He sets about digging a new riverbed at a right angle from the river, trailing his spade all the way through the earth to the cliff. It takes him all day. By the time he’s done he can barely lift his arms. The river begins to siphon off into its new bed, and he holds his breath, worried that it’ll suddenly seep into the earth. But as he begins to lay the stones across its old path the new river blooms like a strange flower.

He gives a loud ‘whoop!’ of joy to see the river taking hold in the land, funnelling away, undefeated – brilliant in its new life. He wonders if this is how women feel when they’ve given birth: a sense of awe at something that now lives because of you.

He sits on a tree stump to pour a cup of tea from his flask, triumphant and starving. How stupid not to accept Aurelia’s offer of a slice of lemon cake this morning; he is ravenous. The light is already fading. Even so he can make out the red blur of Granhus through the trees. Why on earth did the original owners build the house so far back from the cliff? Why not build it where the view is best? They would have to have moved the river, he thinks. As Ragnar said, the river’s probably been here for hundreds of years. He figures that the builders of that old house had had the same dilemma as he faces now. To move the river or leave it be.

He finishes his tea, rinses out the cup in the water and then gives in to a boyish temptation to drink from his new river. He removes a glove and scoops a hand in, both knees in the snow, brings the water to his lips. It tastes beautifully cold and fresh. He should think about connecting the river to their water supply.

When he lowers his hand again beneath the surface, he finds he can’t withdraw it. His hand is suddenly held in the water, clasped, clutched tightly. Not trapped under a rock, not caught somehow on a network of twigs – gripped by the water itself from the wrist down. It’s as though it’s encased in steel, not water. His fingers move pitifully against the stones on the riverbed. Maybe his wedding ring has caught on a bindweed. He clasps his right hand around his left wrist and pulls, but his hand doesn’t shift. It feels as though his wrist is lanced tightly by the surface, sucked down by an invisible force.

He wonders whether he should laugh or call out for help. He hesitates, unsure, but then something catches his eye – a reflection on the river’s surface, illuminated by the rising moon.

Someone is here to help.