The River in the Painting

From his bed, Tomás could follow almost the whole course of the river in the painting.
It began between two mountains, flowed through a forest and passed beneath a stone bridge. Then it curved around some houses and disappeared into a pale strip.
That night, Tomás wanted to know where it went next.
He sat up against his pillow.
Then he heard water.
He looked towards the door, but the sound was coming from the painting. It was a quiet murmur, with a little gurgle.
A man sat in the chair beside the wardrobe, wearing a coat full of pockets and a pair of wellington boots. He pointed to a bend in the river.
“The water bumps against that stone. That's why it sounds like that.”
Tomás tucked his feet under the blanket.
“Who are you?”
“Lino. I keep children company as they're falling asleep. Sometimes there's a little journey before sleep comes.”
“And have you come because of the painting?”
“I've opened the way a little. Listen.”
Tomás could make out the water spilling behind the stone. Then he heard leaves rustling.
Lino was still sitting there, waiting. The boy pushed back the blanket and moved to the edge of the bed.
“I wanted to see where the river ends.”
“We can go and look, if you like.”
“Inside the painting?”
Lino held out his hand.
Tomás put one foot on the frame. On the other side, he found cool grass. Through went his head, his shoulders and, last of all, the foot still in his room.
Tomás was inside the painting.
A breeze stirred his hair.
The river flowed a few steps away. There were eddies, stones beneath the water and a little twig spinning as it drifted along.
Tomás turned. Through the frame, he could see his bed and the blanket pushed aside. Lino stepped through behind him and shook a blade of grass off his boot.
“Have you been here before?”
“Never in this painting.”
Someone cleared their throat by the bank.
A white boat waited among the reeds. Blue ribbons linked six swans to the bow. The nearest one raised his neck.
“Good evening. I'm Junco. How many passengers?”
“Two.”
Junco looked behind Tomás and Lino.
“So it seems. Sometimes they say two, then bring a dog.”
They climbed into the boat. The ribbons drew taut, and the bank began to slip away.
For a while, Tomás watched the stones on the riverbed. Then the water grew deeper and began to reflect the treetops.
They entered the forest. Voices came from among the leaves: two trees were saying goodnight.
“Well, I’ll let you get some rest.”
“Right then. See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Sleep well.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
“Remind me tomorrow to tell you about the bird.”
“What bird?”
Junco gave a little huff and swam on.
“They've been saying goodnight all afternoon.”
The voices faded behind them. A silver fish with a crooked fin appeared beside the boat and asked them:
“Are you two from outside the painting?”
“From my bedroom.”
“Your bedroom? Does it rain there?”
“Well, not inside. But outside, on the other side of the window, sometimes it does.”
“What does it sound like?”
Tomás had to think. He scooped up a few drops in his hand before he answered.
“On the glass it goes tap, tap, tap. On leaves it's softer. And in puddles…”
He let the drops fall. The fish dipped underwater, then came up beneath his fingers again, waiting for more.
Tomás did it again. The fish followed the little circles spreading across the water, then waved goodbye with his crooked fin.
As they passed beneath the bridge, the river's murmur grew deep and full.
Then the houses came into view. Someone was closing the curtains. The smell of bread drifted from a kitchen. In the garden, a man put away a ladder and went round turning off the path lights.
As they rounded the bend, only one light remained beside his door.
The river narrowed.
Ahead lay the pale strip Tomás had mistaken for mist. But nothing was floating in the air.
The grass stopped abruptly. One stone was grey on one side and white on the other. Beyond it, the current lost its colour.
And its sound.
Only the rustle of ribbons and the creak of the boat remained.
Junco turned his neck towards his passengers.
“End of the journey. And of the painting.”
“What's beyond it?”
“Beyond it, nothing's been painted. We turn back here.”
Lino moved towards the bow. Tiny threads could be seen in the white surface, crossing over one another.
“This is as far as the painter got.”
Tomás looked at the empty space.
“Maybe the river went to the sea.”
He imagined ships with red sails, an island and an enormous whale. He waited, but nothing changed.
He tried again, closing his eyes. When he opened them, everything was still white.
Lino sat down beside him.
“Have you ever been to the sea?”
“Yes. With my dad. There was a pebble beach.”
“What did it sound like?”
Tomás searched his memory for that beach.
They had left their shoes on a rock and sat together at the water's edge. His dad held his hand tightly as they waited for a little wave to wash over their ankles.
“First the water came up. It went between the pebbles. And then…”
As the wave drew back, it carried the smaller pebbles with it. Tomás yawned, and Lino stretched beside him.
He closed his eyes. He remembered the cool water, his dad's feet beside his own and the foam between the pebbles.
Then he heard it.
A soft rustle of little pebbles settling as the water drew back.
At the edge of the white space, a shore appeared. A little wave reached it, spread out slowly and drew back again.
The pebbles rustled again.
“That's it. That's how it sounded.”
The current began to murmur again. Now it had a way through to a little cove, sheltered by low rocks.
Tomás remembered the breeze on that beach.
The air brushed the blue ribbons.
Beyond the cove, the white slowly turned a colour between grey and blue, stretching to a horizon they could barely make out.
Junco looked at the stone where he had always turned back. He leaned forward and swam a little further. Then he stopped to check the others were following.
The six swans slowly crossed the place where the painting used to end.
In the cove, the boat began to rock gently. Junco found a sheltered corner and slackened his ribbon. His companions did the same.
Far away, there was still so much to explore. Perhaps there were other beaches.
He looked at Lino.
“I'd like to go back to bed.”
The swans turned the boat around and set off back.
In the garden, the lights were out. The windows of the houses were still closed.
Beneath the bridge, Tomás listened to the water.
The fish with the crooked fin was resting among the plants. He opened one eye as they passed, then closed it again.
In the forest, the trees had finally said goodnight.
When they reached the landing, Lino stepped out and held the boat steady. Tomás stroked Junco's neck.
“Thank you for taking us.”
“I've left the cove nice and quiet.”
Lino walked with the boy to the frame. Tomás stepped through, and Lino stayed on the riverbank.
Tomás found the edge of his bed and climbed under the blanket.
From his pillow, the painting was small again. There were the forest, the bridge and the houses. In the distance, he could make out a curve of blue water.
Inside the painting, Lino raised his hand to wave goodbye. Tomás looked at him from his pillow.
“Will I still be able to hear it?”
“Listen.”
The boy closed his eyes.
Far away, inside the frame, a wave reached the shore.
The little pebbles shifted gently.
And Tomás fell asleep.
And that is all... for the moment.
Til the next tale.