The sullen brown river God wends his way past the window. Alfie watches his passage. He knows the moods and the many faces of the river God. He does not know his name.
Sometimes he passes the time by dwelling on the possible names of the river God. These come to him in some strange, unintelligible language, in sounds and cadences that have no dimension in human speech. This is the language of the river God. Alfie cannot speak these words, but then he cannot speak any other words now either. Alfie and the river God commune, they understand each other – two intractable and quirky old beings, both set on a path they cannot control, gurgling their way through the gullies of their respective constraints. Alfie feels they have known each other long enough to be friends.
The river God is, of course, a being of some wetness, it is his nature to be wet, ancient and wet. Alfie, too, is now ancient and wet. He would much rather not be but he has as little choice in the matter as the river God. This used to bother him, it bothered him a lot, but lately it does not really seem to matter much. He feels now somehow removed from the processes of the daily ablutions that are his care, the river God taught him this detachment. In the beginning the hands of strangers and the humiliations of their touch brought tears that he could not staunch. To sink so low. In those early days it was the river God that helped him through. When they came to wash him he would turn his head to the window and keep his gaze fixed firmly on the face of the river God. And the river God understood and spoke to Alfie. With gentleness and compassion he spoke of time and dignity and Alfie no longer felt ashamed of his tears. They spoke of many things, of love and memories and regrets, hopes and laughter, but never death, no, they never spoke of death.The river God being so eternal had no need to and Alfie being so afraid had no wish to.
Seasons changed and Alfie and the river God changed too. In Spring Alfie watched the river God laugh and sparkle and flirt with the dappling sunlight. In Summer his deific friend ran full and deep and took the caress of the willows, rich and dark and potent. In Autumn his moods became fickle and transient. Traces of the old, languorous summer self were still there but days would pass when he would rush and tilt at anything in his path, practicing for the torrents of Winter. Alfie changed with him, although no-one ever knew or noticed. In Spring Alfie’s mood would lift and he would feel optimistic, although why and to what possible end he did not know. In Summer he relived the memories of youth and on days when he was placed outside he relished the sunshine on his face and the breeze in what was left of his hair. One these days he was so close to the river God he could almost reach out and touch him. On these days it felt to Alfie as if they were two handsome young comrades in their prime about to go off on the razzle together, dashing and carefree.
When days shortened and leaves fell a faint unease came over Alfie, the lengthening darkness cast a shadow across the previously unruffled surface of his mind. With the coming of Winter deep things welled up in him and when the river God crashed angry and dark something was tossed to the surface that Alfie could not ignore. He watched helpless as the inevitable lessons of his own mortality floated by. He would rather they did not but there was no escaping them. This was the difference between Alfie and his elemental friend. One would go on for ever, the other would not. Alfie knew which one was which.
In the end it was not time that killed Alfie. Kind faces came, an unknown man in a dark suit, and matron. Lots of kind words, designed to soothe. Kind, lethal words that did the job more effectively than time or frailty could ever have done. Alfie did not care what they said, he was not leaving his friend. They could move his body where they liked – they could wash it, scrub it, sanitise it and scrutinise it wherever and whenever they wished, he was not going with it.
On the night before the move Alfie planned – calmly and efficiently, he planned. In the morning he woke with the sun and lay for a moment in a thrall of anticipation, adjusting himself to the new feel of his body. He hardly dared look in case of disappointment. With his eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling he tried some small movements and an exultant thrill passed through him at the exquisite responsiveness of his extremities. Fingers and toes moved. Now for greater things. The tautness of calf muscles, the firmness of thighs, the robust rise and fall of the rhythm of his lungs. He lay for a moment composing himself in this new state of being. Dare he look? He feared with all his heart to see his frail old limbs and to know he was dreaming and a prisoner still. But he knew he could not wait too long. In a wonder of ease and light grace he raised his torso from the pillow and surveyed this miracle. He stroked the lithe, white limbs and wondered at their smooth reality. He felt the gloss of dark hair on pale skin and the hardness of muscle. He felt the beauty of his nakedness and the absoluteness of his being.
He gazed in awe, he simply could not help himself. The sound of voices brought him to a sudden start. There was no time now to accustom himself to long-forgotten movement. No time now to consider the possibilities or niceties of clothes. Butt-naked, leaving the world as he came, Alfie rose from the bed in which he had lain for so long and flew to the French windows. Flinging them open he sprinted across the short stretch of lawn. He felt the dew beneath his feet but did not see that he left no footprints. Reaching the point where ground gave way to air he flew in the remembered arc of his youth up and then down into the beckoning water. As the darkness closed over his head he wondered fleetingly if he had done the right thing but his doubts were washed away as his head broke the surface. Gasping in the sweetest air he laughed out loud, his joy mingling with the bubbling surge as he struck out vigorously into the flow.