The Stone of Herakleitos (Η Πέτρα του Ηράκλειτου)

-From The Meletic Tales.

The ancient river flowed like a ribbon through the heart of Anatolia, winding past groves of cedar and groves of memory. Its waters never stilled, never slept, and never waited. It had watched civilisations rise and fall, heard prayers of war and pleas for peace, carried bones, seeds, songs and forgotten names.

Each dawn, without fail, a man named Homeros walked to its nearest edge.

Homeros was a fisherman, even though he did not sell his catch. His nets were humble, his boat older than most of the town’s children and he spoke rarely. He fished not for livelihood, but for rhythm.

‘The river knows’, he would murmur, although few ever asked what it knew.

He lived in a modest stone hut just beyond the tree line. Birds roosted in his roof thatch. His only possessions of value were a curved bronze hook and a single linen robe his mother had once sewn. His face bore the weather’s lessons, and his hands had forgotten softness.

There was something in his eyes that unsettled some people and intrigued others. A depth. As though he had watched something most people could not see and had chosen to keep its secret.

One morning, whilst dragging his net along a shallow bend in the Halys River, he spotted something glinting beneath the surface. It was not a fish, nor a bone, but a stone—round, smooth and strangely luminous.

He pulled it from the water. It fit neatly in the palm of his hand. A river stone, but unlike any he had seen. Not in size or colour, but in the mark etched across its surface. Not scratched, not chipped, but carved—deliberately.

It was a symbol. A kind of spiral, yet not quite. A motion without beginning, like water folding inward upon itself.

Homeros turned it in his hand. He felt no fear, only silence. He carried it home.

That evening, as the wind stirred the reeds and the crickets sang of changing light, Homeros placed the stone on the small table beside his door. He stared at it long into the night.

As he stared, memories came, but not in order.

He saw his father laughing by the fire—and then his own younger self, weeping as the same fire turned to ash.

He remembered a storm from his boyhood, the smell of cedar as it cracked under lightning—and then, suddenly, he was in his boat at age thirty, singing to the moon in the same storm’s echo.

Time moved strangely. ‘The stone remembers’, he whispered.

Or perhaps it was he who was remembering differently.

The days passed. Each morning he held the stone before walking to the river. Each evening he set it down with the reverence of a man returning a scroll to a sacred shrine.

One day, a curious child from the village named Kleitos followed him.

‘Fisherman Homeros!’ The boy called out. ‘Why do you always walk alone?’

Homeros turned. ‘Because silence is a friend that speaks wisely’.

Kleitos frowned. ‘My father says you talk like a poet’.

Homeros smiled. ‘A poet speaks in images. I speak in currents’.

‘What do you mean?’

He paused, then reached into his pouch and took out the stone.

Kleitos' eyes widened. ‘It shines!’

‘Only when the light shifts’.

‘What is it?’

‘A river stone, but not just that. It bears the mark of change’.

Kleitos peered closely. ‘Is it magical?’

Homeros laughed gently. ‘Only if you fear awareness. Or resist motion’.

‘That doesn’t make sense’.

‘It didn’t to me either, until I stopped trying to hold on to the moment and began to let the moment hold me’, Homeros replied.

Kleitos blinked. ‘You speak like a riddle’.

‘Because the river is a riddle. You never step in the same one twice’.

‘What?’

‘Come, walk with me. You’ll see what I mean’.

They walked along the river, the boy asking questions, the man answering only with reflections. By the time they returned, Kleitos was quiet.

‘Can I hold the stone again?’ He asked.

‘Not yet. You must first listen to the river without trying to answer it’.

The seasons changed, and Homeros changed with them.

He no longer marked the days by the sun but by the colour of the wind. The stone remained beside his door, yet he now knew it was never his.

It was part of the river. and through it, he began to see life differently.

He would watch a leaf fall and know it had already risen again elsewhere. He would catch a fish and release it, understanding that taking was no longer his way.

One evening, as the stars stretched across the darkening sky, he dreamt. In the dream, he stood in the middle of the river, the water up to his chest. All around him, figures from his life passed by—some he loved, some he had forgotten, some not yet born. They were carried by the current, whispering words he could not decipher.

Then a voice—neither male nor female, neither distant nor near—spoke: ‘You are not the same as you were a breath ago. You are river. You are ripple. You are return’.

He awoke, and his eyes were wet. He held the stone to his chest and whispered, ‘I see now. I am the flow. Not the fisherman. Not the net. Not even the name I carry’.

Word spread through the nearby villages that Homeros had become a divine mystic. People began to visit.

They brought questions. About fate. About grief. About change, but Homeros never offered answers. Only stories.

He would hand them the stone, let them sit with it for a while, and then tell them to walk by the river until they heard something from within.

‘What does it say?’ They would ask.

‘It says nothing, but in its silence, you may hear what you need', he smiled as he answered.

Some called it madness. Others returned weeks later in tears, changed.

One woman, who had lost her child, returned after a moon’s passing and said, ‘The river weeps with me, but it also carries me. I am not left behind’.

A potter came and spoke of time lost and dreams abandoned. After an afternoon by the river, he said, ‘I cannot hold clay the same way. I no longer shape it—I listen to how it wishes to become’.

Homeros would nod. Never proud. Only present.

One crisp morning in his sixty-third year, Homeros sat at the river’s edge and watched the fog lift.

Kleitos—older—came and sat beside him.

‘I’ve been travelling, Homeros. To Miletos and to Sardis. I've studied the stars and listened to teachers, but none speak like you with such elegance’.

Homeros chuckled. ‘Because they are trying to teach. I am only remembering’.

‘Remembering what?’

He handed Kleitos the stone. ‘I think it is time’.

Kleitos took it carefully.

‘Why me?’

‘Because you no longer ask it for answers. You only ask it to be. That is enough’.

Kleitos looked at the spiral engraving. ‘Do you know who carved it?’

Homeros shook his head. ‘I once heard a name carried by the river wind. Herakleitos. A thinker from long ago. He walked the rivers of Ionia and whispered that all things flow. That change is the only constant. Perhaps he left this for those willing to sit still long enough to notice’.

Kleitos nodded. ‘What will you do now, Homeros?’

‘Nothing more. I am part of the stream. I shall let it carry me where it wills’.

They sat in silence, the stone warm between them.

The river murmured softly as the sun dipped lower, casting molten gold across the water’s surface. The light flickered and shifted, reflecting their quiet thoughts.

Kleitos shifted on the smooth stones beneath him and broke the silence. ‘Do you ever fear being carried too far? Losing yourself in the flow?’

Homeros considered the question, eyes fixed on the shimmering current. ‘Once, I did. I clung to the past, to names and faces, to moments that had already passed. I feared that letting go meant forgetting, losing meaning, but the river taught me otherwise’.

‘How so?’

‘Because the river carries everything, yet it remains itself. It is both change and continuity. You are like the river, Kleitos. Changing with each breath, yet always you’.

Kleitos frowned. ‘It sounds like a paradox’.

‘Life is full of them. To understand one, you must accept the other’, Homeros smiled as he responded.

A cool breeze stirred the reeds, sending ripples across the water. For a moment, the two sat as if the world had paused to listen.

‘When I first held the stone, I thought it was a key. A secret to be unlocked. Now I see it is more like a mirror. It shows us what is already inside—the endless becoming’, Homeros continued.

Kleitos traced the spiral on the stone’s surface. ‘What does the spiral mean to you?’

‘It means the journey has no beginning or end. That all things fold into each other—past into present, self into other, life into death. The spiral reminds me that I am never separate from the river, the earth or even time itself’.

‘That sounds… comforting, but it is also a little frightening’.

Homeros nodded slowly. ‘Fear is natural when faced with the unknown, but to live fully, we must learn to walk with fear, not run from it’.

Kleitos looked out over the water, watching leaves drift lazily downstream. ‘Do you think I shall ever understand this as you do?’

‘Understanding is not a destination, Kleitos. It is the river itself—always moving, always unfolding. You will find your own way in time’.

The sky deepened to a soft indigo, and stars began to shimmer faintly above.

‘Tell me, Homeros, how do you live with knowing that nothing lasts? That everyone you love will eventually be gone?’ Kleitos asked studiously.

Homeros was silent for a moment, then spoke with gentle certainty. ‘I live by remembering that everything is a moment in the river’s flow. Nothing is lost; it is simply transformed. My father is in the wind, in the stones, in the water that runs through my hands. When I touch the river, I touch him. We do not truly part, because all things are connected’.

Kleitos swallowed hard, feeling a tender ache rise in his chest.

‘What of yourself? What will happen to Homeros when the river takes you?’ He asked.

Homeros smiled, eyes reflecting the starlight. ‘I shall become the river, as we all do. A ripple, a drop, a part of the whole. There is no end to who I am. Just change’.

The silence between them deepened, comfortable and full. Then Kleitos broke it again, this time with a tentative laugh. ‘I suppose you would say that trying to hold onto anything is like trying to hold water in your hands.’

Homeros chuckled. ‘Exactly. It feels so hard to let go’.

‘The hardest lessons are often the most important, but you are not alone. The river flows through all of us. When you learn to listen, it will guide you’, said Homeros

Kleitos looked at the stone again, feeling its subtle warmth beneath his fingers. ‘Do you think the stone will always be here?’

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps it will be carried away by the river, to teach another soul. The stone is a reminder, not an answer’.

A soft splash nearby startled them both. A fish broke the surface and disappeared with a flick of its tail.

‘Look there, the fish swims in the current, not against it. We can learn from that’, said Homeros.

Kleitos smiled, feeling the weight of the moment settle in his heart.

They remained seated as the night grew deeper and cooler.

After a while, Homeros stood and stretched. ‘Come, Kleitos. Let us walk along the river’s edge a while’.

The two began to stroll slowly, stepping over smooth stones and patches of wild grass.

‘Tell me. Did you always know about the natural flow? Or did you learn it from the stone?' Kleitos enquired.

‘I learnt it from the river first. The stone simply helped me see more clearly. It showed me that all things are connected and that change is the only constant within the order of the Logos', Homeros professed.

‘It sounds like wisdom is in accepting change’.

‘Yes. And in finding peace within it’.

They paused at a bend where the river curved sharply around a cluster of ancient olive trees.

Homeros plucked a small twig and threw it into the current. Kleitos watched it float and swirl downstream, carried effortlessly by the water.

‘Like that twig. We cannot control where the river takes us. but we can trust that the current will carry us safely'. Homeros told him.

Kleitos nodded thoughtfully. ‘I want to trust, but sometimes I feel afraid. Afraid of losing who I am’.

‘Who you are is not fixed. You are like the river—always changing, always yourself. To fear change is to fear life itself’, said Homeros wisely.

The two men stood in silence again, watching the river’s endless journey.

‘Do you remember the first time you held the stone?’ Kleitos asked suddenly.

‘Yes’, Homeros said with a smile. ‘It was a moment of great confusion and clarity all at once. I felt as though the river had whispered a secret in my ear, though I did not yet understand’.

‘And now?’

‘Now I understand a little more each day. That life is not about clinging to what was, but about moving with what is’.

Kleitos looked at the stone and then back at the river, a quiet resolve growing in him. ‘Thank you, Homeros. For sharing the stone and its moral lessons. I understand the order of the Logos in the cosmos'.

Homeros placed a hand on Kleitos' shoulder. ‘Thank you for listening. That is the greatest gift of all’.

They continued their walk, the moon rising to cast silver light on the water.

As they moved, Homeros spoke again, softer this time. ‘There is a time to hold and a time to release. The river knows this. It gathers in pools and rushes over rapids. It carves through stone and nurtures the land. So too must we learn when to be still and when to move’.

Kleitos listened, feeling the words settle within like seeds waiting to bloom.

‘Will you come to the river forever?’ He asked.

‘For as long as I am needed. When I am not, the river will carry me home’, Homeros replied.

They returned to the spot where the stone had first come into Homeros’ hands so many years before.

Homeros picked up the stone once more and turned it over thoughtfully.

‘Perhaps it is time’, he said.

‘Time for what?’ Kleitos asked, heart pounding.

‘To return the stone to the river’, Homeros said.

Before Kleitos could reply, Homeros stepped to the water’s edge and gently let the stone slip from his fingers.

They watched as it floated a moment, then sank beneath the surface, settling among the smooth stones of the riverbed.

‘The stone has become one with the river’, Homeros said quietly.

‘And so have you’, Kleitos answered.

Homeros smiled and said, feeling a lightness in his chest. ‘Remember, Kleitos, you are part of this flow too. Carry the river’s lesson wherever you go’.

Kleitos nodded, eyes glistening. They stood together as the river sang its ancient song beneath the stars.

In that moment, Kleitos understood fully. That to live is to flow. To change is to be alive, and to be part of the river is to be part of everything.

Homeros passed away in the early morning of a springtide, just as the dew began to cling to the reeds and the river whispered of beginnings. Kleitos buried him beside the river, beneath a gnarled tree whose roots had touched the same current for generations. He placed the stone atop the grave, not to seal it—but to begin again.

Travellers came. They heard of the old fisherman who spoke in ripples and riddles. Of a stone that bore the mark of natural flow. Some came out of curiosity. Others out of despair. They heard of the legendary riverstone that once belonged to Herakleitos.

Kleitos did not claim to be a teacher. He only listened.

Sometimes he let them hold the stone. Sometimes not. Sometimes he walked beside them and said nothing for hours.

Always, the river spoke. Not in language, but in rhythm. Not in meaning, but in presence.

The stone remained—a reminder that nothing stays. That all is flow.

That change is the only constant, and beneath the wide Anatolian sky, beside the eternal river, the legacy of Herakleitos endured.

The stone did not resist the river’s current. Over time, its carved spiral faded, worn by seasons, by wind, by the brushing of leaves and the soft tumbling of water. Even as the lines disappeared, their meaning deepened—etched now not on stone alone, but within the mind of Homeros, and others like him.

Children would come to the banks where the fisherman once sat. They would not always know the name Herakleitos. They might not speak of the Logos, or muse on the unity of opposites, but they would sit still beside the river. They would feel time pass differently. They would sense that to listen—not to speak—was a kind of wisdom.

Some of them years later, would return in silence to the river’s edge. They would place a hand into the water, and in that gesture—simple, unadorned—they would understand:

They, too, were changing. They, too, were part of the river.

Even the names would one day be forgotten—Homeros, Herakleitos, the river itself, but the current would remain. As long as one soul paused to feel it—beneath sky, beside water, within breath—the teaching would continue. Not in temples or scrolls, but in presence. In the natural flow. In the stillness that carries everything forth without holding on.

The river would never be the same twice, and neither would those persons who returned to it. Some brought questions, others brought silence, but all left lighter—carrying only what the flow allowed. No monuments were built for Herakleitos, no shrine raised above the current. His memory moved like the water: ungraspable, yet always near.

Even the vibrant winds seemed to echo his thought—carrying leaves, thoughts and time together. And so the stone, once marked with a spiral, lived on not through preservation, but through erosion—its truth deepening as it disappeared. The river remembered, and in remembering, kept changing. As all things must.

Recommend Write a ReviewReport