The Stream

By A. R. Silverberry

A Devastating Storm, A Perilous World, A Boy on the Adventure of a Lifetime …

 

After a savage storm kills his parents, five-year-old Wend awakens to the strange world of the Stream. Dangers lurk at every turn: deadly rapids, ruthless pirates, a mysterious pavilion that lures him into intoxicating fantasies. And how will he survive the endless waterfall rumored to lie at the edge of the world. Defenseless, alone, with only courage and his will to survive, Wend begins his quest to become a man. Will tragic loss trap him in a shadow world, or will he enter the Stream, with all its passion and peril?

 

Part coming-of-age tale, part adventure, part spiritual journey, The Stream is a haunting fable of redemption and renewal.

Perfect for readers looking for tales like Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist or Yann Martel's Life of Pi.

Awards for The Stream

Shelf Unbound Notable Book in Literary Fiction
ForeWord Reviews Indie Fab Book Awards, Finalist, in Literary Fiction
Eric Hoffer Award Finalist, in General Fiction
USA Best Book Awards, Finalist, in Visionary Fiction
da Vinci Eye, Finalist

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tree Tunnel Press
• Release date: Apr 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9780984103713

Book preview

Prologue

Ipulled my old bones from the skiff, swearing for the thousandth time that I should’ve died long ago. Feeling the years most in my fingers, I tugged my mittens snug, secured the vessel with an awkward knot, and made for the campfire. Half a dozen shadows huddled near the flames, which threw flickering gold upon the surrounding rocks and stream.

I squatted by the fire, turning my hands to warm them, and then fished out the last of my flatbread from my rucksack. I broke off a piece and offered it to the man nearest me.

He surveyed me with steely eyes, which peered from the shadow of a low-pulled hat. I’ve got mine, he said, holding up duck still dripping on a spit.

Shrugging, I nibbled my bread—grateful that the fire kept the piercing cold of the night at bay—when a small movement near the rocks caught my eye.

The man beside me nodded toward the rocks, a jumble of stones and boulders that had slid down the hillside. She’s been lurking for days, refuses to come out.

Can you blame her? It’s hard to know who’s a friend. I smiled pleasantly.

His face was chiseled granite. Keep an eye out. Someone’s pinching supplies.

I’ll do that.

He reached into his longcoat and removed a flask. I noticed as he uncorked the bottle and took a swig that his fingers were smooth, almost delicate. My survival depends on knowing who sits across from me. I sized him up quickly, mindful that calluses are the price of an honest day’s work. He held the bottle out to me.

I shook my head. Swore off years ago. In truth, I’m certain one more drop would send me to my grave. A bit of that duck would keep me going.

He held the spitted duck up to the firelight, considering. What’ll you give in return?

Once, I could have crushed a man like this, large as he was, and taken what I wanted, even with that knife he thought was so cleverly hidden in his boot top. But the bulk of my muscles have withered. Now I rely on my wits, and taking is no longer my way.

I held my hands out, palms up, so he could see the frayed yarn and holes in my mittens. You see I have little.

He took another swig, and some of the granite seemed to melt from his face. He tore off a drumstick and waved the succulent meat in front of me.

I snatched it before he could change his mind. Bringing it to my lips, I inhaled the smoky aroma, all the while watching for that shadow among the rocks. What am I thinking? I forgot to leave an offering.

It’s your belly, he said with a sneer.

I rose and shambled to the rocks. I’ll just leave a bit, I called back to him. I pretended to put a morsel of meat on top of one of the rocks, and then played at gnawing on the leg. A short time later, I snapped my arm as if tossing the bone and risked a peek at my benefactor. Finding him engrossed in his bottle, I laid the uneaten drumstick on the rock, behind which a shape, like a small animal, cowered.

When I returned to the fire, I licked my fingers and thanked him. A minute later, a child’s hand—tiny and pale—reached up from the shelter of rocks and grabbed the meat.

Must be somefin you can give me, the man said. He must have been tilting that bottle before I arrived; his tongue was thickening with firewater. Whassin in the rucksack?

I showed him my bedroll, an empty food sack, and a simple drop line to fish with.

He grumbled, turned away, and like the others, bedded down for the night a short distance away. I stirred the fire, sending up a spray of sparks, and waited. When snoring greeted my ears, I took my bedroll back to where I’d left the meat and whispered into the shadows. I sleep just as well sitting, and the fire will keep me warm.

She didn’t reply. I didn’t expect her to. If I’d seen one, I’d seen a hundred like her. Glazed-eyed children left parentless by the flood that tore our world. Many were as mute as trees. Most died from starvation. Those who hadn’t, would. Soon.

I laid my bedroll on the rock, returned to the fire, and leaned against a broad stump. A short time later, her face appeared, a smudge of red in the flickering light. Then she was gone, taking the blanket with her.

---

I rose before dawn. A bird piped a few plaintive notes in the distance as I laid down a fresh log and fanned up flames. After warming my hands to ease the stiffness and pain, I took my rucksack, stepped around the still, cocooned campers, and headed for my skiff.

The stream shone liked polished lapis lazuli, the trees along the far shore framing the water with inky silhouettes. Leaving the skiff tethered to the stump, I climbed in and let the rope play out so that the boat drifted soundlessly. When the current had taken me midstream, I tied her fast to hold, and then removed my drop line from the rucksack. No one but bitter experience taught me that fish bite when the bugs come out. I pulled forth two trout in short order, using worms I’d stashed in a jar beneath the seat, and returned to the fire, where I broiled them on a stick above the flames.

When they were succulent and smoky, I stored one in my food bag. The other I took to the rocks where my frightened friend was hiding. Gray had begun to penetrate the shadows. Swaddled in my blanket, only a blond rat’s nest was visible, and from within the snarl of hair, wide blue eyes stared up at me. I divided the fish, placed half where she could see it, and leaned against the rock to eat the rest.

Get it while it’s hot, I whispered.

She was as still as a statue, so I retreated to consider my options. I needed something that would ease her fright. The sandy campsite held nothing of promise, but with luck, the woods beyond the rocks might provide what I needed. As I stepped into the trees, none of the campers stirred, a testament that more than one flask had circulated last night. I foraged at random and found an area where fire had scorched and cleared the older growth and a stand of birch had moved in. Sitting on a fallen birch, I began to peel the bark to fashion a box. Nothing intricate—I’m no longer nimble. Just two long pieces fastened together with two sticks punched through on both ends. I thought I’d make a small comb for her and was just completing the top of the box when I heard stirring in the ferns behind me. I stepped toward the sound and parted the fronds. Nestled in a tumble of grass and decaying leaves was the prize I needed. As gingerly as I could, I slipped it into the box and covered it.

Deep violet tinged the horizon when I returned to the rocks. She was sitting, clutching a stuffed rabbit—worn and gray with grime—her thumb planted in her mouth like a pink flower. She was no older than seven or eight.

She had folded the blanket and placed it where I’d left it for her. Keep it, I said, tapping the blanket. I pulled the box from my coat and extended it to her. Scratching came from within, weak, almost halfhearted. Can you take care of this for me?

Her eyes, big and guileless, grew larger. She hesitated, then reached for the box.

Careful, I said.

Holding it in her palm, she removed the lid. She gave a little gasp, and her mouth opened wide. She looked up at me and nodded.

Good, I said. That’s just fine. You watch it during the day, and I’ll watch it at night. Maybe you can bring it down to me at sundown.

She stared at me. Her eyelids were swollen, the whites red from crying.

I pointed back to camp. Well, if you can, stop by.

She looked fearfully where the narrow-eyed man slept.

Don’t worry about him. He’s as dumb as they come.

I hoped that would make her smile. It didn’t. Has he hurt you?

She shook her head.

Good. And he won’t. I’ll make sure of that.

She looked at my feeble form. If possible, her thumb plunged deeper into her mouth.

---

I honestly didn’t know how I was going to reach her, but in my years I knew that opportunities came. Sure enough, one did, from an unexpected source. The setting sunlight glittered on the stream like rubies. One of the men had trapped a boar and was roasting it over the fire, which crackled and sputtered from the dripping juices. It would be hours before the meat was done.

While the others chattered idly nearby, the man with the flask had his hat pulled down, and I could see his sullen, narrow eyes, staring at me. You still owe me for that duck, he said.

I was glad I had already divided and shared my second fish with the girl. You’ve seen I have nothing.

He pulled on his mustache, a black slash in the shadows. Then entertain me, old man.

Yeah, called another. Give us a story, Grandpa. I bet you got some yarns.

I gazed past the fire at the stream flowing beyond and saw my chance. Perhaps I have something to tell.

What’s it about? asked one of the others.

I could have given many answers. A perilous world. The strength of a man. The unbreakable love of the woman beside him.

I cast my voice so that it would reach the rocks. The courage of a small boy.

I thought maybe I could lure her as I got going, but to my surprise, I saw her clamber out of hiding and walk toward us. My blanket was rolled under one arm. She clutched the rabbit to one cheek, thumb deep in her mouth. I thought she would stop at the perimeter of firelight, but she marched straight on and sat at my feet, gazing up at me.

Well, looky here, said the narrow-eyed man. Our thief, boys. Let’s search her.

I’ve been wondering what happened to my gloves, said another.

What would a tiny thing like this do with your gloves? I asked. And where’s she hiding them, in her bunny?

The man shrank from the laughter of his buddies.

I still say it’s her, said the narrow-eyed man.

I smiled, pleasantly. I’ve shown you what’s in my rucksack. It’s only fair that everyone show us what’s in theirs.

Leave off, Cleef, someone called. Let’s hear the story.

Cleef’s eyes shrank to slits.

You could check where she’s been hiding, I said.

He stalked to the rocks. While he was nosing around, the girl lifted her blanket enough for me to see the box I’d given her. Faint scratching came from within.

Cleef returned with a scowl. Get on with your story, old man.

The girl gazed up at me. This was no bedtime story, but I hoped it would be medicine. For her and for me.

I began, Wend’s world was a watery snake.

Chapter One

The Storm

From atop the bosun’s chair, Wend watched as the current twisted and rolled, setting the sloop to pitch and tug at the mooring lines. He glanced at the horizon. Dark clouds reared above the trees like an angry god.

His father circled the deck below, securing lines. Stow your toys, he called to Wend.

Wend was already moving, scrambling down the mast and snatching up toys every five-year-old had: a boat; a fishing rod; a few fish; a mother, father, and children, carved from wood. He carried them down the steps and into the cabin, where he tossed them into a basket, closed the lid, and tied it securely. Returning topside, he looked around the boat. His mother was grabbing fish from the drying rack and throwing them into a burlap sack. His father grasped the anchor rope. He wore a vest, open at the chest, with no shirt beneath, and his arm muscles bulged as he brought up the anchor.

Wend, lend a hand here, said his father.

Wend scurried over and pitched in. He doubted he was adding much, but it made him feel big to be heaving beside his father.

Where are we taking her? asked his father when they’d weighed anchor.

The sloop was in the middle of the river, which was about a quarter mile wide. Wend scanned the nearer shore for safe harbor and spied a willow with a majestic trunk leaning toward the water. He pointed to the tree. Tie her there, nose in.

Good man. His father ruffled Wend’s hair, which fell in wandering streams to his neck.

Fat drops began smacking the deck. A crosscurrent jarred the boat, turning it forty degrees, and Wend stumbled. Is it a bad one? he asked.

His father grinned. What does a man do?

The question was part of a game they played. Ride it for all it’s worth, Wend replied.

His father waved an arm toward the stream. It’s all a wild ride, Wend. Let’s pull the beard of this storm and laugh in its face! As if to show he meant it, his booming laughter drowned out the wind, now whistling and howling about the boat.

I’ll get the paddles, said Wend.

No, help your mother.

But you said—

Do you see those rollers? His father pointed at the waves barreling down on them. One of those might sweep you overboard. What does a man do?

Protect his family.

What kind of man would I be if I let you go overboard?

But I want to be with you.

Jibe-ho, Wend.

Yes, sir.

For sailors, jibe-ho meant it was time to change direction away from resistance. Wend turned to look for his mother. She wasn’t topside. He leaned against the wind as he stepped to the cabin. At the entrance, he turned to look at the stream. Rain pocked the surface. The water seemed to have risen, threatening to invade the forest that marched down on both shores. Above, roiling clouds blocked the sun. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The worst was coming.

He found his mother in the cabin, loading a wicker basket with pots, pans, plates, and utensils.

Finish picking up here, she said.

But I want to help you and Dad.

Do as you’re told. Debate was over when she used that voice.

Is it a bad one?

His mother stared at him. Her hair was pulled back into a knot. Wind penetrating the cabin blew strands that had come loose. We’ll get through it.

Her eyes told him the truth. She squatted before him, her gaze wandering over him from head to foot. Let me look at you. I want to make sure no one switched my son.

This was the game his mother played, even now, with the wind roaring, and the boat pitching and yawing, and fear he had never seen before in those gray eyes.

Let’s see, she said. Hair the color of wet earth. She ran her fingers through his hair and it flopped back in disarray. She picked up one of his arms. Sun-brown skin. Streaks of dirt running up and down your legs. But what about those eyes? She leaned forward, scrutinizing. Flecks of sky, earth, and trees. That would be my Wend. She hugged him tighter than she ever had before. Rising, she wagged a finger at him.