Swims with Salmon and the Warning of Father River

On a crisp autumn morning, as the mist curled over the water like a sleeping spirit, Swift River set off to explore the woods near the river’s edge. He had felt something strange in the air—something different. Moving silently through the trees, he came upon a group of men he had never seen before.

They did not look like his people. Their clothes were heavy, their faces covered with thick hair, and their voices were loud and strange. They stood knee-deep in the icy water, sifting through the riverbed with their hands and wooden pans, searching for something hidden beneath the stones.

Swift River crouched behind the bushes, watching closely. For a long time, they worked without stopping, their hands red from the cold. Then, suddenly, one of the men shouted and leaped from the water, holding something in his fist.

He whooped and danced, holding a bright yellow rock above his head. The others rushed to him, their eyes wide with hunger—not the kind of hunger Swift River knew, the hunger for food to feed one’s family, but another kind. A hunger that never ended.

Uneasy, Swift River slipped away and ran to the place he loved most—the deep pool below the falls where he swam with the salmon. He dove into the cold water, letting it wash away his fear. The salmon swirled around him, moving as one, their bodies strong and swift.

Then, from the depths of the river, a voice rumbled through the water. It was deep and old, a voice that carried the weight of many seasons.

"Swift River," spoke Father River. "This is the beginning of the end for the little ones that swim with you. Those who find the yellow rock will grow to be more in number than there are salmon that swim. They will build great walls across my waters, and the salmon will no longer return. Your people will wait, but the salmon will never come. The river will grow sick and silent."

Swift River felt his heart grow heavy. No salmon? No flashing silver bodies leaping through the falls? No more food for his people? No more days spent gliding through the water, feeling at home with his finned brothers?

"But all is not lost," Father River continued. "One day, the people of the yellow rock will realize what they have done. And when that day comes, Swift River, your spirit must guide them to make things right. The salmon must return. The river must live again."

Swift River clutched the Heart of the River stone in his palm. He did not know how or when, but he knew what he must do. He would remember the warning. He would tell the story. And someday, whether in his own life or in the spirit of those who came after him, he would find a way to bring the salmon home.

As he surfaced, the sun broke through the clouds, its golden light shining on the rushing water. Swift River took a deep breath and whispered, "I will remember."

And the river whispered back, "Good."