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Michael G Kimber
Michael G Kimber
The Nightwriter
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The Falls
The cries of the little girl went unnoticed as she was carried downstream. As she splashed and struggled to reach the bank, the noise she was making and the rush of the water deadened the sound of the falls, but ahead, and getting rapidly closer she could see the rising mist. She could even see the straight line across the river where the water went over the edge.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, she felt a strong arm around her and in one movement she was pulled bodily out of the water and into the boat.
Petrified she hardly noticed the sound of the powerful engine that took them both to safety, and into the grateful arms of one of a number of watchers who had heard the motor boat, and then seen the child struggling in the river.
Everyone was concerned for the little girl, but when they turned to express their thanks to the rescuer there was no sign of him. Both he and his boat had gone.
That had been thirty seven years earlier, and no one ever solved the mystery of the man's identity. It simply became part of the folk-lore of Allen Falls.
Some of that folklore was contained on a commemorative plaque which Harry was now reading, to the accompaniment of the pounding sound of the waterfall. All he could hear was its never-ending roar, constant and deafening. He could, he acknowledged, hear it more than four miles downstream, but now, only a few hundred yards away he could hear nothing else.
'Allen Falls' was far from being the highest waterfall in this remote country, and according to some, not the most impressive. But Harry took no notice of what others said.
“If they can't see its magic as I do, it's their hard luck.” he would say to himself. Many a time he had expressed that sentiment as though he had to convince everyone, but when it came down to it, he really didn't care too much what others thought. To him it was awe inspiring and that was all that mattered.
Over one hundred and eighty feet it fell, ninety yards wide, and five feet deep where it leapt almost silently over the escarpment. Here it was greeted by a cacophony of sound as the irresistible force of water and the immovable objects of rocks met in interminable conflict. As it fell the water became animated. Twisting and curling it became part of the howling and bellowing cauldron, increasing in its intensity until it smashed, foaming and churning into oblivion, each strand of the moving curtain breaking into a million droplets as it hit the rocks with crashing force, only to be swept away by a million more, and then another million, while all around the deafening roar continued unabated as it had for all time. Incessant, never ending, infinite.
There were few days when Harry did not visit the falls, and never did he fail to be mesmerised by the spectacle. Raw power combined with a beauty that only nature at its best can conjure. 'Allen Falls' used to be called by its native name of Torupunda - meaning 'roars like a lion' - but about two hundred years ago something happened which changed it. After some heavy rain a native girl a mile upstream had misjudged the current. Though the six year old was a good swimmer the swollen river and the faster speed got the better of her. The alarm was raised and into his row boat jumped Dr Allen, a missionary medical man, and with three young local men helping at the oars went after her. With only five hundred yards to go he caught her, and leaning as far as he could grabbed the exhausted girl, and pulled her out of the water. The current was racing at breakneck speed at this point, and the boatmen knew it would take all their strength and effort to fight against it. But inch by inch and yard by yard they increased their distance from the brink of the falls, until, feeling that it was both safe and prudent to get off the water, Allen signalled that they should head for the bank. Here he handed over the frightened girl to one of the many people who had watched the rescue, before getting his crew off the boat, and then himself. All attention was on the girl, so no one could actually say just what happened. Perhaps his foot slipped, or a swirl of the current caused an unexpected movement, but the good doctor stumbled, lost his balance and fell into the water, the boat, now untethered, with him. No other craft was to hand, and in no time at all he was too far away to be helped, and halfway to the fall. All the people who had been watching the heroism of this man, now stood helpless as he was being swept to a certain death. Nothing could save him, and the people watched horrified as the doomed man in the middle of the river was swept over the edge, followed seconds later by his boat.
Two years later a ceremony was held renaming the waterfall 'Allen Falls' in honour of the man who had given his life to save another.
Harry was pleased about that; and about the location of the monument. They had cleared an area a little downstream of the waterfall, where there was a good view of the magnificent spectacle. Here a stone platform had been built with seats all around, and a plinth at its centre. On the plinth was a plaque which described the fall, and the event. It also included a citation to the man's bravery.
Dr Allen's boat - the citation continued - was smashed beyond recognition, but of the man himself there was nothing. His body had never been found, despite a long and extensive search. Eventually it was concluded that it had been carried far away by the river before being devoured by some of its carnivorous residents.
Harry turned as if to leave when he heard the sound of voices. The monument didn't get all that many visitors these days compared to earlier times, but occasionally were some. He stood quietly to one side as three people arrived.
He recognised Beneta at once; a local lady from the village and indeed the very same who had had been plucked from certain death nearly four decades earlier. The years had treated her kindly since then, and with her was her daughter and her two year old grandson. Harry watched as she carefully detached a flower from the bunch she was carrying and dropped it in the swiftly flowing current. Then she give her daughter a handful, and one by one they proceeded to throw them into the water.
“Why are you doing that gram-ma?” asked the boy.
“Because when I was little, just a bit older than you, a very brave man saved me from being killed by the waterfall, but he disappeared before anyone could thank him.” Benita looked at her grandson, knowing he would not understand, but hoping that one day, like her daughter, he would. “So you see, every year on the anniversary of that day I bring some flowers so that I can say thank you.”
She looked at him again, but he was already engaged in some other activity.
“I only wish I knew what had happened to him.”
“Oh Benita.” Harry Allen breathed into her ear. He was weary of the mystery, and feared the prospect of indefinite suspension between life and death, like a modern flying Dutchman. “Tell them to look for an underwater cave by the narrow rapids about four miles downstream.” he whispered.
Benita turned around, looking; searching; but there was no-one to be seen but herself, her daughter, and her grandson.
Then she heard it again, a mans voice, unfamiliar, soft, but quite clear
“Tell them they will find my bones there, where they have lain for two hundred years.”
Again she searched around for someone to appear, to identify himself, but she could see no-one.
“Why now?” she asked, quietly, almost to herself.
“I think it is time. I think I have paid my debt, and now I need to rest.” his whispering voice told her, as just then, an unexpected breeze whistled around the viewing platform.
“What is it ma?” her daughter asked “you look as if you have seen a ghost.”
Beneta smiled, calm now, no longer troubled. “No; I don't think I've seen a ghost” She paused, wondering for just a second if she dare tell her daughter, “but I think I may have heard one; and now I think I know who saved me.”
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