never blamed you. I envy you.”

The winds blow harder. My currents sway stronger. A small smile rises on her tear-stained face. Her hand reaches out again, trickling along the top of my surging body. “Even after my mama’s death, I wanted you. I wanted you to bring me comfort no one else could bring. Mama said where she was from, bodies of water are symbols of relief. You bring comfort in the darkest times. Your comfort reaches the blackened parts of people’s souls.”

I calm, the entire forest finds itself at a standstill, at her soft acclamation and watch as Katara finally rises to her feet, mud and water caked on her knees and clothes. I do nothing as she gently removes the coat from her body. “You see, Blackened River, I've been waiting for the day I could throw my secret into you. Today’s the 20th anniversary of my mama’s death, and all I could think were the stories she told me of you.” Her speech never falters even as she slips the boots off her feet, ignoring the daisies in her laces falling out. I cannot help but part and form a small path as bare feet greet me. Stillness all around us. The winds do not blow. The birds do not chirp. My waters do not wave as she wanders within me, a majestic queen finding solace on her throne. “I’ve waited for the day I could share my blackened soul with the blackened river and be at peace. So, with that, I thank you.”