Wanderlust

The river wandered along, flowing from somewhere far within the mountains overlooking our small village, Eastly-by-the-Sea, farther away than anyone I knew had ever been. Each day, I walked along it, down to the sandy banks where it emptied into the great sea, the morning sun shining down and glinting across the water, sending sparkles into the horizon as far as the eye could see. Dolphins swam there, gray fins visible above the waves, and jellyfish washed up upon the banks, their translucent forms bearing witness to mysterious depths no one had ever seen.

Before he left, Tony and I would sit out on the pier that went past the shore, hanging our legs down into the water and talking. Most days we talked about the weather, or our neighbors, or any jokes that happened to occur to us, but the day before he left, he had been so serious.

“Don’t you think it’s quite poetic, that it reaches forwards forever, and backwards forever, and no one knows where it goes,” he said. In response, I had just splashed my feet in the water and laughed at him being so quiet when he was usually so loud and boisterous.

“What’s ‘it’,” I said, leaning my shoulder into his shoulder, gently pushing him.

“The sea,” he smiled broadly at me, and then looked behind himself and gestured towards the river, “it goes backwards as a river, and forwards as an ocean, and I don’t know anybody who has seen either end of it.”

We had just continued our conversation as usual, making jokes and watching the small fish, and when noon came, the sun hanging high in the sky and threatening to burn us, we retreated home and said our goodbyes for the day. I swept the house and the front stoop, tended to the chickens in the back, and made the soup for dinner, and by the time I was done, father was home, and it was time to eat.

I never saw Tony again.

When I asked his mother where he went, she simply rolled her eyes and briskly said, “he left on some ship at the harbor, no goodbye, not a care in the world!” She threw the dough she had been kneading at the counter and flour puffed up towards the ceiling. The morning sunlight outlined every grain of flower in the air, giving the warm kitchen a sense of dustiness. Soon it would smell of warm bread, ready to be dipped in warm olive oil with thyme and rosemary. Tony’s mother was back to kneading on the counter. I frowned. It seemed Tony wasn’t the only one without a care in the world. My mother would have gone to kingdom come to bring me back if I had left on some ship!

I left Tony’s house that morning with a new feeling in the pit of my stomach and another in the back of my mind. My mother explained the first one to me as I lay on my bed that night, my face in my pillow as I cried. Softly running her hands through my hair, she gave me a name for the feeling.

“Loss,” she said, “your heart is broken, and it doesn’t only happen when someone is dead, it can happen when they leave.” She stayed with me until late in the night, her soft voice saying words I can no longer remember, but I do remember how much she loved me. I wished Tony were my brother that night, for if he had my mother as his mother, he would have never left me.

I didn’t understand for two years after that, but the day I understood the second feeling I felt that day, I knew why Tony had left. There was never a name I could give that feeling, but it made me feel at once that I was flying, soaring above the clouds, Icarus before he fell. Yet still, the triumphant rush was accompanied by a desperate longing, a feeling of emptiness, as though I was missing something that was out there, somewhere in the world.

Two years, almost to the day, I packed my bags quietly, as the moonlight shone in from my unshuttered window. In the back of my mind, the unnamed feeling had been growing greater and greater, and I finally knew why Tony left, and why I had to leave too. Stars twinkled outside, and the moon almost seemed to beckon me on. It was a warm July night, and clear. The rains wouldn’t come until late September, and then it wouldn’t be cold until nearly November. Tony had always wanted to know what lay beyond the sea, and along the river, all the way to the end. Perhaps he knew what lay beyond the sea now, and so I would seek the source of the river.

I slunk down cobblestone streets although I was sure I would not see any neighbors. The moon told me it must be around two in the morning. No one would be awake. Reaching the edge of town, I walked until the cobble-paved road turned to dirt and tall brick houses turned to sheep fields and wooden cabins. Above me, maybe 10, 15 miles away stood the mountains, their dark, looming shapes covered in pine trees and clouds. I had never been past the sheep fields, where the dirt road thinned to a small path following the river.

Now, I continued, my small bag slung across my shoulder, and the twisting river rushing by on the side of me. The sun was beginning to rise behind me over the water, illuminating my path forwards. As I walked, the mountains looked bigger and bigger, and I could feel my stomach turning inside me. What was waiting on the other side of that ridge? Would the source be at the top, hidden away, or did the water merely go over the mountains, falling away forever on the other side?

A robin’s soft chirping took me out of my thoughts, reminding me of the beautiful morning I was walking into. The river quietly flowed beside me, its soft rushing accompanying the birdsong, and the sun was still not yet hot. The warm summer forest was before me, inviting and calm, so I walked into the trees. Underfoot, the path soon all but disappeared, and I found myself walking along the sunlight dappled grass on the bank of the river. Luckily, the river stayed strong, flowing beside me, and I followed it farther into the woods.

Birdsong hung in the air here, and there were lilac and honeysuckle bushes filling the breeze with their scent. Slowly, by midday along my walk, the forest began to get a bit thicker, but the river was still strong. It was no longer rushing, but instead a steady, strong stream with undercurrents that carried fallen green leaves and small sticks along its top. Setting my pack down, I took off my shoes, and stepped, barefoot, into the river. It was shallow along the edge, and cold although it was midsummer. The chilly water brought back memories of Tony and I sitting on the edge of the sea, eating our breakfast, and talking. I opened my pack and took out of one of the loaves of bread I had along. Perhaps I had been foolhardy when leaving, but I knew there was a town at least in the mountains, and one beyond, wherever that was, and surely I could get more supplies there. For now, I think I had enough food for three or four days.

A small squirrel came almost within five feet of my seat on the riverbank and tilted his head at me, almost as though asking, “what are you doing here? You don’t belong.” I smiled at him, and almost feeling he desired an explanation for my intrusive presence, began to tell him my tale.

“You see, I really want to find my way to the end of the river. Tony always wondered what was there. Now that he’s probably seen the end of the sea, it’s my turn. And I’ll find the end of the river.” I punctuated my tale with a self-satisfied sigh and leaned back on the bank. The squirrel had not run away, but instead listened to the entire monologue. Now, presuming I had finished, he scampered away from the river, off into the sunny summer woods. I took that as my cue to move on, and packed up my bags, beginning my walk again.

I spent an uneventful night in the woods, thankfully, and reached the base of the mountains the next midmorning. Trying to explain my feelings when I reached the mountains is nearly impossible, but my heart practically jumped into my mouth. The water had been slowly increasing in speed throughout the forest, and the terrain had become rockier and slower going. Now the reason was clear. Crashing down from above, the water tumbled and fell into a large pool, and then continued down into the great river I knew from home. The morning sun behind me reflected off the droplet that hung in the air, reminding me of the flour in the air at Tony’s house. Yet unlike the flour, the water sent rainbows of colors all around the rocks and trees. It felt as though I had left the earth and stepped into another world. I must have spent two hours there, staring at the great waterfall, feeling as though I had discovered the most glorious sight on earth.

Eventually, I continued forward, up the rocks. There was a small, steep path carved into the rock, and once I reached the top of the waterfall, I found another pool, where the water flowed into and cascaded from. There was a small wooden bridge over the pool, worn by many years, but there were many carvings on it. One large one was directly on the railing, with an arrow pointing in the direction I was going: “To Westham – 7 Miles”. I traced my fingers on the rough carving, hoping it was accurate, and crossed the bridge.

To tell you all of the sights and sounds, the animals, and the plants I saw on my journey to Westham would take dozens of pages, and it would still not be enough, so if you wish to understand my joy when I think of my journey, you would have to travel yourself, beginning in Eastly-by-the-Sea, along the river, across the little bridge to Westham.

In the end, I arrived at Westham, and took a room at the inn. By luck, I began a friendship with the innkeeper’s daughter, and after a week there had a job. Yet, this was not what I was looking for. Back at Eastly-by-the-Sea I could have poured drinks and made beds, and I expressed this to Evelyn, the innkeeper’s daughter. So, the next morning, we arose early, and she took me out of town, out onto the rocks over the river behind the waterwheel, and we sat and watched the sun rise.

From high up in those mountains, watching the sun come up over the sea and slowly climb into the sky, throwing shades of yellow, orange, and pink across the forests and valleys below us, I felt myself begin to cry as the old familiar feeling came over me once again. Evelyn took my hand in hers, and I turned to look at her.

“You feel it too, don’t you,” she said to me.

“What is it?” I asked as tears clouded my eyes, and all I could see was her long brown hair and shining blue eyes.

“At the church, the old monk has a name for it,” she turned back to the sunrise, and so did I. “He calls it wanderlust.”

I sat silently, turning the word over in my head. This was the name for what I had felt, and what Tony had felt two years ago. To long to wander. To need to experience, to journey, to explore. Wanderlust. I found myself speaking without thinking as I held her hand in mine.

“Come with me, Eve. Wander with me.”

She squeezed my hand tight, and I knew she was smiling from the joy in her voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”