The town festival was in full swing. Lanterns swayed from ropes strung between the buildings, casting warm, dancing glows across the cobblestone streets. The air was thick with the smell of roasted corn, sweet dumplings, and river fish sizzling on skewers. Children ran barefoot past stalls where merchants sold handmade charms and painted wooden toys. In the center square, drums thudded like an ancient heartbeat, their rhythm meant to summon the attention of the river’s spirit.
And, just like every year, Sid and his gang of troublemakers showed up. They didn’t come to celebrate — not really. They never did. Sid, tall for his age and carrying himself with a swagger he hadn’t earned, smirked as he strolled past the offerings table. His friends trailed behind, laughing too loudly, elbowing each other in mockery of the rituals.
The townsfolk, used to their yearly appearance, made no effort to hide their disdain. Some frowned openly, muttering under their breath about “arrogant youth” and “city-bred disrespect.” But Sid and his friends couldn’t care less. They were teenagers, and in their minds, the world bent to their whims. Ancient traditions were a joke, the people who upheld them relics of a primitive past.
That night, as the townspeople gathered by the river’s edge, they placed their gifts into the water — baskets of fruit, folded paper prayers, strands of beads. The offerings floated downstream under the moonlight. The town priest, a wiry old man with a back bent like a willow branch, stepped forward. He raised his arms and began the annual speech:
“This river saved us, many decades ago, when the land was dry and the people starved. It flows not only with water, but with life itself. We give thanks, for the river remembers.”
Sid leaned against a tree, rolling his eyes. He had never understood how a river barely three meters wide could save an entire town.
“It’s a puddle with ambition,”
He whispered to one of his friends, who snorted. What Sid didn’t know and what many of the townsfolk had also quietly forgotten was that their survival hadn’t been a matter of kindness from the river at all. But the priest wasn’t ready to tell that story. Not yet.
Three days after the festival, Sid decided he’d had enough of the town’s “backwards” thinking.
Let’s see where this mighty river really comes from,”
He told his friends.
“And when we find the source, we’ll show the whole town it’s nothing special. Just a hole in the ground.”
They set off early, laughing as they trudged through shallow stretches of water, their sneakers sinking into mud. The journey wasn’t easy — the banks grew steeper, and the surrounding woods thickened into a wall of green. But they pressed on, slipping over mossy stones, climbing over roots as thick as a man’s arm.
Hours later, under a scorching sun, they reached the source. It was not what they expected. No grand waterfall, no bubbling spring. Just a flat white stone about the size of a dining table, wedged into the hillside. Two faded pieces of cloth, stained from years of exposure, were draped across it. From beneath the stone, a steady trickle of water escaped, winding down into the stream below. Sid smirked.
“This? This is it? The sacred life-giver? Pathetic.”
He handed his phone to one of the boys.
“Record this.”
The camera caught him gripping the edge of the white stone and heaving it upward. The cloth fell aside. The boys laughed as they kicked at the stone, splashing water in every direction. Sid spat into the trickle, muttering something crude. Nothing happened. One of his friends snorted.
“Guess the river spirits are on vacation.”
Another chimed in,
“How stupid do you have to be to believe a puddle like this saved anyone?”
That was when the ground trembled. At first it was subtle — just a faint vibration through their feet, like the hum of a passing truck. But within seconds, the earth beneath them shook hard enough to make them stumble. Water began to gush from under the stone, first in a rush, then in a roar. It poured faster than their eyes could follow, swelling into a torrent that swallowed the trickle in moments.
“Run!”
Sid shouted. They bolted downhill, slipping on wet rocks, their laughter gone. The water chased them like a living thing, its roar growing louder with every heartbeat. Within seconds, it was on them, smashing into their legs and sending them sprawling.
The river dragged them mercilessly, slamming them against jagged stones. Sid felt something tear into his side — a branch, maybe — but before he could scream, he was pulled under, his lungs burning as muddy water filled his mouth and nose. Sticks and thorns ripped at their skin. Bones cracked against rock. The current showed no mercy.
Back in town, the afternoon was quiet. People milled in the square, tending to chores or chatting in the shade. A few wondered aloud why Sid and his noisy friends hadn’t been around in days. Trouble had a way of announcing itself, and their absence was… unsettling. From the hills, a sound began to grow. Not thunder, but close. Some of the older villagers froze, recognizing it instantly.
“It’s the river,”
One whispered. They called for the priest. He hurried to the square, his lined face pale.
“Gather everyone. Now.”
Within minutes, the townsfolk stood together at the center of town. Then, before their eyes, the river itself appeared. Not in its usual narrow bed, but as a massive wall of water branching unnaturally toward them. People gasped, clutching each other as the torrent slowed, its force diminishing until it swirled in a dark pool at their feet.
From that swirling water, bodies emerged. The villagers recoiled, some crying out, others covering their mouths. Sid and his friends lay sprawled in the mud, their bodies broken and twisted. Their skin was pale, their eyes wide open but unseeing. Cuts and bruises marred them from head to toe, and their limbs bent in ways no living body could endure.
No one spoke except the priest. He stepped forward, his voice carrying across the silent crowd.
“You wish to know why we honor the river?”
He said quietly.
“This is why. The river is no friend to us. It is no savior. It is a force that remembers every insult, every challenge, every act of arrogance. Long ago, our king mocked it. Demanded it flow more, feed more, give more. The river listened and drowned him, as it has drowned these boys.”
He looked down at the still faces of Sid and his friends.
“When the king died, we understood. The river cannot be controlled, and it must never be mocked. We offer gifts not out of love, but out of respect… and fear.”
The crowd stood in heavy silence. Somewhere in the distance, the river murmured as it retreated to its bed, the sound almost like a chuckle. That night, the offerings to the river were doubled.
