The River Monster

Written by Isabella Lomma

24 years old

Dauphin, PA

I follow the sun as it sinks down into the water, waiting until the orange

light turns the trees to black silhouettes before pushing my kayak off the bank.

The headlamp I wear narrows my view of the world to only this single column and

what it illuminates. I am reminded of a night, summers ago, by a creek, following

the faint beam of light from a flashlight you held. The road was so empty that

night, the tall trees became entities stretching their thin arms to the sky.

Stones scrape against the bottom of my boat. It’s been months since we’ve

had a good rain. The summer trees are losing their leaves too soon. If I close my

eyes I can still tell it’s the end of August. The electrified air, filled to the brim

with the sound of cicadas and frogs, is undeniably the music of summer’s end.

I coax my boat into deeper water, imagining now that the belly of my kayak

is lined with long spindly scratches. As I paddle forward, I let the light from my

headlamp fall on my destination. Ahead, behind a cluster of smaller islands, is the

place you saw it.

The monster, you told me, is unmistakable. Eyes like headlights flashing

back at you, its body only slightly shorter than the trees that line the island. A

creature, hunching forward, dark as night.

If you were here I would have to pretend to be brave. Here alone, I don’t

ignore the chill that runs down my spine when the edge of the island comes into

view. You had told me the story in daylight. I laughed as you relayed the tale of

first seeing the creature, imagining your band of friends fleeing down the river,

the so-called eyes of the monster merely a raccoon, or rabbit. Now, with the light

and color quickly draining from the sky I don’t feel like laughing. We were

supposed to do this together.

The water pulls at my paddle and I want to let it sink, hold on and let it drag

me to the bottom.

I urge myself to keep going but I will not beat the fading light. By the time I

reach the island, the sky will be full dark, navigation made possible only by the

stream of light coming from my forehead. I feel like a cyborg. I feel like a monster

too.

Something splashes about a foot from me and I startle. I slow my breath and

tell myself it is only a fish, nothing to be afraid of, but in this twilight the river

seems alive in a way that unsettles me. Someone once told me that the Susquehanna

is one of the oldest rivers in the world. I didn’t believe it until tonight. Tonight,

I can feel the ancient hum of it. I feel millions of years in its depths.

I paddle on, nearing the cluster of islands. I fight a racing heart with every

stroke. When I reach the smaller two islands I have to convince myself not to turn

around. I force myself to press on through the channel made between them.

With the monster’s home in full view it is now clear that this is a place of

myths and stories. Though they are the same species of tree that fill the other

islands, the ones here somehow look older, wiser. This is a place that holds secrets

unknowable to us. Beneath my fear there is a deep wish to know them all. My eyes

find something then that is somehow more primordial and alive looking than the

trees; a white, plastic chair, sitting on the bank, looking out into the night. This

chair in its solitude, chills me and I long to turn away but something unnamable

keeps me here staring straight ahead. I have to see, I have to know.

I turn off my headlamp, thinking my chances of having a monster reveal itself

to me are more likely if it doesn’t know I’m here. I wait in silence, aware that I’m

nearly holding my breath. The humidity makes the evening air feel close on my skin

as if I’m being held and I remember your arms around me.

On another summer night like this we are near a creek, not a river and you’re

looking at me with something like frustration. The intent I saw in your eyes must

have been half imagined. How could I have seen all you were trying to say with the

sky pitch dark like that? With our surroundings only shadows it was easy to

pretend it hadn’t been there at all. Now I wonder what you felt when I turned my

head away.

There is something surreal about being on the water past sunset. It is a place

and time that lends itself to the imagination and I am unnerved by how my mind

wanders in the darkness. Memories of you pull at the corners.

A shockingly cold breeze, uncharacteristic in this hot night, raises

goosebumps on my arms and legs. I smell snow. The pure, clean scent of it so real

that I almost reach out my hands to catch the flakes. The breeze leaves a chill

behind in its wake and I am reminded of winters shared with you. Frozen creeks

and snow-covered hills, your cheeks and nose turning pink as we raced in our sleds.

The pale-yellow light that only comes from a sunset in December. I do reach my

hands out now wanting to hold it in my grasp. I wish the snow would gather in my

palms and melt into my skin. I could keep you there, frozen like bits of ice in my

fingertips. I’d always feel you then when I press a hand to my face, the cold memory

of you always within reach.

The chill dissipates and it is summer again.

I tell myself I’ll only wait a few more minutes. If this monster were real,

who’s to say it’s going to come out tonight anyway? I feel suddenly silly and I

wonder if you are laughing at me wherever you are. I’m waiting for a river monster,

I remind myself, not you. A flash of anger grips me. We were supposed to do this

together.

I put my paddle in the water, ready to abandon this hopeless mission when

my eyes fixate on the plastic chair. It looks desperately lonely. Empathy invades my

chest. Is the monster waiting for someone? Sitting there in the stillness, looking

out over the water, does the monster long for something like me?

I can’t bear to look at it. I turn my head away, looking at the expanse of black

water instead. It is a mirror in the moonlight. There is power in the river tonight

and when I look into its depths I almost understand. It is an almost knowing that

makes me feel wise and naïve all at once. It is the same feeling I got driving home

from a funeral when I was young. In the backseat, head resting against the

window, I looked out at the deep green of the wooded road rushing past and I

knew something about death. I wish I could remember what it was.

I do turn my boat now, wishing I never came in the first place. This was

supposed to be an adventure with you. We would’ve sat around a campfire on the

island across from this one, jumping at any noise we heard, laughing at our own

cowardice. I would’ve listened to you talk for hours. You would’ve tried to make me

understand. I never understood.

A cracking branch stops me. My paddle hovers above the water, fear keeping

me still, hope rendering me immovable.

Another crack.

I turn my head slowly. Over my shoulder I see the trees swaying and bending

on the island, as if something is moving through them. My breath comes out sharp

now but I don’t turn away.

The woods part and there is your monster.

He stands, just like you said, nearly as tall as the trees, eyes of light looking

out at me, alone.

My breathing stills, my racing heart slows in my chest.

He stands there, watching me watch him.

We both breathe in the stillness and I can no longer hear the cicadas or frogs.

It is just him and I in the world.

There is nothing to fear.

I try to read an expression on his face but he is only shadows.

I give up trying and accept that he is looking at me and I am looking at him.

A breeze rustles the trees.

Cicadas fill the air with their summer song once more.

He blinks at me, a long slow blink, the light cutting out for a moment then

he turns away, moving back into the forest. The movements are almost graceful,

almost beautiful.

I stay looking over my shoulder, paddle paused in midair for a moment

longer, the island empty save for the plastic chair. Then I fix my eyes on the

riverbank ahead and paddle toward it.

Years and years of life rest on the bottom of this riverbed and I can feel each

of those years inside me as I get closer and closer to shore.

Maybe he wanted to be found, I think, to be seen.

Maybe you did too.

Maybe not.

My kayak bumps against the bank, sliding onto the sand and grit. I get out,

feet sinking in ancient mud. I drag my boat into the grass and set my paddle down.

It is the end of August. Fall will soon take its place and I will change with the

season, a season you will never know. I tell myself I’ll hold on to the sound and

sight of that deep green summer. I tell myself I’ll hold onto you.

As I walk up the hill I am pulled to turn again toward the water. I cast one

last glance towards the island, hoping I’ll see him again, knowing I won’t. I put my

hand to my face and I can feel the ice there, embedded in my fingertips, I can feel

the creek where your laugh was warm and present, I can feel years and years

beneath the water.

Your red canoe lies further up the hill so I drag my kayak to meet it. They

rest there together and I know something about death, I know something about

life.