Stony River

by Ciarra Montanna

  “You’re right.” She didn’t try to deny it. “He’d rather I hadn’t come; he said as much himself. I thought—I mean, I was looking forward to staying with him, but he’s grown up so hard and distant, he’s more like a stranger than a brother.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know.” Part of her mind was registering the way the water caught the light in different refractions on the calm and rough stretches, the wide and the restricted passages—some views so priceless she wanted to beg Joel to stop, stop! so she could enjoy them. But he was waiting for a reply, so she tried to concentrate on one. “He wasn’t like that growing up. He’s always been quiet, but he was considerate. I think part of why he changed had to do with the military school he was forced to attend. He hated it in the worst way; it was completely against his grain.”

  “The strict rules, the authority?”

  “Yes. He’s too much of his own thinker to have someone else telling him what to do,” she said loyally. “But our father wouldn’t let him switch schools. Fenn tried everything to get expelled, and I heard he got into some kind of trouble. But instead of kicking him out, they threatened to make him take the year over, so he straightened up and graduated. Then he refused the military career Bryce had lined up for him, and came straight out here.”

  The road had started the climb out of the canyon. Below them, the river was turning away into the heart of a complex set of ranges. Joel drove with his right hand loosely on the steering wheel, finding no demand in the steep, rock-studded road. “Sevana,” he ventured, “I’m sure it must be hard to find your own brother so cold. But at least you know it’s not you in particular he resents.”

  “What do you mean?” He had her attention.

  “It’s not just you—it’s his way with everybody. Maybe you can get through to him while you’re here. You have a better chance than anyone, living with him as you are.”

  She nodded, but was not convinced. She hoped he was right—but thought if he’d seen the extent of Fenn’s hardness she had, he might have less cause for optimism.

  As they neared the summit, the air blowing in the windows was noticeably colder, and the stunted trees a different variety—slender, conical spires with sharply pointed tops. They were alpine firs, Joel told her, when she commented how picturesque they were, like Christmas trees. They did look ornamental, but in reality their compact shape was the key to their survival: the short, down-sloping branches could support a heavy load of snow without breaking. He considered them the signature tree of the high country—along with the whitebark pines, which grew at even greater altitudes, up near timberline.

  “What do they look like?” she asked, since it was seeming unlikely she would ever be at timberline to see them in person.

  “Like trees twisted and tormented by the cruelest of elements,” was his surprising answer. “Trees made so strong by their struggle to dig into the rocky soil and brace against the strong winds, that even after they die, they stand solid year after year, as gnarled gray skeletons.” He stopped on the roadside. “Here’s the top.”

  He retrieved his fishing pole from the back while Sevana hid Fenn’s gun under the seat. She didn’t see the creek, but followed Joel unquestioningly into the forest.

  Suddenly the trees ended, and they were standing on the edge of an open meadow filled with purple-blue flowers that stretched level a good half-mile or better toward wooded hills and snowy peaks beyond. The radiant color—like the merging of violet and indigo between the bands of a rainbow—was unbroken, except for a few isolated alpine firs and one boulder that sat alone, as if out of place, near the heart of the glade.

  “Oh, how beautiful!” Sevana spoke in a hushed voice, as if not to disturb the idyllic scene.

  “It’s mountain camas.” Joel was not unaware of the effect his surprise had on her. It had been his intention all along to check out the bloom, but hadn’t told her so he could see her face when she witnessed it a first time. “It’s always a guess each year as to when it will flower, depending on snowmelt—but we’ve hit it right at its peak. See, almost every bud is open.”

  “It’s like something someone might wish for, but never expect to find.” Sevana was wholly enraptured. “Oh Joel, I want to live right here in the middle of all these flowers!”

  “It’d be a great cabin site,” he concurred. “Trouble is, it only blooms like this a couple of weeks out of the year.”

  Somehow, it made Sevana feel better to know the flowers would not last. Otherwise, how could she bear to stay away, knowing what she was missing each day up at the summit? But while she there, while she could, she wanted to involve herself in the beauty some way—embrace it and make it her own; so that when Joel said, “Let’s go out to that rock,” she stepped forward enthusiastically.

  They waded through the crowded flowers, the air faintly sweet with their incense. Close up, each petal was royal purple on one side and sky-blue on the other, accounting for the rich color that from a distance was neither all purple nor all blue. Nearing the boulder, Sevana saw that it lay next to a creek hidden before by the flowers—just one more discovery in a place fast unfolding as a fantasy, a storybook tale, or someone’s midnight dream. “Snowshoe Creek,” said Joel. While he strung up his pole on the bank, Sevana stepped onto the rock for a better look.

  From that slight vantage, she could see more of the creek as it glided with scarcely a ripple through the blue-gilded meadow in meandering, hairpin turns. The water was deep for its narrow width, but still so clear that every streak of glittery sand was visible on its dark-silt bottom. And scattered on the glassy surface, like flowers strewn across a bridal path, fragile blue petals were being silently borne away. “I wish I’d brought my sketchbook!” she exclaimed. She thought remorsefully of the expensive camera she had glibly donated to the school’s white-elephant party, because she had never learned how to operate its complicated meters and lenses—or even change the film.

  “How about fishing it instead?” Joel asked. “Ever fished before?”

  “No, I’ll just watch you.”

  Joel flipped his line forward and landed it expertly in the middle of a pool. He reeled in. And Sevana saw the silvery image of a fish dart through the water and strike at the fly before it scuttled away.

  “Did you see that?” she gasped, staring where she’d seen it last.

  “See if you can catch it.” Casting the line for her, he held out the pole.

  Sevana gamely stepped down and accepted the rod; but after reeling in with no sign of the fish, she tried to give it back. Joel, however, told her to try casting it once herself. Following his instructions, she drew the pole back and flipped it forward, looking expectantly for the fly to hit the water. After a moment it fell at her feet. She’d let go too soon, Joel explained, and said to try again.

  “Once more,” she agreed, winding up the mistake. “And then you can have your pole back. I don’t care if I fish or not. It’s enough just to be here, to see it.”

  “It’s a special place, all right. This big flat back in here, hidden away…” His voice trailed off as she made a wild cast and the line landed on the other bank.

  “Oh, no!” She tried to jerk it back, but the hook was lodged in a sturdy clump of swamp grass.

  “Let me try.” Joel held the pole high and gave a yank, but only succeeded in bending the rod.

  “I’ll get it.” She was already sitting down to take off her boots.

  “You don’t have to do that,” said Joel. “I can cut the line.”

  “Then you’ll lose your fly.” Cuffing her jeans, she was determined to rescue it.

  “It’s pure melted snow,” he cautioned, but she plunged in anyway.

  The creek was uncontestedly frosty-cold—but Sevana was on a mission, and through the water and onto the other bank before she could feel its full effect. She loosened the fly from the grass and tossed it his direction.

  “Thanks.” He reeled up the excess line. “Want to tr
y again?”

  “You go ahead,” she said. “Now that I’m wet, I think I’ll go wading.”

  While Joel cast again, Sevana went downstream to stay out of his way and went back in the water. The bone-chilling temperature was hard to bear, but the silty sand was soft as velvet on her feet. She waded around a curve, splashing with more liveliness than necessary against the numbing cold to show she wasn’t afraid of it. She continued down the flower-lined aisle until she couldn’t see Joel when she looked back for him. And still she kept on, each turn bringing some new vista, until rounding another bend she saw a big—her eyes flew open as she skidded to a stop—big, black-brown moose nosing a marshy area of grass right beside the creek. It was Sevana’s first real-life look at the gangly, horselike beast, and at that particular moment she would have much preferred to be high off the ground in a tree stand with Pete. And behind the cow moose, a lighter-brown calf on long, coltish legs stood watching her uncertainly.

  As soon as Sevana came into view, the cow’s head came up. She stared at Sevana for one motionless minute, then she curled back her lips and gave an angry snort, stomping her sharp front hooves.

  Sevana had never felt so small or exposed. All she could do was turn and run, and running against the current was like one of those dreams where your legs are weighted and you can’t move fast enough to get away. She thrashed through the water as fast as she could, thinking she would be safer there than on the bank. When she looked back, both moose were still watching her from where they stood. She kept going until she saw Joel ahead, and then she clambered out on solid ground and ran to him. “I saw a moose!” she panted. “A huge moose and a baby one.” She stood beside him dripping water and quivering with cold and fright.

  “It’s all right, Sevana,” he soothed her, glancing down the meadow. “It isn’t coming after you. But you were right to get out of there. Moose won’t hesitate to chase you if they think you are endangering their calves.”

  She nodded. “I stayed in the water to be safe.”

  Even though he tried not to, Joel had to smile at that. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t help. If there’s one place moose are faster than on land, it’s in the water.”

  Seeing the look on her face, he added, “Never mind, Sevana. They’re part of the landscape, and you have to get used to seeing them now and then. The thing to remember is, they are not particularly afraid of humans. More than once I’ve had to take the wide route around a moose that wouldn’t get out of my way.” He picked up a stick strung with small fish to show her. “I’m halfway to my limit.”

  He made his way upstream on a little path worn by fishermen over the years, and stopped at the next pool. Sevana hung back to give him space. She admired the straightness of his back, the agile way he cast, the mastery with which he guided his line—and it occurred to her perhaps not for the first time that he bore an uncanny resemblance to the artistic ideal of a man she carried in her mind. But she felt alone, as if he had forgotten she was there. Something still possessed his thoughts, she was sure, for she could sometimes catch a hollowness in his face, a disquiet look in his eye, when he didn’t know she was watching.

  Coming to a gooseneck bend of the creek, she settled on a little sandbar and stretched out her legs to dry her jeans in the sun. Glancing back occasionally to make sure the moose wasn’t in sight, she took a twig and traced the outline of the creek and hills in the sand. She tried to imprint on her mind the vivid expanse of flowers that at first glance resembled a calm lake reflecting the clear blue of the sky…the black-green alpine firs jabbing the passing fair-weather clouds with their needlelike spires…the yellow pollen sprinkled like golddust on the slow-moving water.

  Joel came back with more trout on his stick. “That looks good, even in sand,” he remarked, with a nod at her sketch. He told her he was on his last fish, and cast from where he stood to try his luck. “Got one playing with the fly,” he said almost at once. “Here, take the pole.”

  She stood obediently, and had no sooner received the fishing rod than she felt a hard tug on the line. Joel gave a whoop. “You’ve got it! Hold steady and reel it in. That’s it!”

  So Sevana reeled in with Joel’s moment-by-moment instructions, and landed the flashing, flopping little brook trout in the grass. And she did feel proud, and didn’t mind Joel was so excited, that she’d caught her first fish.

  Then Joel telescoped his pole saying that made his limit, and he wasn’t going to give the warden any more reason to write him a ticket than the fact that he’d let her fish on his license. They strolled back across the peaceful meadow. A wind was riffling through the trees, a lonesome sound, and Sevana was reminded how alone they were—so far away in the mountains by themselves.

  “Storm’s moving in,” Joel remarked, studying a pale haze on the farthest horizon. “By my guess, it’ll be raining by tomorrow.”

  The sky didn’t look very threatening to Sevana, but neither did she think it wise to question a mountainman like Joel, who observed the skies and even recorded the weather day by day.

  “Thank you,” she said, picking a few stalks of camas before they entered the trees. “I’ve never seen anything lovelier in my life.”

  “I only wish I could show you the high country as well,” Joel said with a frown.

  They had reached the road when a camper truck came by fast over the summit. It was caked with mud even though the road was dusty-dry. “Where does this road go?” Sevana asked, after the truck had disappeared in a chalky swirl of dust.

  “It’s more like a cat-trail from here on, but it eventually ties in with the highway north. It’s faster to go around by the main roads, so it’s mostly used by sportsmen and recreationists, or someone who saw it on a map and doesn’t know better.” Joel let her in the truck.

  Riding down from the summit, Sevana studied the heights of the ranges before her, the depths of the valley, the windings of the river—all so unknown and so tantalizing; and thought surely in coming to Stony River, she had stumbled into a country not belonging to the everyday world. And the keen-eyed man beside her, who knew exactly when the flowers would bloom and kept an annual appointment to see them—he was no more ordinary than that land. He was like no one she had ever known.

  Smoke was rising from the stovepipe when Joel let Sevana off at the homestead. He urged her to take half the fish, but she got out of the truck before he could insist, not wanting to take his dinner. And it was a good thing, because when she walked in the house, Fenn was already attending to a sizzling skillet.

  “Hello, Fenn,” she said sunnily, laying the revolver on the table. “I’m sorry I had your gun. I hope you didn’t need it.”

  He guffawed. “I have others.”

  She added the long-stemmed flowers to the centerpiece jar. “Joel took me to Snowshoe Meadow, and it was so beautiful! Have you ever seen it in bloom?”

  “A time or two,” he said carelessly—but there was just a shade of feeling in his reply that made her curious. She wondered if he had ever taken a girl up there to see it, but dismissed the idea as too hard to imagine.

  “I even saw two moose!” she continued, bubbling with enthusiasm—for now that she was home, the memory was thrilling rather than scary. “And don’t tell the warden, but Joel let me catch a fish.” Then she caught sight of the contents of the skillet. “Oh!” she said jubilantly. “I see you had some luck, too!” The pan was crowded with trout.

  “Brookies from Avalanche Creek.” Fenn sounded smug despite himself. “They’re small, but they’re the best eating.”

  Fenn was right about the trout. They ate the mild, delectable white meat with boiled potatoes and cornbread, and Sevana savored each bite. It had been a day of new, wonderful things.

  That evening Fenn sat on the porch with a ratchet, and replaced the sixty worn-down cleats in each of the spiked boots he wore when walking on felled logs. But Sevana stayed inside and tried to set down a watercolor impression of Snowshoe Meadow. Soon it was done. It was not the best pictu
re or the most precise—but it would help her remember it until she painted a more exact representation of it someday. It had been a special place; she would be happy whenever she thought back on it.

  CHAPTER 10

  That very night, as Joel predicted, rain set in. When Sevana looked out her window in the early dawn, she saw nothing but fog where the mountain range should have been, and a misty rain was falling. It proved to be a cold, gray day and she kept the stove going, taking advantage of the heated oven to tackle some cooking projects.

  She leafed through the cookbook for recipes that didn’t look too long or confusing. Why she hadn’t taken any culinary classes in school was beyond her. Now she was having to learn on the job, and under less than ideal circumstances. Almost every recipe contained ingredients, usually half or more, that Fenn didn’t have because they were too perishable for his system of refrigeration, or couldn’t be found in a place like the Cragmont mercantile, or—and she suspected this was the biggest reason—he didn’t go to town often enough to keep stocked up. So even as she taught herself to cook, she was also learning to make do.

  She settled on a recipe for cobbler that called for a can of peaches, of which she knew there was one in the cupboard. But for a can opener, all she could find was an abbreviated kind without handles. After trying every combination she could contrive, she was no closer to figuring out how to work the perplexing little gadget. Everything about it seemed backwards and uselessly loose. Stymied, she gave up and proceeded to punch holes around the rim of the can with a hammer and nail, then used a screwdriver to bang out the remaining connections, getting roundly splashed by a jet of fruit syrup when the last piece of metal gave way.

  In the afternoon with the cobbler cooling, dinner rolls and oatmeal cookies baked, and a pot of split-pea soup simmering on the stovetop, she borrowed a mackintosh of Fenn’s that reached almost to her boots and went outdoors. It had stopped raining, except for the water dripping out of the trees, but fog still lay closed-in upon the mountainside—only the nearest trees could be seen through it. The silence, too, hung close, and the light seemed more like dusk than day.