The river that remembered blood

Richmond tasted of fire the first time I fed upon it. The air was thick with ambition, rebellion, and the restless pulse of a people who could not decide whether they were building or burning their own destiny. I came to the banks of the James River, drawn by the song of the falls. The water there does not merely flow; it tests. It tears at the stone and hums with defiance. I felt that defiance in the ground itself, and I lingered.

Long before the first brick was laid, I felt the footsteps of the Powhatan people along the river’s edge. They spoke to the current as one speaks to an old friend. Their songs wove into the wind, and I drank from their reverence. It was pure and steady, a melody of belonging. But then came ships from across the sea, and with them came hunger.

The settlers built their small outpost and called it Richmond, as if to name it after another river would make this one gentler. The James did not yield easily. It carried secrets, and I listened. I felt the pulse of revolution in the soil, a trembling that began with whispered promises of liberty. It was a sharp taste, bright and intoxicating. Yet behind it was something bitter, something chained.

When the fires of civil war rose, Richmond’s flavor changed. I remember the scent of smoke before the flames reached the sky. Cannons roared across the river, and the city trembled with pride and ruin. I feasted on every echo, every cry, every oath. The streets burned, and the Wayfinder grew heavy with memory. The ashes fed me well.

But even ashes can sprout life. The years that followed were quieter, though the ground still shivered with ghosts. The city rebuilt itself again and again, wearing its history like a scar it refused to hide. I walked its streets when the railroads hummed, when factories breathed, when artists began to shape beauty from pain. I tasted the courage of renewal, the stubborn hope that only those who have known fire can hold.

Richmond still hums with contradictions. It is both cradle and grave, hymn and warning. The James still carries whispers of the past, and sometimes, when the current bends just right, I hear them call my name.

I always listen.
I always remember.