An Absence Beneath the Ice

Johnnie braves the biting early winter air, trekking through a silent forest to a familiar river. He seeks elusive signs of life, desperately clinging to old tales and subtle hopes in a world where nature's rhythms seem increasingly broken.

Johnnie had always hated the in-between. Not quite autumn, not quite winter. A liminal space, or so his English teacher would say, and then expect him to write a poem about it. But walking through it, now, felt different. It was less a space and more a quiet stripping back, the forest exhaling after its riot of colour, preparing for the long sleep. His breath plumed white, a fragile, fleeting ghost against the muted tapestry of grey sky and skeletal branches. The air was sharp, biting at the exposed skin of his cheeks, but not unkindly. It was a wake-up call, a jolt of cold clarity straight to the lungs. No more soft, damp earth, no more rustling leaves underfoot. Now, the ground was firm, almost resonant with a nascent frost, and the scattered, stubborn oak leaves crunched like brittle parchment beneath his worn hiking boots.

His fingers, tucked into his worn gloves, still felt the chill seep through, a constant, low thrum against his knuckles. He adjusted the strap of his old canvas rucksack, the slight shift of weight familiar, comforting. This path, barely a deer trail, was known to him, every twist and turn, every moss-covered boulder. He knew the way the light would splinter through the higher canopy, painting meagre stripes on the forest floor, even on a day as overcast as this. He knew the taste of the air here – pine, damp earth, a faint, almost metallic tang that hinted at distant snow. It was a place where thoughts untangled themselves, where the incessant clamour of school, of expectations, of his mother’s worried frowns, seemed to quiet. Here, there was only the rhythmic crunch of his steps, the distant cry of a solitary jay, and the steady beat of his own blood.

He was looking for something. Not a grand revelation, not a treasure map. Just… signs. Signs of a return. Old Man Hemlock, who lived in the cabin near the river bend, swore by them. “They’ll come back, lad. Always do. Might be late, might be early, but the river always remembers.” Johnnie didn’t quite understand what the river remembered, or why it mattered so much to Hemlock. But he understood the urgency in the old man's eyes. The river. That was the core of it all, wasn't it? The lifeblood, the constant, the giver. And something was wrong with its giving.

### The Barren Promise

The path dipped, leading him towards the slower, deeper sections of the stream that fed into the main river. Here, the bare branches of willows, stripped of their summer finery, interlaced over the water, creating a dense, grey lattice. A thin skim of ice, brittle and translucent, had begun to form along the edges, clinging to exposed rocks and fallen branches like sugar glass. Johnnie knelt at the bank, his knees protesting slightly against the cold, damp earth. He peeled off a glove, the sudden exposure of skin to the crisp air a small shock, and plunged a finger into the icy water. It was colder than he expected, an insistent, sharp cold that stole the breath from his lungs. He pulled it back, a faint red bloom spreading across his fingertip.

He watched the water, clear and swift in the centre, carrying remnants of autumn. A single, perfectly preserved maple leaf, rust-red, spun lazily in a tiny eddy before being swept downstream. It was a beautiful, melancholic dance. But what he was looking for wasn't there. No flash of silver. No sudden, frantic churn beneath the surface. Just the steady, cold flow. The absence was louder than any presence could have been. It was a hollow echo in the vast, quiet expanse.

He moved further along the bank, pushing through a tangle of frozen ferns that snapped underfoot like dried bones. His boots slipped on wet, mossy stones, and he steadied himself with a hand against the rough bark of a sycamore, its mottled skin shedding in flakes. He scanned the opposite bank, then downstream, his eyes sweeping the surface, then dipping below, trying to penetrate the dark, cold depths. The air grew stiller down here, sheltered by the high banks and dense overgrowth. He could hear his own heartbeat, a low thrum against the quiet hum of the stream. A shiver, not entirely from the cold, traced its way up his spine.

Old Man Hemlock’s stories often wandered into the realm of the unbelievable, tales of a time when the river ran so thick with life you could practically walk across the backs of the migrating salmon. Johnnie had always dismissed them as the ramblings of an old eccentric. But the past few seasons had been lean. The local fishing boats, usually bustling with activity this time of year, sat idle at the docks, their nets dry and still. The birds that flocked to the river, the bears that padded along its banks, they were fewer, too. A slow, creeping emptiness. And Johnnie, alone in the quiet wilderness, was starting to feel the truth of it in his bones. The silence was not just the absence of sound; it was the absence of life.

He pulled a small, laminated chart from his rucksack, its edges softened from repeated folding. It was a crude drawing Hemlock had made, depicting specific eddies, deeper pools, and shadowed banks where "they" were most likely to rest. Johnnie traced a finger along a jagged line, a section of rapids known as the 'Whispering Chute.' Hemlock had warned him about that spot. “Swift water, lad. Tricky footing. Be careful there.” Johnnie grunted. He was always careful. Carefulness hadn't brought the salmon back, though, had it?

---

### A Quiet Despair

He reached the Whispering Chute after another half-hour of deliberate, careful trekking. The stream narrowed here, tumbling over a series of ancient, water-smoothed boulders, creating a soft, rhythmic roar that was a welcome change from the pervasive quiet. The spray, fine as mist, clung to the air, making the rocks slick and treacherous. He moved slowly, testing each foot placement, his eyes constantly on the water. The rushing current created chaotic patterns, white foam bubbling and swirling around dark, submerged rocks. It was beautiful, untamed, and relentless.

He settled on a flat, broad rock overlooking a deeper pool where the rapids calmed before continuing their journey. He pulled out a small, battered thermos from his pack, pouring steaming herbal tea into its metal cup. The warmth radiated through his hands, a small comfort against the persistent chill. He took a sip, the bitter, earthy taste of pine needle tea a familiar ritual. Hemlock said it was good for "clear thinking." Johnnie mostly just liked the heat.

He watched the water, really watched it. Not just looking for flashes of silver, but for any sign of disturbance, any ripple that spoke of something beyond the current. He saw dragonflies, frozen mid-air in his mind's eye, from last summer. He saw the way the sunlight had danced on the water, the buzzing of insects, the chorus of frogs. Now, only the water itself seemed alive, an endless, restless movement. A dead branch, stripped bare, tumbled past, snagging briefly on a submerged rock before tearing free and continuing its journey. It felt like a metaphor he was too tired to unpack.

His thoughts drifted, unfocused, jumping from the cold in his fingers to the way his science teacher had explained ocean currents, then to a memory of his father, years ago, teaching him how to cast a line into this very stream. His father, who had loved this river, who had taught Johnnie its secrets, now worked two towns over, rarely having time for such quiet pilgrimages. Another kind of absence, then. A different kind of hollowness. He didn't feel alone, exactly, but a profound quietude settled around him. It wasn't the kind of quiet that healed, but the kind that underscored a loss.

He felt the familiar knot tighten in his stomach. The kind that came when he thought about things he couldn't fix. The kind that came when he thought about the river, about the changing world. He traced the rim of his cup with a gloved thumb. His mother had tried to convince him to join the indoor sports club, something social. But here, with the cold seeping into his bones and the endless rush of water, he felt a different kind of connection. A connection to something older, more fundamental. Something he felt compelled to understand, even if it brought a quiet despair.

---

### The Unseen Current

The sun, a pale, diffused orb behind the heavy grey clouds, began its slow descent. The light softened, turning the grey of the forest into a deeper, more melancholic hue. He knew he should start heading back. Hemlock would be expecting him, expecting a report. But he couldn't leave. Not yet. Not without one last attempt.

He stood, his legs stiff from kneeling, and began to scan the river more purposefully. He wasn't looking for movement in the water anymore, but for signs around it. Scrapes on the rocks, disturbed pebbles, anything that suggested an animal had been here, drawn by the scent of a returning migration. His eyes, trained by years of quiet observation, picked out a barely perceptible indentation in the damp earth near a cluster of alders. Not a deer. Too broad. Too heavy.

He crouched, examining it closely. A single large print, partially obscured by fallen leaves, its edges softened by recent rain and the nascent frost. It wasn't fresh, not truly. But it was there. A bear. Hemlock had said the bears were waiting, too. Sometimes longer than the men. Sometimes with more patience. He ran a gloved finger over the indistinct outline, a faint thrill of something akin to hope, or perhaps just heightened awareness, sparking within him.

He continued his search, moving slowly, deliberately, downstream. He ignored the gnawing cold, the stiffness in his joints. His focus narrowed, the entire world shrinking to the river's edge, to the subtle nuances of the earth beneath his feet. He found another print, further along, slightly clearer. Definitely a bear. Not a small one either. His mind whirred, piecing together the timeline. If the bear had been here, then it meant it was waiting. Waiting for the same thing he was. And if the bears were still waiting, then there was still a chance.

He stopped, his gaze drawn to a small, isolated pool, almost entirely covered in a thin, fragile sheet of ice. The water beneath, still and dark, reflected the grey sky like polished obsidian. And then he saw it. A faint shimmer, deep within the dark water, a momentary disturbance that was too deliberate to be the current, too rhythmic to be a falling leaf. A flash, gone as quickly as it appeared. He blinked, trying to reassure himself it wasn't a trick of the fading light, or his own desperate imagination. He held his breath, straining his eyes.

Nothing. The surface of the ice remained unbroken, the water beneath, dark and still. He peered closer, his face almost touching the icy film. He could feel the cold radiating upwards, a numbing tingle against his skin. His heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs. He waited, his entire being coiled, tense, every nerve ending screaming with anticipation.

Just as he was about to dismiss it, to tell himself it was nothing, a figment of his weary mind, a faint, almost imperceptible ripple pulsed beneath the ice. Not a flash of silver this time, but a deep, dark shadow, moving with a powerful, almost lazy grace. It was there. Briefly. Indisputably. A deep shadow, moving against the light. A promise. Or perhaps, simply a stubborn echo of what once was, a ghost of life clinging to the freezing depths. He watched, unable to breathe, as the shadow slowly, deliberately, faded into the deeper darkness, leaving behind only the undisturbed ice, the silent water, and the profound, aching quiet.

The cold bit harder now, sinking past his layers of clothing, settling deep within his bones. He was tired, profoundly so, but also wired, a strange, jittery energy thrumming through his veins. The day had yielded little, yet it had given him… something. A flicker. A possibility. He knew he couldn't leave this river. Not ever, not truly. It was in his blood, in his memory, in the hollow ache that the silence now filled. He turned, slowly, reluctantly, towards the fading light, the path back to Hemlock's cabin now a darker, more daunting prospect. The forest seemed to hold its breath around him, waiting. Waiting for the next ripple, the next sign, the next quiet hope. He knew one thing, with a certainty that settled deep into his weary chest: he would be back tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. Until the river spoke its secrets again, or until it finally, irrevocably, fell silent.