Chapter 245: The Aburra River Taint

The Aburrá River, once a crystalline ribbon reflecting the high Andean sky, had begun to surrender its purity to the march of industry.

As it wound past the outskirts of the settlement, the water no longer ran clear over the stones. Instead, it carried a milky, ghost-like pallor—the chalky signature of Carlos’s Roman cement works, leaving a fine, pale silt clinging to the reeds like a premature shroud.

Near the distilleries, the air grew heavy with the cloying, fermented scent of flavored spirits. Where the copper stills were washed, the current took on a strange, oily shimmer—a thin, prismatic film resting on the surface like spilled ink.

Further downstream, where the small steel forges burned through the night, the riverbanks were stained with the burnt-orange hue of iron waste. The rhythmic clanging of hammers seemed to echo through the water itself, which now carried a faint metallic tang—foreign to the cattle that knelt to drink.

It was not yet a dead river.

But it was no longer a healthy one.

The exhalations of the furnaces and the dregs of the vats had begun to choke the life from the moss-covered banks, dulling the valley’s vibrant green into a muted, soot-stained gray.

To a man of the Enlightenment, it was the scent of progress.

To the river, it was the beginning of a slow and silent poisoning.

Isabella frowned as she looked at the water.

“It smells bad,” she said simply.

Carlos stood beside her, his gaze fixed on the current. A deep frown settled on his face as he took in the damage.

The river was vast—but it was changing.

And not for the better.

From what he had gathered from Francisco, there were already plans to expand industrial production. But if only a few factories had caused this much damage…

What would happen when more arrived?

Carlos slowly crouched near the riverbank.

“It is understandable why the people of Antioquia are upset,” he said. “If this continues… things will only get worse.”

Isabella looked at him.

“Did my brother say anything about stopping the dirt?” she asked. “I heard you sent him a letter to ask for help before”

Carlos nodded.

“Yes. He has a proposal.”

He glanced at the water as he spoke.

“He calls it successive filtration. It is similar in principle to the distillation towers we use to purify alcohol—but instead of heat, it relies on layers of materials.”

He gestured with his hand.

“Charcoal, river sand, and pozzolana. He believes these can filter most of the impurities from the water used in the factories.”

Isabella listened attentively.

“That sounds useful,” she said.

“It is,” Carlos replied. “But it comes with a cost.”

He stood up, brushing dust from his hands.

“To build these systems, each factory would need to shut down temporarily.”

His expression hardened slightly.

“And each factory employs hundreds of people.”

He began counting on his fingers.

“Laborers who extract raw materials. Transporters who move goods. Merchants who sell them.”

He looked at Isabella.

“If we close the factories—even for a short time—we risk provoking unrest.”

Isabella frowned, thinking.

“Maybe if you explain to them that it is for the river… they will understand,” she suggested. “They live here too. I doubt they want to live beside a disrty smelly river.”

Carlos shook his head gently.

“Not everyone can afford that kind of understanding,” he said.

He looked back at the water.

“For many, losing a month’s wages is not an inconvenience—it is a threat to survival.”

His voice grew more serious.

“Some families—especially among the indigenous workers—depend entirely on these jobs to eat.”

He paused.

“They may care about the river… but a poisoned river will not kill them today.”

He looked at Isabella.

“Hunger will.”

Isabella frowned for a moment.

Then suddenly, her eyes lit up.

“Then why not use the workers during that month to build the towers?” she suggested. “That way they can still earn money, and you won’t need to hire outsiders.”

Carlos considered the idea, then nodded slowly.

“That is a good proposal,” he admitted. “But there is a complication.”

He crossed his arms.

“The way construction work is paid is different from factory labor. Builders are usually paid by the hours they work. If they don’t work on a given day, they don’t get paid.”

He glanced at the river.

“Factory workers, however, are paid monthly. It may seem like a small difference, but in construction, progress is not constant.”

He gestured with his hand, as if outlining a structure.

“You must prepare the foundation before anything else. That alone can take several days—sometimes a full week—during which many workers would have little or nothing to do.”

He sighed.

“That means lost wages.”

Carlos began walking along the riverbank, taking Isabella’s hand as they moved.

Around them, people continued their daily routines—some washing clothes in the murky water, others filling containers… and a few even drinking directly from the river.

Carlos felt a faint headache forming.

Isabella noticed as well, her expression tightening with discomfort.

“Why are they drinking that water?” she asked. “Don’t they know how dangerous it is?”

Carlos watched them for a moment before answering.

“Some do not care,” he said. “Others are too tired—or too busy—to walk upstream for cleaner water.”

He shook his head slightly.

“And some simply do not understand the danger.”

His tone grew more serious.

“From what Francisco has learned from London, many illnesses are born from tainted rivers—especially those defiled by industry.”

He looked back at the current.

“For now, the taint is not severe enough to cause alarm. But people are already drinking it.”

He paused.

“If we expand the factories… and this continues…”

His voice lowered.

“We may face epidemics.”

Isabella’s expression hardened.

“Then we should teach them,” she said firmly. “If they understand the risks, they may stop.”

She frowned slightly.

“Some may have heard stories about sickness… but stories are not enough to convince people.”

She looked at Carlos.

“If we truly try—if we explain it properly—they might listen.”

Carlos’s eyes lit up.

“That is a very good idea.”

He began thinking aloud.

“We can print small newspapers explaining the risks. And we can send some of our officials to speak directly to the people—in taverns, in markets, even outside the churches.”

He nodded to himself.

“We do not need to convince everyone. If even a portion of the population changes their behavior… it would already make a difference.”

Isabella smiled, energized.

“We could also ask Grandmother María for knowledge from the indigenous people,” she added. “Many descendants have lost parts of their ancestral knowledge.”

She gestured with enthusiasm.

“If we include that knowledge, we could help preserve it—and maybe even encourage others who still remember it to share what they know.”

Carlos frowned slightly at that suggestion.

“You must be careful with that,” he said.

Isabella blinked.

“A lot of people might claim knowledge they do not truly possess,” he continued. “Some may spread false or dangerous ideas, pretending they come from indigenous traditions.”

He looked at her seriously.

“And not all traditional knowledge is safe for general use.”

“Have you heard of curare?”

Isabella nodded.

“Grandmother María mentioned it,” she said. “A poison used by indigenous hunters. She said that in small doses it can be used as medicine… but she never explained further.”

Carlos nodded.

“And for good reason.”

He looked back at the river.

“Using something like that safely requires deep knowledge—knowledge developed over generations.”

He shook his head.

“For us… or even for many indigenous groups unfamiliar with it… it could be deadly.”

He paused before continuing.

“And there are hundreds of such treatments across New Granada.”

He looked at Isabella.

“So we cannot accept every remedy we hear about.”

His tone became firm.

“Not without testing it first.”

Isabella nodded thoughtfully.

“Then for now, we should limit ourselves to what we truly understand,” she said. “We can leave the rest for the future—when we have the means to study it properly.”

She paused, as if recalling something, then looked back at him.

“Why don’t we ask the workers to spend that month teaching this safe knowledge instead?” she continued. “And helping to print it as well.”

Her eyes brightened slightly.

“From what I understand, most people in the factories must know at least how to read and write—since they follow instructions. They could help spread the information while you focus on building the filtration towers.”

She tilted her head.

“And to make it easier… you could do it one factory at a time.”

Carlos listened carefully, then gave a slow nod.

“That is a better approach,” he admitted. “But there is still a small problem.”

He glanced toward the distant buildings.

“Most workers only know a handful of words. Teaching everyone to read and write properly is not easy.”

He sighed lightly.

“The majority prefer to learn by observation rather than through text.”

Then, after a brief pause, his expression shifted.

“But that does not make it impossible.”

He looked back at Isabella.

“We can take a few days before sending them out—teach them just enough so they can explain the essentials to others.”

A faint smile appeared on his face.

“They do not need to be scholars… only clear enough to be understood.”

Isabella smiled, satisfied.

At least now, her father would not have to carry the burden alone.

As they continued walking along the river, the air still carried that faint, unpleasant scent—but something between them had changed.

What had begun as concern…

Was now becoming a plan.

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