Once There Was a River by Martin Maudsley

Once there was a river, flowing freely from green hills through wooded valleys and across open fields and farms. It bubbled with freshwater in its many fluid forms, from rippling pools to singing rapids. Although the river still held onto many of its curves and contours along its sinuous length, in recent times the water ran straighter and deeper than it once had. In winter floods and meltwater surges, it rushed and tumbled in haste towards its destination at the sea, roaring with its own elemental power. In summer, sometimes, the flow faltered as its waters, sun-kissed and wind-licked, receded into dry air and thirsty soil.

Yet even so: the river was a lifeline and a vital source of sustenance for myriad forms of life within it waters and besides its banks: stippled trout and stickle back, pond skaters and water boatmen, frog and spawn and tadpoles, crayfish and caddisfly, perching kingfishers and stalking herons – as well as many larger land creatures that came to the river to drink. A bounty of beings held in a watery web of life, interdependent on each other and the river itself. A great diversity if not necessarily always in great abundance. 

But! One year in spring, after winter’s flood-flow had left the river engorged with rainwater, the very ground around the banks of the river began to shudder and shake. A great and ancient creature came unexpectedly down from the far north. The strange creature was great elk with antlers like the crown of a great oak, and legs as thick as tree trunks, which planted themselves on either side of the river, hooves splayed out onto the muddy banks. Then the huge beast bent down its neck and lowered its wide mouth to the surface of the river. There was a resounding sound of slurping and sucking and swallowing, as the elk began to drink the water and drain the river. For days and days, it drank without stopping. It gulped, and guzzled, and glugged until the once-brimming water within the river bed was reduced to a mere muddy trickle…

All the animals were alarmed, especially those that lived within the water itself. Quickly, they held a council of all beings to decide what could be done to stop this terrible river-reducing, water-abstracting, life-leeching beast. Rallied by the kingfisher, the birds flew in a frenzy of feathers into the face of the elk, trying to distract his attention. Yet still he drank. Otters offered their own distractions with displays of exquisite aquatic aerobics, twisting and turning.  Yet still he drank. Eels and snakes writhed up the elk’s legs and tried to tickle, whilst gnats and mosquitos tried to bite. But the elk’s hide was too thick, so on and on he drank. The community of creatures had exhausted their own resources, yet there was one more to come: an old furry friend, keen to get his teeth stuck into this desperate situation...

Beaver! Beaver had long been absent from the river but now somehow, in their hour of need, he had returned to his rightful place. And he came as a family four, a mate and two nearly-grown kits. As they approached the elk, straddled across the river, they flapped their flat tails firmly against the surface of the water, in a declaration of intent. Then each one of them clambered up the river bank and took a position by one of the elk’s long legs. Mighty in tooth and strong in jaw, simultaneously the fab four began to bite and chew and gnaw against skin and flesh and bone of the elk’s legs.

The Elk, in instant reaction, raised each leg in turn and tried to kick and flick the bothersome beasts away – yet tenaciously each clung on with a vice-like grip. Before too long the elk could not bear the biting any longer. It raised its head dripping with river weed, then opened its mouth in a great roar of pain and a bellow of anguish. Torrents of water came tumbling out from its mouth and rushing back into the river. Then, at last, the beavers released their tooth-holds and the elk stretched its suddenly unrestrained legs and ran… 

There were many celebrations amongst all the river folk and heart-felt gratitude expressed towards the prodigal faunal family for their daring deed and defiant act of biting back. They beavers stayed by the river of course, and continued to get their teeth stuck into things. They nibbled and gnawed at trees that grew within the wooded valley, and soon began to build – as is the way with beavers – great dams of logs and sticks. They encouraged the river to find a way to hang around for longer in the summer, in eddies and pools and reservoirs of water and in winter the floods created new wetland habitats, of marshes and meres. Those animals that had always lived and relied on the river, found expanded water territories and flourished in abundance for the first time in a long time. And soon, many more beings and beasts arrived to take their places amongst the diversifying habitats.

And as far as I know, it’s all flowing well to this very day…