Wren’s Wild Journey

The Whispering Reach

Along the banks of the Rio Grande, where the water runs deep, and the reeds sway like silent sentinels, there's a stretch of river few dare to linger near after dusk. South of the river, the locals call it "La Susurra." North of the river, it is known as "The Whispering Reach" or "The Whisper," and they say it's a place where the Earth remembers things best left forgotten. During the day, it's a sun-dappled ribbon of muddy brown. The air is alive with the chatter of birds and the slap of fish against the river's current. But when night falls, the river changes, its voice grows low and strange, and the air thickens with secrets.

Silas and I pitched our tent along the Texas bank of the river, where the flow hummed softly under the fading light of dusk. The Whispering Reach stretched out before us, its waters glinting like liquid obsidian as we unpacked our gear—ropes, a couple of pots, a sack of beans, a supply of venison jerky, and some dried beef sausage was a part of our chuck. I knelt by the fire, feeding it brittle twigs while my friend chopped onions and veggies with a pocket knife. The wonderful aroma was mingling with the earthy musk of the riverbank. Soon, the pot boiled with a rustic stew. It was warm and a defiant stand against the creeping chill of the night. We sat cross-legged on a blanket, our smoky meal in steel bowls, laughing over half-remembered stories. After we finished and cleaned up our mess, the night breeze shifted, bringing the sound of chanting that floated like ghosts across the water. The laughter periodically shrank in our throats and was replaced by the unsettling feeling of being surrounded by another realm occupied by unknown things, watching from the shadows beyond the fire's glow.

After dinner, we drank mugs of coffee around the campfire, and I felt the pull of the night calling me beyond the circle of light. Silas stayed in camp, and the crackle of burning mesquite disappeared as I faded into the night. I wandered away from the camp, drawn toward the dark ribbon of the Rio Grande. The wind sighed through some cottonwoods, a restless murmur that brushed against my ears, carrying with it the subtle chanting I'd sworn I'd heard earlier. This low, eerie hum seemed to rise from the Earth itself. I paused near the water's edge, the cool dampness of the riverbank surrounding my neoprene boots, and tilted my head to listen. The sound was faint, floating along on the breeze like a secret too quiet to grasp, yet it stirred something in me, a mix of unease and wonder, as if the night itself were alive, whispering to me.

Standing at the river's muddy bank, I looked up to see the stars that pricked the sky. At the same time, the moon cast a silver thread across the water, my boots sinking slightly into the Earth as the chanting swelled, a tide of sound that seemed to rise from the Rio Grande itself. The night breeze swirled around me, threatening to blow my hat right off my head. I could scarcely make out a strange, wordless sound; it was low and echoing. The sound was like voices trapped in a realm just off center of mine. It wasn't a song of welcome or warning but something that hummed with a purpose I couldn't fathom. My pulse was racing; it became a drumbeat echoing the river's ceaseless murmur.

I stepped closer to the water's edge, drawn by an urge I couldn't name. The chanting pulsed louder now, vibrating through the soles of my boots as though the ground itself were alive with it. I squinted into the dark, the moon's thin light fracturing on the river's surface, seeing fleeting shapes beneath the water darting like shadows of fish too large, too deliberate, to be natural. A ripple broke the stillness, then another, spreading outward in perfect circles that lapped at the shore with an almost reverent rhythm. I swear I saw shapes beneath its surface, flickers of movement that vanished as I stared too long.

"Who's there?" I called, my voice sharp against the night, but the words sank into the air, swallowed by the chanting. No answer came, only the sensation of unseen eyes pressing closer, tightening the circle around me. I spun around, searching the cottonwoods and the swaying reeds, but the shadows held their secrets fast. The air grew heavier and thicker, with the scent of wet Earth and something faintly sweet like flowers that had long decayed.

My hand drifted to the knife in my belt, a reflex born of wandering roads less traveled. But what good was steel against a sound, against a feeling? The chanting shifted, its tone dipping into a mournful cadence that tugged at my chest, stirring memories I didn't own, like flashes of torchlight on stone, hands raised to a starless sky, a river that ran red under an ignored moon. I shook my head, trying to clear the haze, but the visions clung to my mind like a sticky mist.

The water stirred; this time, something broke the surface. It was a glimpse of some pale, glistening flesh too smooth and long to be human. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving only ripples and a shiver racing my spine. The chanting reached a deafening volume, a chorus of the unseen. The wind began whipping the river into foamy waves. My heart was beating hard as I stumbled back, and the realization sank in: whatever surrounded me wasn't just watching; it was calling me.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the chanting ceased. The silence was a deafening void that swallowed the night whole. The breeze subsided, and the water settled. The stifling weight began to lift. I was again alone with the gurgle of the river, save a quiet, single sound, a faint, silvery whisper from the river's depths: "You've heard us. Now find us."

I stood there, the words echoing in my mind. The Rio Grande stretched before me, vast and unreadable, its secrets sinking back into the dark. I could turn back and flee to the safety of firelight and familiar trails or follow the whisper down the river into the night toward unknown forces that had chosen me for untold reasons.