The Last Ferryman of Lohit

The Naga's Reckoning

The Lohit’s current dragged Bijoy’s ferry downstream, a relentless, watery hand pulling them towards the shadowed bends near the Tamreswari ruins. The rain, though easing, left a heavy mist that clung to the water, blurring the already indistinct banks into spectral shapes. He fumbled with the engine, his fingers numb with cold and a dread that had settled deep in his bones. Every twist of a wire, every futile pull of the starter cord, felt like a desperate prayer against the inevitable. Jaganath’s words, “They found me,” echoed in the storm’s fading roar, a grim prophecy.

Hours blurred. The river, a living entity, seemed to narrow, its force increasing as it funneled them into a section Bijoy knew well, yet feared. This was where the Lohit truly deepened, where ancient legends spoke of the Naga Raja’s underwater palace, a place of immense power and forgotten treasures. He scanned the swirling mist, his eyes aching, searching for any sign of human presence, any boat, any light. Nothing but the grey, churning water and the looming, indistinct shapes of the jungle. Then, through a momentary thinning of the mist, he saw it: a faint, flickering light on the bank, barely visible amidst the dense foliage. It wasn't the steady glow of a village lamp, but a quick, irregular flash, like a torch being moved hurriedly.

He gripped Jaganath’s journal tighter. The light was precisely where the old man had indicated, near the ruined temple. His heart hammered. If Jaganath had been silenced, these were the men who did it. The river, with its relentless current, was bringing him directly to them. He thought of his father, the steady hand on the tiller, the quiet wisdom about respecting the river, not just fearing it. Bijoy knew he couldn’t turn back, even if his engine started. The river had chosen its course for him.

As they drifted closer, the jungle sounds began to pierce the river’s roar: the distant thud of a pickaxe, muffled shouts, the guttural rumble of a generator. The light grew stronger, revealing a makeshift encampment on a narrow strip of land below the eroded temple embankment. Tents, a few tarp shelters, and two figures bent over something on the ground, illuminated by a sputtering kerosene lamp. Bijoy steered Jaganath’s empty boat, still lashed to his own, towards a cluster of submerged rocks and driftwood, hoping to merge with the river's debris and remain unseen. He cut the rope connecting Jaganath's boat to his, letting it drift silently past the camp, a ghost on the water. It was a risky gamble, but a necessary diversion. If they saw a blood-stained boat, they might assume the current had done their work for them.

He waited, his own ferry hidden in the shadows, heart pounding against his ribs. The figures on the bank were now clearly visible, digging frantically at the base of the embankment, near what looked like an ancient, half-submerged stone relief. Bijoy squinted. It was the same carving Jaganath had described, the intertwined snakes, the ancient protectors. These men were desecrating it. One of them, a bulky figure with a thick beard, straightened up, holding something glistening in his hand. Gold? Or an ancient artefact?

Suddenly, the river itself seemed to recoil. A deep, resonant tremor ran through the water, not like an earthquake, but something far more primal, a groan from the very bedrock. The digging ceased. The bulky man dropped whatever he held, staring wide-eyed at the water. A wave, unlike any Bijoy had ever seen, began to form, not a cresting whitecap, but a dark, powerful surge that seemed to rise from the river's depths, pushing a wall of water towards the bank. It wasn't a flood, but a focused, almost deliberate swell.

Bijoy remembered Jaganath's final entry: “The blood of the old ones. The river is stirring.” He understood now. The ‘blood’ wasn't literal, but symbolic. The river’s ancient spirit, its Naga Raja, was not a myth for these men to scoff at, but a living, breathing force. They had dug too deep, disturbed something ancient, something that had long slumbered beneath the Lohit’s powerful currents. The river was reclaiming its own.

The dark wave crashed into the embankment with terrifying force, sweeping away the tents, the tools, everything in its path. The men scattered, screaming, swallowed by the churning waters. Bijoy watched, horrified, as the current tore at the exposed digging site, revealing more of the ancient stone. The bulky man, caught by the wave, was dragged into the river’s maw, his desperate cries cut short. In moments, the camp was gone, the river flowing over the disturbed earth as if to erase all traces of their intrusion. The light from the kerosene lamp, now submerged, flickered once, then died.

Silence descended, broken only by the Lohit’s relentless murmur. Bijoy was left adrift, his engine still dead, but the immediate threat gone. The river had delivered its own justice. He looked at the empty space where the camp had been, then at Jaganath’s journal, its pages now water-stained, but its message chillingly clear. Jaganath hadn't been killed by the river; he had been silenced by these men, probably thrown into the current, his body lost to the very depths he sought to protect. But the river, in its own ancient wisdom, had remembered.

As dawn broke, painting the eastern sky in hues of deep purple and gold, Bijoy spotted a distant village on the bank. He would have to paddle, use his hands, his spirit, to guide his ferry there. The Lohit had shown him its true face that night: not just a provider, but a protector, a force of nature that demanded respect, not exploitation. He understood his father’s legacy now, not just as a ferryman, but as a guardian. He would carry Jaganath’s story, a silent promise to the river. The engine was still dead, but a new resolve had ignited within him. Bijoy, the last ferryman, would now truly understand the depths of the Lohit, and respect its ancient heart.