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The river glittered in the sun. Fifty years ago they had fought at the banks, trying to enable the refugee treks to cross before the pursuing eastling army caught up. Those who still farm in spite of the recession, find plenty of munitions, shells; occasionally bones, medals and sculls, both human and hybrid.
 The villages are small at the east bank, here and there houses still in ruins, red-brown chicken crossing the muddy streets, grass and weeds growing on the graves which belong to the families who were expelled. Since the border has been gradually opened, some colleges have started to found rowing clubs, the shouts of the trainers jelling over the otherwise quite surface. In larger towns near the border markets have flourished, selling goods to their wealthier neighbors and former foes who now come back for a day trip, shopping.
At the east banks the old men or those without a job quietly fish aiming to contribute something to sustain the family in order to prevent them to face the compulsury the governmental “upgrade”.
 

 Squatting at the bank, Alkin watched the river. The current resembled a black snake, twisting itself through the bright silver of the surface. The banks smelled of warm earth, the humidity of recent summer rain, mingled with a faint odor of rotten fish. Dragonflies of all kinds of sizes buzzed in the air between the opulent juggle of weeds like tiny metallic toy helicopters. It was life and decay, but what drew him was the current, the glittering surface, daring him to test himself against the river and still luring him become one with it.
How special it would be to have a companion to share this, to cross the river together.

He didn't know about the exact feelings of his buddy, a shaper like him,  whom he finally brought along some weeks later, but the desire to share his experience had been large enough to make him ask some friends. Carefully selecting whom to pick - and those he was afraid to: anybody who might think at the sight of him as even more feminine as they probably already did.  And now at the end of the summer most of the few he had dared to trust,
declined, due to fear of the cold water, or maybe something else.

Did they think of the refugees from the civil wars further down in the east who occasionally tried to cross but of whom not all had succeeded? Bodies had been found in the spring, swollen and misshapen by the water and a brief notice appeared in the local newspapers. Even Alkin had wondered briefly if there ware still mines in the water.

In the end it was his fellow apprentice Fijed who being also interested in visiting the villages on the other side, came along and who was now testing hesitantly the water temperature, passport, a T-shirt, thin climbing trousers and sports shoes tightly tied into a waterproof plastic bag around his tights. Changeling or no, Alkin knew he could trust the solidarity among those of his craft.
Otherwise he was naked and already a swarm of mosquitoes had started to attack, trapping him between the discomfort at land and the cold one before him.
Alkin had followed his example, even with hungry mosquitoes around he didn't particularly enjoy rushing into the cool water, navigating into it step by step, the water still barely touching his knees. "It's too cold, Terry, let's get out, wait for next year", Fijed was already complaining. Alkin shook his head, “come on, it's not that bad, give it more time, hey?" Feeling his dream of the glittering water, the shared silver river threatened, he tried to sound encouraging. It was cold, no doubt about that, not surprisingly for mid-September either. Suddenly they heard monotonous counting on the water signalizing the approach of a rowing boat.
Some seconds and it would be in sight, and so would they. Alkin nearly panicked at the prospect of being seen, dreading that if the boys would say something, his friend’s image of him might change.
Water temperature forgotten, he dived in.

When he looked backwards Fijed had climbed out, announcing he’d watch, but wouldn’t participate. Crossing and visiting the market in a village on the other side, wouldn’t be fun alone, but he could always come back.
The plastic bag made swimming easier, its air-pockets giving extra Auftrieb. A few strokes and the current touched Alkin’s body, pulling him towards the middle of the stream. With sparse handmovents he was able to stear and float almost without any effort. The light was colder compared to the time he had sat inmids the green weeds the last time, but when he looked towards around him he seemed to float in a plane of silver light. Only towards the banks the water looked dark.
Once boats overtook him, the boys calling out “Oh look, a refugee boy!” which had made him smile happily and feel annoyed at the same time as his national identity had been mistaken. Surprised he realized, that always having had to defend his right to be recognized as a young male he had never been aware that he even had a national identity before. Some more boats overtook, making him out in the water, neither addressing him personally, nor trying to overrun him.

The water pressed at his body, stroking it, caressing it, testing it as he turned towards the eastern bank. Willow trees grew partially in the water, white water-lilies and yellow leaves drifting by. The river was empty, the boats gone, when he finally reached for hold on root and branch. A few climbs and he was on top of a gnarled stem, which gently bent towards the water surface, broad enough to stand safely. Nobody was around, but a soft breeze as the evening sun shone upon his back, when he proudly stretched his arms towards the sky.
He lingered a few moments, amazed at the ease with which he had arrived, at the effortlessness with which he had mastered the river, then dived into the water again, making it quickly towards the main current. Here further downstream the river was narrower, the current swifter. The banks appeared closer than before, green trees and lighter, almost yellow medows where fat cows were grazing.

The red roof of a farmhouse signaled to him that if he’d lingered much longer, he would be swept downwards, into the city. People would be present, watch, the construction site workers at the bridges at first. The prospect of the shame and the embarrassment of being publicly exposed was motivation enough to make him  struggle harder against the current. He aimed have to get out
before the next turn. Slowly the bank which had seemed so near approached, while he silently fought the current which with every stroke he made towards the bank carried him along several meters downriver. When they had planed this they had never planed to swim the distance doubly and already he began tire. Every stroke became an effort, both the pleasant sensation and the aesthetics of the experience were forgotten.
Finally he reached the point were the artificially enhanced depth of the main current, enabling large ships to pass, intersects with the shallower waters, where the vegetation is left undisturbed. The undercurrent grabbed him, seized him, dragged him down. He spiraled towards the river-bottom, feeling like a seal, a playful water creature as he aptly rode the twisting current, at last navigating with sparse movements upwards again, his extremities turning into webbed feet and fins until he was thrown into the quit zone near the banks.
The water turned to syrup. Slowly, as the uplifting speed of the current was gone, each swim-stoke became agonizing and apparently not yielding any motion towards the bank. The river started to call him, from a water that was blacker than the current. Luring him with a promise of letting go and becoming one with the stream. Forever. A merging with the brown waves, with the swift current, the peaceful dark water, fulfilling his need to belong. He didn't think of the agony of drowning, just some moments of peace and he'd be gone.

Gone? He suddenly remembered the notes in the paper in springtime.
He didn't want to be found, neither dead or alive and assigned as female, nor listened in the obituary section as a young woman, probably drowned while crossing the border. He imagined the boys of the rowing boat staring at his body, identifying him as a girl.  Suddenly all that he could think of was to escape, to reach for the bank.

It seemed to take forever, but it might have been just a few meters until he was able to drag himself up and stand on the solid earth. First dazed, then full of the excitement, of the joy of being alive he stepped towards the edge of the bank, hands raised to the sign of victory.
Only afterwards he unwrapped his bundle discovering that while the shoes were soaked, his clothes had remained dry.  He dressed, turned back and scanning the other side of the river he spotted several old men on the eastern bank, fishing. The evening sun must have made him even more clearly visible to them then he was able to make them out from his side. He imagined what they would have seen, the tale they might bring home tonight after watching a beautiful young woman, illuminated by the evening sun, at the other side. He was a young man himself, being able to appreciate female beauty himself, had he unintentionally provided these old guys with a rare present? Smiling he disappeared into the forest, walking towards his friend. The fishermen didn’t bother him, this was the day he had crossed the river.
 
 

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