Of Differnt Rivers

Of Different Rivers

The river dribbles ever downwards on its course, flowing between rock
and tree, pushing the earth into twists and rivulets, pounding into the
ocean and rising as rain to fall and roll again. Kavel lies on the bank
chewing on a blade of straw and kicking the water into the air, a
youngster in contemplation of the prime of his life. The water on his
brazen skin reflects the frenzy of the high noon sun back into the
heavens from whence it came; he exudes health and vitality. Behind him
the workers are filing down the fields' edge on their way back to their
houses to refuel for the late afternoon shift, when the sun begins to
wane and the air becomes breathable. Further downstream a heavy truck
rattles across the bridge carrying the fruits of labour to the markets
and the cities beyond. Petre passes by in line with the others, but no
greeting is made. He is returning to Kavel's mother weary and in a bad
mood. Kavel doesn't have bad moods. When he is weary he sleeps, and
when he is awake, he is wide-awake.

As the last of the line files ant-like over the hill and out of sight,
Kavel rises and leaps through the air, pausing for a second above the
shimmering flurry of water before crashing headlong into the ice-cold
recesses of the realm of fishes. The sound of nature's bellows rings in
his ears and rushes him down stream in a torrent of limbs. Grazing
rocks and spitting water he roars back through the surface to gulp the
air and grab a branch of the nearby overhanging willow, holding himself
against the flow that drags his feet onwards in the gurgle of the
river. His arms tense with the strain as he pulls himself free from the
water and hangs limp in the air. A school of fish races past him on
their mission to salt-waters. A woodpecker hammers out a rhythm into
the bark of a nearby tree. Somewhere in the vast tracts of the aquatic
sky, an eagle spirals ever upward on a plume of hot air. He takes a
hearty swig of the moist air, lets out a yell and then releases himself
once again into the fury of the water. He is moving once more.

Petre trudges on down the path. Everyday now for a decade, he has made
the same pilgrimage from field to home. Stumbling over cobblestones
through the ice-cold darkness of the early morning, and returning at
noon in the baking heat of the day, satchel over one shoulder, the
other arm hanging limp at his side. In the morning his feet rise and
fall with precision, but by noon they drift and wade through the air
and land without rhythm on the earth in which he toils. Again in the
afternoon he makes the journey with lighter steps, and again in the
evening he returns with his feet in shoes of mud, the satchel swaying
and the arm limp. His body is slowly wearing down and soon he will be
unable to work. He hides his weakness as best he can from his wife,
from his friends, and from his bosses at the field. A life without work
is a life of idle shame. For Petre, a man must work, or he is no man at
all. When he arrives at his home the casserole is already on the table,
and on this occasion a letter accompanies the meal. He recognises the
handwriting as that of his other son, Pavel and he gently breaks the
seal and unfolds the paper to read it before he eats.

Dearest Father,

I trust that you are well and that this letter finds you in good cheer.
Please give my love to Mother and tell her that I miss her and am
thinking of her. I too am well, although times have been, in some ways,
a little difficult recently. I have been working in the firm now for
over a year and I am doing well for myself. The Director seems to have
taken a shine to me and he promises me great things. I was honoured by
an invitation to dinner last Tuesday. His wife made a truly superb
meal, and they were more than generous with wine and deserts and
cigars, fine whiskeys and liquors. I am overwhelmed by the way they
live - such wealth, such beauty, such exuberance. From the window of
their home I saw the river passing slowly by and I thought of how much
it must change on its arduous journey from the village to the city, how
tired it becomes.

I know that you and Mother were overjoyed when I came to the city to
study, and then once more when I found this position. I suspect you
will now be equally disappointed when I turn my back on the opportunity
I have made for myself. When I return home, I will tell you of my
motives in more detail, but in brief, I cannot do this anymore. I
cannot live in such abundance with an easy heart. The people I have met
are all pleasant enough, but they seem blinded to the truth of the
world. Most of them are so lost in their desires for growth and capital
that they have simply blocked out the effects of their greed; money can
only be moved around, and wealth can only be created on a background of
a lack of the stuff. In these people I see a shift in the threshold of
what constitutes greed, to the extent that what you or I would consider
to be flagrant excess is seen as mere comfort to them.

When I was a young boy you taught me what it was to be a decent human
being. You taught me that the animals of the world strive against each
other in order to further their own aims, whereas the instinct of the
human (the very thing that separates and elevates us from the animals)
is defined and described by the human virtues - those of compassion and
benevolence, honesty and intellect. When I gauge this place against
those criteria, I am horrified. The very presence of this citadel is a
contradiction to my sense of what it is to be human. Perhaps I am too
sensitive. But is it in the nature of man to toil for a lifetime
building fortunes of wealth while those around him merely survive and
suffer? You have worked hard your whole life, but your work has been
honest work. It has brought food and shelter to your children without
excess. Your excess, when you had it, became other peoples' comfort. In
this place I take money from a void. The computer systems I build are
for other people who take money from the same void. The people in the
void are faceless, but they do exist, and in another circumstance they
could have been my friends and family. This is what the people are
blind to. They no longer believe in people; they believe in the
void.

I will be home shortly Father, where I intend to follow your steps into
the field and live as you have done. I've broached the subject with
friends here and they cannot understand me. They treat me as though I
were confused, or even mad! Perhaps I am. I also have a request. Please
speak with Kavel, Father. His sins are trivial compared to those of my
peers. He has a good heart and, as hard as it may be for you to
understand, he leads a good life.

Your loving son

Pavel

Placing the leaves of paper upon the table, Petre began to fork the
casserole into his mouth, mulling over the substance of the letter and
working through the details. Without a word to his wife he rose and
left the house, carelessly stepping over the cobbles and onto the
riverside path that led to the field. Clearing the brow of the hill he
saw the virile figure of his son Kavel stooped over the fire cooking
his freshly caught fish. He saw the muscle rippling across the young
man's back with each movement and he thought of his other son far away
in the city, and he became sad. Kavel had moved out of the family home
to live alone when he was only sixteen. He had shunned a life of work
on a principle that his father had never understand, choosing instead
to live in the realm of nature, fending for himself, finding his own
food and wanting for nothing. They hadn't heard from him until recently
when he returned from a life on the road and set up on the bank of the
river, bathing in the sunlight, sleeping on the same grassy bank with
just a ragged blanket, troubling no one. The villagers took to his
friendly spirit and often went to watch him as he frolicked in the
rapids, sometimes leaping from the water to clutch a nearby tree, other
times missing and plummeting down the water fall before climbing back
through it to bathe once more in the afternoon sun. Several of the
local women had taken a particular shine to him and often brought him
food that he politely declined. Perhaps he had returned in anticipation
of his brother's departure from the city: one prodigal son arriving
home to meet another, albeit self-professed, prodigal son, and both of
them faultless in their nature. A father can be proud, but that same
pride can make him blind. Petre trudged on to the field where his
work-mates were gathering. Perhaps in the evening he would stop at the
bank of the river after all.