I walked along the river today for almost an hour, listening to the song of the water falling over rocks and through the last remaining ice of the frosty days.
I walked far enough out today to find where the railroad tracks cross the water on a tall and spindly bridge. It was here I finally met the man who I’ve seen walking the tracks.
He was sitting on the high side of the railroad bridge, his feet dangling loosely as he swung his legs back and forth from the knee like a bored child in church.
When he saw me looking up at him, he waved, but did not say anything.
I waved back and called up hello.
He stared at me for a few long moments… perhaps longer than I would have expected from a near stranger. Then, as if a decision had been made in his mind, he flipped off the rail’s edge, disappearing on the bridge.
A slow tumble of rocks alerted me to his sliding descent down the side of the hill leading from the bridge to the river.
When he near fell at my feet, he abruptly stuck out a hand to shake. I eyed him with some nerves, but received his hand easily in my mine and let him shake it with a good amount of energy.
He told me his name was Paul and that he lived in the back of the fields. He walks the same path every day, but does not cross the tracks.
“Was it you who checked my section of river?” I asked.
“Aye,” he said… his accent was strange, almost like he had too many teeth in his mouth. He ran a hand over his hatted head and stared into the trees for a moment. “You drank the water then?”
“I did,” I answered.
“But, not on the full moon?” he asked.
“A few days after,” I admitted.
“Nothing to be done then,” he said. “Next time aim for the full moon proper and you’ll settle more.”
I asked a few more questions, but his eyes kept darting to the woods and eventually he wandered off while I was mid sentence.
This should have seemed weird, but after nearly a month here it just seems to be a very normal thing.