Wren’s Wild Journey

Lost Time

I felt a sharp prick against my arm, like the sting of a thorn I didn't see. I flinched, brushing at my sleeve, but found nothing there, no brier or insect to blame. A strange warmth blooms from the spot, spreading through my veins like ink through water. My legs tremble, unsteady beneath me, and the world tilts. As I catch myself, I crumble into the sand, the grains cool and gritty against my palms. My breath comes too fast, and the chanting swells louder now, pounding in time with my racing pulse.

The riverbank blurred, and visions flooded my mind. Hallucinations were vivid, like dreams, but heavy with the weight of truth. I see times and people long gone, their faces flickering like reflections in the Rio Grande's restless flow. There's a woman in a woven shawl, her eyes dark and endless, singing to the water as she casts something into its depths, a bundle of herbs, a stone, a promise. Then, a sun-worn and weary man driving cattle across a ford that no longer exists, his voice lost to the wind. Children dance in a circle, their laughter threading through the chant, their feet kicking up dust that turns to stars. These aren't my memories, yet they feel like mine, stitched into my soul by the river's strange magic.

The sand presses against my cheek, my body sinking as the visions pull me deeper. The chanting is everywhere, inside and around me, a chorus of voices from a past I never knew. The unknown forces tighten their grip, and I wonder if they've claimed me if I'll become another whisper carried on the night breeze, another shadow beneath the water.

After what seemed like hours, I could push myself up from the sand. I stumbled back to the river's edge and stood rooted to the bank, the damp Earth sucking at my boots again as the chanting swelled on the night breeze. There was a pulse, a heartbeat threading through the air, the water, and the ground beneath me. The Rio Grande glistened under the moon, its surface a mirror for the sky, but now I saw more than stars reflected there. The flickers I'd glimpsed earlier now sharpened, and fleeting visions were rippling across the water like a dream breaking through my sleep.

First came a shadow, a silhouette of a figure cloaked in reeds, standing impossibly atop the river as though weightless. The shadow's head was bowed, and from it poured the chanting, a low, resonant hum that vibrated in my chest. The figure didn't move, yet it drifted closer, the water parting silently around it. Then, as swiftly as it appeared, it dissolved into the current, leaving only a ripple that spread outward, lapping at my feet.

The breeze kicked up, slightly warm and restless, and with it came another vision. This time, the water shimmered with a procession of dozens of shapes, vague and wavering, moving beneath the surface. They were human-like but not human; their forms stretched and fluid as though carved from the river. Their mouths opened and closed in unison, and though no sound escaped the depths, I knew their voices were weaving the chant that filled the night. Their eyes—too many, too bright— glinted up through the murky flow, locking onto me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

The feeling of being surrounded closed in on us, like a noose of unseen presence. I stumbled backward, almost falling. My heart was pounding, but the vision didn't fade; it intensified. A tree with gnarled branches on my left resembled the shape of a hand, reaching toward me as if wanting to touch my flesh. The reeds were undulating on my right, and the tips glowed faintly. The chanting was persistent, like a hypnotic rhythm calling to me like a siren from the sea.

There was a faint voice, so small that I could barely discern its sound beneath the din crashing around in my skull. "See us, it hissed, and be seen by us." The water swelled, and a sudden wave that shouldn't have been there rose a face from its crest. It was pale and eyeless. It hovered there, inches from my face, dripping river water that smelled of silt and Earth before slipping back into the river's depths.

My hands were trembling as I clutched my hat, and I crumpled the brim in my grip. The eerie chanting continued, and so did the visions. They throbbed with a sharp, fractured light of impossible colors, each more vivid than the last. An eerie mist was carrying a child's laughter darting between trees. A shadow encompassed the moon, its surface like obsidian. Through it all, I sensed that they weren't just watching; they were waiting for someone, anyone.

I slowed my breath and closed my eyes. I stood there, soaking the chant into my body. Fear no longer drove me; the yearning to understand overpowered it. "Who are you?" I whispered into the night, my soft voice carried by the breeze toward the river. I hear you. I feel you. I want to know you."

The chanting faded, just for a heartbeat, as if the Earth paused to listen. Then, a voice in my mind slipped through a crack somewhere in my mind. It was warm and cool, like the river itself, and layered with echoes of joy and despair. "Wren," it says, my name making a ripple in the night. "You seek us where others flee. Why?"

I smiled, and a flicker of excitement sprung from the root of my curiosity. "Because you're here," I replied, my words a thread cast into the unknown. "Because you sing, and I've never heard anything like it. Let me experience you, know you, and be your friend."

A hush fell, with the chanting softening to a hum, and the air around me shifted. It's lighter now, playful almost, as though it, or they were testing me, tasting my intent. The water at my feet swirls, and the shapes I glimpsed before rise, not fully, but enough to hint at forms: shimmering, fluid, like reflections. The voice in my mind laughs, a sound like pebbles tumbling downstream. "Bold Wren," it says. "We are the Old Currents, keepers of this river's memory. Few ask to know us. Fewer still offer friendship."

"I'm not like others,* I think back, stepping closer to the water's edge, my boots sinking into the damp Earth. "Please, show me who you are."

The hum grew and wrapped around me like a cloak. I felt them for the first time. They're ancient, playful, and profound, a chorus of spirits connected to the Rio Grande. They hold images of forgotten floods and joyous dances along the banks that flicker through my mind like an old film reel: moments of loss and renewal. They shared their essence with me, not as a burden but as a gift.

The chanting rose again; this time, it was a song meant for me alone.