A Poor Bloke Rescues a Drowning Girl

13October

Ive just finished sorting my modest evening catch and slipped the basket of fish into my battered wicker basket, then set off down the narrow footpath toward the little tin shed I call home. The moment I was about to turn the last stone, something struck me like a bolt of lightning. It wasnt a trick of the mind. From the mist hanging over the River Avon, thick and impenetrable, I heard again that same sounda terrified, almost animallike wail that crawled up my spine and set my hair on end. A woman was crying out. The wind howled through the ancient oaks, shredding her voice, but the pleading in her words cut through the gale like a knife. She wasnt merely asking for help; she was begging, pouring the last of her soul into that scream. Beside her, someone else thrashed, splashing panicked bursts of water onto the bank.

Without a second thought I flung the basket aside; a handful of silverscaled minnows scattered onto the wet sand. Stripping off my heavy work coat and sodden trousers, I was left in a threadbare shirt and rushed into the black, chilling water. The wind, like a angry beast, raised the waves, slapping foam across my face.

The swim was brutal. The current, usually lazy, was treacherous today, grasping at my legs with icy fingers. Near the deepest, darkest stretch of the river, the girl was flailing desperately. Her dark hair floated like seaweed, sometimes rising on the crest of a wave, then disappearing beneath the black depths that seemed ready to swallow her whole. The young man she had been pleading withperhaps a fisherman she barely knewhad already reached the opposite bank. He didnt look back; his movements were sharp, frightened. He grabbed a small inflatable dinghy, scanned the banks with an animals wary eye, and fled along the forest edge, disappearing into the trees as if they might rescue him.

She no longer screamed. She was no longer breaking the surface. When I, exhausted, reached the spot where the water still rippled in slow, ominous circles, my heart sank to my boots. I drew a deep breath, plunged into the icy gloom, felt for the slick fabric of my coat, and wrapped my arm around the limpstillwarmbody that lay against my back. Using my other arm as a makeshift oar, I kicked furiously, each stroke burning my muscles, each gasp a ragged whine. Yet I kept rowing, clinging to life and the fragile life in my arms.

When I hauled her onto the bank, my own fatigue vanished beneath a surge of urgency. My handsused to hard labourworked fast and sure: turning her on her side, applying pressure, performing mouthtomouth. Muddy river water burst from her lungs and she coughed a ragged, hoarse sound. Her breathing, weak but steady, began again. I needed to warm her quickly. I gathered the dying embers from an old campfire, built a makeshift platform of flat river stones, and piled a thick layer of pine boughs for insulation. I lay her gently on the improvised stretcher, covered her with my only remaining garmentmy sootstained coat. I gathered her scattered belongings, slipped her wet clothes over her shivering frame, and settled by the rekindled fire, extending my cold, trembling hands toward the flames.

The heat seeped in slowly, as if reluctant to penetrate the frozen flesh. She lay motionless; only a faint vapor from her breathing marked her presence. The cold water and the shock had done their work, but I knew she would come round in time. I felt that certainty as surely as I felt the rivers bends beneath my boots.

I lifted my eyes to the sky, a blanket of low, heavy clouds. Not even the moon could pierce the leaden veil. The world felt empty, desolate.

My thoughts drifted back to that ordinary summer day when my wife Liza and our little son Arthur set out for a fishing trip, as we did almost every year. Leaving my wife and baby to sort the gear in the tent, I pushed off from the bank in our old but trusty rowing boat.

Warm up with a cuppa, Ill be back with a decent catch, and well have the best fish soup in the world! I called cheerfully to Liza, my face breaking into a carefree grin.

Just be careful, Victor, the weathers turning, Liza warned, eyes scanning the gathering clouds.

Dont worry, I know every stone in this river! Ive got this! I shouted back, oars cutting the glassy water.

I reached my favourite spot, cast my line, and settled into the familiar, patient waiting. Suddenly, the sky went black as night. A fierce wind bent the trees to the ground, and a wall of water slammed down from the heavens. The boat spun, tossed me to the side, and with a deafening snap the hull caught on a submerged log like a hidden dagger. Air rushed out with a nasty hiss, and in an instant the boat turned into a limp sack of canvas.

I tried to swim, but a sudden, searing cramp in my leg from the icy water crippled me. The rivers fury was unmatched. The current slammed me against something hard, and darkness claimed me. I awoke three days later on a hard, strawfilled mattress in a strange cottage, the smell of smoke and herbs thick in the air. Rising gave me dizziness and nausea. At the door shuffled an ancient man, his face a map of wrinkles.

Got awake, have you? he muttered, placing a steaming bowl of broth on a low stool. Drink this herbal tea; itll stop the bleeding. Have some porridge, or youll waste away.

Where am I? I croaked, the name of a remote county hitting me like a hammerhundreds of miles from home.

Youve been lucky, lad, the old man said after a pause. A band of hunters dragged me here barely alive. Thought youd be dead too.

I tried to sit up again, but the man waved a withered finger at me.

Stay down, dont be a hero. Youve lost too much blood; moving now will only kill you. Rest and heal.

What about my family? My wife, my son theyll think Im dead! desperation edged my voice. I imagined Lizas anguish and felt my heart tighten into a painful knot.

What news? This isnt a post office town, he sneered. Just forest, wolves howling, bears roaring. No one comes here but the occasional hunter with a few gifts.

How do you survive? I asked, genuinely curious.

We eat herbs, mushrooms, nuts, berries. Stock up for winter. Hunters drop by now and then with a few supplies. Been here twenty years. He sighed heavily, crawled back onto his mattress, and fell asleep.

I drifted off, watching the dim firelight flicker on the wall. Shadows danced, forming vague shapes of Liza and Arthur. A sharp ache of longing pressed on my chest, and the wind outside howled like a mournful banshee.

Days passed, each one a carbon copy of the last, like knots on a rope. Every tiny movementturning, sitting, lifting a spoonfelt like a triumph.

At last I could stand, though with a cane. When I first stepped out of the cottage, the world was a blinding white, a fresh blanket of snow covering everything.

How do I get out of here? I asked the old man, trying not to sound hopeless.

Theres no way. You cant walk yet, and the road is a days trek, maybe more. All the paths are buried. Youll have to wait till spring. If you recover, Ill show you the way.

What about the hunters? Can they help?

In winter theyre out hunting elsewhere. They come in spring and autumn. Maybe someone will take pity, but the places are almost impassable. He shook his head, tossed another log onto the fire.

I jolted awake from the memory, heart pounding with that familiar ache. I stoked the fire with dry twigs, rose, and approached the girl. Her breathing grew deeper, steadier, though consciousness still lagged. I adjusted her coat and returned to the flames, letting the past pull me into its relentless whirl once more.

The old man, silent as ever, began to help once I could move around the cottage: clearing snow from the doorway, hauling firewood, tending the stove. The porridge made from strange roots no longer disgusted mehunger and survival are stronger than revulsion. The tea he brewed from summergathered herbs reminded me of Lizas habit of adding mint and thyme; the memory was both sweet and bitter, like a wound that never fully heals.

Winter seemed endless, time frozen in a icy trap. Spring finally arrived, the snow melting reluctantly, inch by inch. Two more months of that stubborn battle passed, and when my legs regained some strength, the old man collapsed.

I wont be able to guide you as we promised, he rasped, lying on his mattress. Im too weak now. I helped you up; now I must look after myself.

How will you manage alone? Ill go to the town, the hospital

No doctors there would fix you, he waved a feeble hand. Weve patched our own gangrene with herbs. Go on. Ill pull through.

He gave me directions, and I thanked him from the bottom of my heart before setting off. The road that had seemed straight in my mind soon turned into a chaotic maze. I walked until darkness fell, never finding a clear path. I spent the night beneath pine boughs, waking to a faint rustle behind me. Turning, I saw a few glowing green eyeswolves. I scrambled up the nearest tall oak and clung there until dawn, the pack eventually retreating. Descending felt like a death sentence.

Morning found me crawling again, hope all but gone. Days merged into weeks. Encounters with a wild boar, a lynx perched on a branch, became routine. Nights in trees were a harsh necessity. I survived on last years berries, roots, sipped from forest streams, slept in brief intervals, always listening for any sound. I refused to give up; I had to reach my family, alive.

Two weeks of wandering through the relentless, unforgiving dales left me disoriented. Then, among the trees, I spotted a dark rectanglea derelict cottage. I dragged myself inside, barely conscious, and relief hit me like a wave. It was an old hunting bothy, its rusted door barely moving. Inside lay dust, dry pine needles, and a thin straw mattress. A single, grimy window let in a shaft of light. On the table sat a sack of salt, a box of matches, a halffilled sack of grain, and a tin mug.

I gathered firewood, found a small clearing, and lit a fire. I boiled water from a nearby stream in a tin can, steeped dried leaves of blackcurrant and mint Id found in the cottage. The first sip of that hot, fragrant drink made me feel almost happy. I locked the door, barricaded it with a branch, and curled into the dry straw bedding.

Sleep claimed me like a knockout punch, the first in months. A bears roar woke me later, close enough to chill my bones, but the sturdy larch walls gave me a flicker of safety.

What to do next? Roaming an unknown forest felt suicidal. The cottage offered shelter, some food, a modicum of safety. I decided to stay, to wait out the worst. I learned to make fire with a flint, dried mushrooms and berries on the stove, collected medicinal herbs, recalling the old healers lessons.

A month passed, perhaps more. One crisp dawn, distant gunshots and barking dogs pierced the silence. I bolted from the bothy in my thin shirt, shouting, stumbling over roots.

Someone answered. After what felt like an eternity, voices and snapping twigs grew nearer. Four hunters, by chance, had entered this part of the forest. They led me back to civilisation. I trudged over a days worth of rides in hitchhiked cars, barely sleeping, fists clenched with nervous energy, until finally I stood before the familiar door of the flat I once shared with Liza and Arthur. My heart hammered, ready to burst. I knocked.

A man in a stretchedout homeshirt opened the door.

The flats been empty for three months, he said. The previous tenants left after the husband drowned.

The word drowned hit me like a verdict, a heavy iron hammer. So Liza thinks Im dead I thought.

Where to go? What now? My world swirled. I drifted, aimless, until I found myself at the local police station. Stammering, I told the officer my story. They took my statement, waved their hands, and said theyd look into it.

Please, I need to find my family! They think Im gone! I pleaded.

They asked for details: Lizas full name, Arthurs, friends, relatives. They promised to help.

I went back to the warehouse where Id worked as a stock clerk before the tragedy. The gates were locked, a new corporate logo hung above the door.

Theyve moved, the caretaker muttered while sweeping. To a new address. I dont know where.

The city felt foreign, indifferent. My last hope lay with an old school friend, Stephen. I hurried to his house. His exwife, Natalie, opened the door, her face hard.

Were divorced. Hes moved to another town. Ive heard nothing about Liza. She shrugged.

A few other acquaintances were scattered: one stayed with his motherinlaw, another was on a sixmonth work posting. No one could offer shelter.

Liza had no close friends; shed been a solitary knitter, selling gorgeous sweaters and hats from home. I never knew her customers.

Each visit to the police yielded the same response, like a scratched record: Were still searching. No results yet.

A temporary ID arrived after a month, and I started hunting for any job. By the old bridge, as Id done for years, men in workwear gathered, waiting for a lift. I joined the line.

Soon a battered van screeched to a halt. A head popped out from the window, wearing a flat cap:

Builders needed? Got three lads! He shouted, and a handful of men raced to the van, climbed in, and the engine roared away.

The next truck offered work with board and lodging. I eyed my potential partneranother weatherbeaten manand signed on. We drove for hours to a derelict industrial site, a hulking, halfcollapsed warehouse reeking of chemicals, cheap spirits, and mildew.

The job was simple yet grim: pour a foulsmelling oil from drums into bottles, screw on caps, stick counterfeit labels, and pack crates. We slept on the same crates. Food came once a weekbread, pasta, canned stew. Every few days fresh barrels arrived and the finished product was taken away.

A month passed, but wages were a whisper. When I asked about pay, the foreman sneered, First you work for food and a roof, then well talk. They confiscated my passport for administrative reasons and refused to return it. An attempt to leave one night met two burly guards who made it clear that walking away without documents was a terrible idea.

Time dragged on. One and a half years in that oppressive captivity, fear gnawing at my soul, left me with only one desire: to break free. I did. With a few hundred pounds Id scraped together from extra shifts, I fled.

When I finally returned to the police with a complaint of unlawful detention and extortion, they took half a year to process it. When a new passport finally arrived, the officer dryly remarked, Next time think twice before filing such a tangled report. You could end up in prison for false accusations.

I knocked on old friends doors, hoping for a wash or a spare coat. All politely declined. Doors shut one after another.

Despair became my constant companion. I drifted to a nearby village, offering any manual labourdigging gardens, fixing fences, chopping woodin exchange for a hot meal, a bath, or a set of trousers.

Some people turned me away, slamming doors. Others showed kindness. A retired pensioner fed me soup, let me bathe in her sauna, and handed me sturdy trousers and a coat. Another villager, seeing my diligence, paid me a few pounds. Slowly, I collected a few sets of clothes and a modest sum. I placed a notice on the local radio asking for my family, but the broadcast fell silent, no calls returned.

At last, having exhausted all urban hopes, I made a decision. I returned to the forest, to the very bank where the tragedy had begun. There, I found an old, rusted railway wagon left by some longgone geologists. I repaired it, sealed the gaps, and built a simple stove. Thus began my new, solitary life, one I eventually learned to accept.

Years later, another cry for help rose from the rivers black water.

I dove in, rescued a drowning girl, brought her back to consciousness, and hurried to her side. She opened her eyes, bewildered but alive. I exhaled a sigh of relief and glanced across the bank where lanterns flickered and voices murmured.

It must be you, I whispered, voice trembling with unexpected excitement. Help me gather twigs for a signal fire.

Together we piled dry firewood near the rivers edge and I lit it with a spark from my own fire. The flames leapt high, lighting the nights surface. Soon a rubber rescue boat glided toward us, and aboardAs the rescue crew hoisted the girl onto the boat, I turned back to the river, feeling the weight of my trials finally lift, and whispered a silent promise never to forget the waters unforgiving grace.