When The River Takes

The cold water pulled him under and he had no time to scream.

Amir’s tiny hand scrabbled against the muddy riverbank, wet with rain and fallen leaves as his body flapped in the dark water. The river, slick and blackened with shadow, pulled him deeper, its cold needle-like fingers grasping his ankles and dragged him down into the depths of the river. He struggled with all his might but the water was victorious. Above, someone was screaming, wild and raw with panic. Then silence swallowed everything.

That night, the river had whispered. 

At the age of 16, Amir remembers the river’s warning. The river was his everything. There were infinite summer days of laughter and wild splashes in the water with his cousins under the scorching sun. They went after fish and dodged in and out among the rocks. Their happy voices rang over the water like birdsong. The river was a companion, a place of joy, and a playground. Even then, the elders whispered in fear-hushed voices. “Edsasanggila kanu mga wata, dikanu banakabul,” they warned, their eyes cast toward the darkening river as if they were saying that we need to pay respect for the monster of the river and not to bother them.

The words lingered in Amir's mind. The river was not just about water and fish. It was with a spirit, a protector but a bad one. The elders told us it was Buntu, the evil monster of the river, lurking deep in the water, watching for those who forgot to be respectful or who broke the old ways. A monster people feared and heeded.

One late afternoon, when the sun filled gold into the blue sky, Amir was by himself at the riverbank. His cousins had gone home, running from a sudden cold wind that chased away the day's warmth. The river was motionless now, reflecting the sky on its surface like spilled ink.

"Buntu," Amir whispered, barely audible enough to hear, saying the name elders used to scare children to listen and obey.

A tiny wave traveled over the water. The wind ceased. The river paused to breathe.

Out of the dark water, a figure rose. Half-shaded in darkness, its face was pale and smooth like wet stone, eyes shining soft like burning coal. Its skin was dark like mud in the river, slick and wet. It glided smoothly, like smoke in the dark.

"Wata," said the monster, voice low and rough like rocks scratching at the river bottom. "You called me."

Amir didn't move, his heart pounding so hard he was sure it would burst from his chest. His feet were in the soft mud but his body could not move, as if a force was pinning him in place. The figure drew nearer, water dripping from its long, needle-like fingers.

“Why do you fear me?" the monster asked, voice nearly gentle.

"I… I was merely calling your name," Amir replied, wide eyes, his mouth parched like withered dust.

The spirit gazed at him as if slicing through him. "Respect has to be earned. Not whispered in mockery."

But, he suddenly woke up. It was all a dream. Amir is breathing too fast. Scared of the kind of dream he had.

After Amir dreamed about Buntu, he could not shake the fear that clung to his chest. He stood quietly that night and walked to the riverbank, the moonlight reflected on the black water. The air was still, the river was silent. Then a scream broke the stillness.

Amir’s eyes pointed toward the riverbank, his heart was hammering. Through the trees, he saw movements, three men, their faces familiar, the kind that carried power and influence in the village. They dragged a struggling woman between them, her hands bound, her voice screaming in panic.

“Please! Let me go!” she cried, fighting against them.

Amir froze, hiding behind a thick tree trunk. His chest ached as he realized these were men from powerful families, men everyone respected, but here they were committing a terrible act.

They forced her into the riverbank. She was thrashed after they killed her. The men held her down until the current swallowed her. The river was still. Only silence remained.

Amir stayed hidden, trembling, mud clinging to his palms. In that instant, he understood the truth. It had never been the river monster the villagers feared. It had been these men, using the river to hide their crimes.

And still, the community would whisper about Buntu, as they always had. They would fear the river, not the real monsters lurking behind it.

Days passed in a blur of whispers and fear. The village cried over the woman’s disappearance, but Amir said nothing. The dark and heavy secret stayed with him.

One night, when the sky turned red with the day's last light, Amir's grandmother took his small, soft hand into hers. Her voice was soft but strong, etched with deep sadness.

"Amir, the river decides. It takes because it has to. Nobody stands up against the river."

He nodded slowly, tears etching clean paths down his cheeks. But, he knows deep inside him that it is not Buntu who took the woman. It is not the needle-like hands of the monster, but the ruthless hands of those men.

The boy's childhood slipped away into darkness. He became more quiet, haunted not just by that moment but by the solitude that rode behind it.

Years went by. The village transformed, new homes emerged and old trees were cut down but the river didn't change, still that dark serpent flowing through the earth, keeping its secrets locked in its deep, black heart.

Amir stood again at the water's edge. The sun was low, casting long shadows on the water. The river was flat, yet it seemed alive, waiting.

"Buntu," Amir whispered, the name bitter to his tongue.

The river responded with a bitter wind, bearing the shadow of a scream and the burden of a soul lost to the deep waters.

The river didn’t forget. And neither did Amir.