For close to seventy years, Afon had been deeply connected to the river that ran through her village. Her whole life, the river had nourished her family with strong wheat, the sweetest red berries, and ample fruits that grew along her fertile banks. The river was where she had washed her son when he was small, where she gathered water for her ailing father during her childhood, and where she had always cleansed herself after a long day of labour. Today was no different, for her at least.

The river though - she had changed. Where a graceful yet powerful rush of water had once filled her banks to the brim, gently caressing the leaves of the fruit trees with the passing current, there was barely a trickle. Where once the water ran clear and blue, dazzling like diamonds in both sunlight and moonshine, it now ran black and dirty. The fruits of the land she nourished were also growing smaller than usual, and were starting to rot and decay. Afon had seen and felt the river dying over the past year, and as the essence of the river faded, so too she felt as if her time in this world would end soon.

Afon walked down to the trickle of water, her bare feet sinking into the mud of the riverbanks. She leant towards the liquid reluctantly. While there was barely anything to cover her body in full, and despite its filth, she felt it was the respectful thing to do to attempt to wash her hair here, as she had done her whole life. The river treated her with the same kindness and respect in turn. As she pulled her long grey hair out of the water, it was perfectly clean, albeit bespeckled with the occasional strand of bright red that clutched to sunlight like a shy child to their mother’s dress.

Afon rang her locks dry with her olive, laboured hands. Her eyes traced the length of the river as she did. It flowed far, far along the once fertile banks. But not so far that the eye couldn’t see. It eventually sank into a dark void, guarded by tall oak trees. The darkness of the forest that bordered her village swallowed the river like a greedy monster with a desperate thirst. She wondered if maybe the forest’s inhabitants, who had raided her land long before for food and blood, were somehow responsible for this devastation. She felt as if she were being watched by their dark purple eyes from the treeline in the distance. She grew cold at the thought.

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She knew Fern would be hungry. Her granddaughter had always had an insatiable appetite. Understandably so, as for nearly sixteen years Fern and the rest of the village had enjoyed bountiful harvests year round from the river. She remembered when the river’s abundance had not just fed her village, but had sustained the silent, cautious trade with the forest people for their medicinal herbs that grew in their trees.

This trade had been underpinned by the agreement that ended the raids in her childhood. This trade had been tense and mistrusting - they’d never exchange face to face, but if her people had left an offering of food at the edge of the forest at night, it would be replaced by a bushel of herbs in the morning.

However, there was barely enough growing along the riverbanks now to feed her family, let alone to give any to those monsters. And why would she - those selfish forest people had stopped trading herbs long ago. She was almost certain the forest people had reneged on their side of the agreement, and were surely responsible for the declining health of the river. But these were just her suspicions, not sure knowledge. Hope and faith in a solution eluded her - she was far too fragile herself to make any meaningful difference now, besides keeping her family alive and comfortable. She thought that perhaps Aeron’s strange faith in science or Fern’s youthful energy might help address these issues in the future.

Afon crossed to the other bank and picked some of the sweetest berries for her granddaughter and son. Her frail fingers cracked as she reached for the sweetest berries, which were few and far between. An abundance of dried and rotted pulp filled the rest of her basket. Neither her son nor granddaughter would need to see her eat this mulch. But her stomach would be full, they would see the colour in her face again, and she would hopefully live to see one more sunrise. At the same time, she filled another pot with the black water. Boiling it has kept it safe to drink so far, if no more pleasant at least.

With her basket and pot in hand, Afon stepped back across the river, its murky, shadowy trickle clinging to her feet like a whispered warning, and started the short trek back to her home.