Dark Mystery, Swimmer

On a walk just after sunset last night, I stepped gingerly out onto the Old Stone Bridge over the Sudbury river. A twelve-foot snowbank has blocked access to the bridge since early January, but now all such barriers are receding fast. "Gingerly" means I was watchful for new sinkholes that might let me down toward or even into the cold, dark river. The water was moving more swiftly than in the fall and had risen several feet, lifting up the heaps of debris caught by the bridgework to where I could see them clearly.

Suddenly, I was not alone. An animal form was swimming swiftly toward me, crossing the river at an angle.  My elusive beaver? An otter? No, when the creature stepped out onto the debris pile, I saw it had a long, thin, hairless tail and was exactly the size and possessed the profile of a large rat. Shudder.

After a swift sniff-around, the rat slipped back into the water, then checked out the next debris flotilla. The dark river soon swallowed up the darker form again, but he reappeared on Clotilde's lawn, poking around, presumably for food. Shudder again? But why? He was just doing his part in cleaning up the environment.

Then it was time for both of us to go. By now it was dark enough that I wouldn't have known what kind of creature it was that ran out along a fallen tree limb, slipped into the water, and ever so sveltly swam off leaving a widening trail of ripples behind. Ratty disappeared into the shadowy place where he had first emerged. I hoped he'd found enough supper, as I turned for home and mine.

Ricky and the River

Sudbury River, photo by local river god, Roy Barnacle.

Weeks ago, my husband sold his canoe, preparatory to our planned move. Purchasers were two young boys from the neighborhood. They stopped in to enquire, ran shuttle negotiations back and forth between Roy and their Dad, and eventually showed up with Dad and cash and carried the boat away. Not long after, we saw the boys down at the river's edge, set up for fishing. Roy tromped through the woods to see them with their new canoe, only to find that the canoe had vanished. They hadn't realized it needed to be tied. Roy gave them all the advice he could, then and later; but we knew that unless their Dad got on the stick quickly it seemed almost hopeless that the children would ever see their boat again. We were uncomfortable about this outcome. We knew that here the Sudbury River enters a great wetland reserve and meanders for miles through lonesome byways before emptying with the Assabet  into the Concord -- then into the Merrimack and finally the sea. What likelihood of retrieving a lost canoe? If we only had a boat . . .

Today, as I set out for a walk, I crossed paths with a boy. He stopped to get acquainted. We had quite a good chat about events and people in the neighborhood, and I learned that he was Ricky, a middle schooler. He reminded me that he had bought Roy's canoe. Immediately I asked if they had ever found it. Oh, yes. Some people across the river had seen the floataway, had caught it and tied it at their waterfront. Somehow news of the catch got to Ricky's family.  "My Dad has a GPS, so we went and got the canoe," he said. "We had to climb down a real steep bank and carry it up. It's in our garage for the winter. If you and Mr. Barnacle ever want help with anything, just come and get me." Ricky headed for home and supper.

I had much to ponder on my walk. We had questioned the wisdom of a parent giving children a canoe to use, apparently unsupervised, on a river. We had seen no evidence of their recapturing the boat, and had assumed -- again -- some level of parental inattention. But all the time, the family had the situation well in hand. What kind of parents raise a child to be so comfortable conversing with an adult? So considerate? The fact is, that Ricky is the first neighbor to make a point of welcoming me to Riverview.