I/II The Singing River
Words and images by Niels Devisscher. This is the first in a 2-part story, originally published in the book “Nostos — Voices for our Journey Home”, available for purchase here.
We are in the realm of the Cuillin hills. Beyond the black ridges of volcanic rock, an ancient well springs forth from the depth of the Earth’s crust. Lush forests cast a spell on this valley. The moss beds draw you onto them. More than once did I fall asleep here, plunged into dreaming by the slow, winding river. On a bright day, the water is so translucent that the surface shimmers like a mirror, and even the abundant fishes and river-dwelling critters are barely visible.
It hasn’t always been this way. Long before, Ihnam, the angry one with red vengeful eyes, swept across the land. He turned the river into blood, and tore down the age-old Scot pines that populated the riverbanks. When the trees’ bellies lay bare, one could still hear the glaciers crackling quietly, ice sheets rubbing slowly against each other, and the melting snow trickling through crevices — the memory of a lineage, expressed as a fading resonance. The aftermath was enormous and felt for many years.
From Long Past, 2024
Scottish Highlands
Kodak Portra 800
My grandmother still whispers of the ancient folks; the ones with no names, dressed in black gowns. They sang quietly, bowed down, as they walked up the barren hill along the dried-out river. They did so ritualistically, every morning at dawn, their candles warmly glowing against the twilight blue. They did so when the day was still young and at its most vulnerable; most receptive to song. Of the few villagers who survived the dark years everyone speculated in privacy, but no one knew exactly what they were doing or where they were going. Perhaps they didn’t want to know.
It took me years to figure out, years of listening to the lichens and the mosses below, to the blackbirds and the eagles above. Years of speaking to the clouds from the Sgùrr nan Eag, the highest peak, where its spire cut an opening in the waning sky. And then one day, when I sat silently beside the river, I knew why. The memory moved through me as a rhythm. Possessed by it, it urged me uphill. I walked for hours through the forest, enveloped by the mixing scents of fresh pines, moist soil, and elderflower.
Then I paused. The knowing became more urgent. The ones with no names would descend into a cave hidden behind shrubs and branches and piled up rocks. Upon entering, darkness befell, and I could still see their candle-cast shadows flicker on the cavern walls. There, they sat on their knees next to the stream, at the source of it all, listening to the sound of the running water. They would listen and sing back. Listen, and sing back.
Over decades, the whole valley conspired to bring back the river. And now the river speaks again. And the songs of the ones with no names? They still linger in the same mist of morning’s creation.
Winding River, 2024
Scottish Highlands
Kodak Portra 800