Stony River

by Ciarra Montanna

  “All your notes were true. Perhaps I could teach you a song or two in the time we have, before I leave for the wilderness.”

  “I’d like that.” But her spirits fell at the mention of his going. There were mysteries in him she saw and wished to learn, but it seemed time would be snatched away before she could.

  The sun on the mountains was changing, a softer light making deep the etched surfaces of rock and snow. The three peaks loomed solemn, enigmatic—captivating. Blazingstar skittered up to Joel and he tousled his soft wool, but he was not looking at the lamb but across to the mountains with a distant expression. A low wind sang, a creek tumbled somewhere far away, and all else was silent.

  “Oh, the mountains!” Sevana spoke impulsively out of her thoughts. “Just to see them fills me with a restlessness, as if I hear in them a strange, faraway call.”

  His eyes rested on hers. “I know that call,” he said.

  “Do you?” She was excited that he could understand. “Oh, Joel, if only we could go far into that country, until we found what was calling to us!”

  He smiled slightly. “Do you think we would find it there?”

  “Why, yes!” she declared, as if there could be no doubt. “I know we would, for it is the mountains that are calling.”

  “Calling, yes—but Sevana, we could go into the very heart of those mountains and still not find it, for they call us to things that can’t be captured or held in the hand.”

  Sevana didn’t understand that statement, but at that moment the rocks began to glow like hot coals, as if an unfelt wind had fanned them into luminous heat. The patches of snow shone brilliant as flame against the slate-blue sky. “Oh!” she breathed. “Do the mountains burn like that every night?”

  “Every night the sky is clear,” he answered. “And it varies each time, so you can never take it for granted or get tired of its sameness.”

  “I want to paint it,” she lamented, unable to take her eyes from the massive granite planes stained garnet red by the sun’s fiery leave-taking.

  “Remember it, so you can,” he admonished her.

  The rockfire was growing deeper, casting its purple-red hue over the watchers in the meadow as they sat spellbound in the unearthly light. Finally Joel roused himself like a slumberer shaking off sleep and stood to muster the sheep, calling out their names in a lyrical, singsong shout.

  But Sevana was too transfixed to move from her hollow in the grass. The place seemed timeless. She marveled at the pinnacles towering so close, and a wonder of Joel ran through her as he stood waiting for the flock with a far look burning in his eye—a dark fire kindled by the alpenglow.

  When only dying embers lay on the smoldering mountains, ashes left of the glowing coals, the flock had gathered and Joel was ready to go. He turned to see if Sevana was coming—and found her curled up on the hillside, fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 14

  Sevana woke up in a bed in the night—Joel’s bed, she knew with instant, inexplicable clarity. She was lying on top of the blanket in her hiking boots and borrowed hunting shirt. She got out of bed and pushed open the door.

  Joel was at his desk, bent over something he was writing. The draft from the door she’d opened made the lantern above him flicker. He turned his head. And even before she met his eyes and saw their depth of feeling, there was a tension about him, or in the room, that told her whatever he was concentrating on was no ordinary correspondence.

  “How did I get in your bed?” she asked, walking into the room.

  He laid down his pen. “I put you there. You fell asleep in the meadow. I didn’t see any sense in making you walk down the trail when you were so tired—so I carried you.”

  “All the way…and I didn’t wake up?”

  He smiled his slow, easy smile. “A hike like the one you took can really knock the wind out of your sails if you’re not used to it.”

  The talk was beside the point, considering she was in his cabin in the middle of the night. “Joel, I feel so foolish,” she groaned. “And I don’t want to take your bed.”

  She sat on the bench with her back against the table edge. He had been writing what appeared to be a long dissertation, the pages scattered, his eyes shadowed by weariness and glinting with a suspicious moisture. “What time is it?” she asked, shaking her hair free since it was falling down anyway.

  “One o’clock.”

  “Do you always stay up so late? Or just when you lose your bed?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I can put something down on the floor when I want to sleep.”

  She buttoned the overshirt against the chill in the room. “What are you working on?”

  “A letter. You’re cold, aren’t you? Let me start a fire.” He got up at once.

  She glanced at the closely written, heaped-up volumes on the desktop. “Do you have a soulmate or something like that, who you tell all your thoughts to?”

  “Yes, something like that,” he agreed, filling the firebox with cedar kindling and sprucewood shavings from the pail.

  She sighed, her hands clasped under the too-long sleeves and the toes of her boots pointed neatly in front of her. “I’ve never had anyone like that. I always thought it would be wonderful—” showing she had not been without her fantasies growing up in her lonely environment.

  He tossed in a match. “It could be. Under the right circumstances.”

  “Yes,” she said, still wistful. “I’ve always dreamed of it.”

  “I think most people do. But I don’t think it happens very often.”

  “Then you’re very fortunate.”

  “No, Sevana. I said the right circumstances.” He closed the door on the sparking wood and went back to his chair. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  She looked at the man who was so much older than her, almost a whole decade. “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head with a peculiar look. “If I tell you, I’ll become the fool in your eyes that I am in mine.”

  “No, I promise you won’t.”

  Her simple, artless response made him smile. “All right, I’ll test you on that. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”

  She felt a thrill that he would consider her worthy of such a confidence, after all the days in the meadow when he had not betrayed himself to her. “What’s her name?”

  “Chantal.” There was a pause, as if he wasn’t sure he could discuss it. “Would you like some tea?”

  “It sounds good,” she said, mostly because she felt he wanted her to.

  He hunted up cups and ingredients while the water heated—glancing over to his guest in apology for taking so long. He noticed how her face contrasted with the dark logs behind her, as milky as the wakerobin that bloomed in the shaded thickets behind his cabin in early spring; and he was perceptive enough to recognize the prettiness of the girl who sat under his lantern, wearing a flannel overshirt that despite its size looked better on her than it ever had on him.

  When both had their hot drink in hand he began his tale, finding it none easier for the delay. “Five years ago, I met Chantal when she was out here for a summer job,” he started out, with the hesitancy of a stream-crosser finally committing to a slippery log. “She was on a fire lookout at Landmark Peak.”

  Sevana remembered the beautiful girl he had mentioned once before. “She was a city girl, too—” he flashed her the ghost of a grin, “from Vancouver. But she wanted to be an outdoor photographer, and had gotten the idea that if she lived on a lookout she would be right there in place, ready to snap any sunsets or storms or wildlife that came along. She was nineteen, didn’t have much money to travel, and figured it was the only way she could get the shots she needed. It was a good plan in that respect. Her portfolio from the summer earned her a job with the biggest outdoor magazine in B.C.

  “The day I met her, I had driven up to Landmark Peak to see if I could tell how much snow was left on Stormy Pass. And there she was, sitting on the steps of the tower crying her eyes out.”
>
  “What was wrong?” Sevana found she didn’t have much sympathy for this unknown girl, who she was now certain had caused Joel some kind of heartache.

  “She was out of propane. She was supposed to hook up the new tank when the old one ran low, but the bottle ran out before she realized it. She didn’t have a clue how to hook up the new bottle, or relight the pilot lights in the stove and refrigerator and heater, and she was afraid she would get in trouble if her boss found out how helpless she was. So instead of radioing for assistance she was planning to tough out the rest of the summer without any cooking or refrigeration or heat.”

  Though she didn’t want to, Sevana felt an instant bit of connection with another human being tenuously navigating the world with the same handicap as she. “Did you help her out?”

  “Yes, I got everything working again before her food spoiled. And she was so grateful, she cooked dinner for me. I stayed for sunset, too, out on the catwalk.”

  Sevana saw his jaw grow tight as he fell silent. In the lanternglow his face was contrasted by highlight and shadow—like a portrait in charcoal. No city boy, he, she thought. With his lean-angled features as decisively cut as the cliffs of chiseled rock, his hair tousled by the free-chasing winds, and his rugged, self-reliant character, he seemed as untamed as the wild mountain he lived upon. Finally, he went on.

  “It was instant, the attraction I felt for her. It fascinated me the way we could talk about anything, the way I saw my feelings mirrored in her eyes. I made up an excuse to see her again—said I’d bring her a larger wrench to make changing the propane easier next time. But after that, I came up often enough she never had to worry about the propane again.

  “I thought she felt as I did. She was always glad to see me, never wanted me to go. Out on the catwalk one night pointing out the North Star, I took her in my arms and kissed her. From that moment on, I was lost. I lived for the times I was with her. The days were running out before I was to leave for summer pasture with my new flock. I was so sure of her feelings I sold a violin and bought an engagement ring, and the night before I left for the wilderness, I asked her to marry me.

  “There was only one minor complication. She was engaged to a Mountie in Vancouver. She hadn’t told me because she wanted to keep seeing me, and was afraid I would stop coming if I learned she was spoken for. To be fair, I guess she had made up her mind to tell me several times, but hadn’t found a way to bring it up—was still looking for the best way to tell me. But when I proposed, the truth came out more abruptly than she’d intended it.

  “I guess I wasn’t quite myself. I’d been knocked off-balance by her all the way around. When I heard she was supposed to be married that September, I didn’t even listen to her say she could call it off. All I could think was how she had deceived me the whole time—led me on—kissed me like I was the only one she’d ever loved. I didn’t see how I could ever believe her again. I told her I wasn’t about to turn some decent, unsuspecting man’s life upside down by stealing his fiancée, and walked out on her.”

  “I can see why you felt that way.” Sevana was on his side completely. “Your whole relationship was based on false pretenses.”

  “It wasn’t entirely false. It was true she had fallen in love with me before she realized what was happening. She kept silent about her engagement at first for fear of turning me away, and waited too long to speak after discovering what her feelings had become. But I wouldn’t listen to her beg me to forgive her, because I didn’t want to marry someone I couldn’t trust to tell me the truth. I went off to the wilderness without seeing her again, and when the summer was over, she went back to Vancouver and married the Mountie.”

  “But that wasn’t the end of it?” she prompted, knowing it couldn’t be.

  “No. During that summer in the high country I started to look at things differently. My anger had long since cooled, and all I felt was the pain of losing her. I regretted that I hadn’t listened to her or made any allowances. I became convinced that if I had been more tolerant, more broadminded to the whole situation, it would have been a relatively easy thing for her to break her engagement and marry me. But I’d been young, confused, blinded into wrong reactions by the intensity of my first and only love.

  “From my camp at Stormy Pass I could see her mountaintop down the river valley, but there was no way to communicate. Like some kind of lunatic I yelled her name, willing her to hear me. I made the decision to tell her I was sorry, and left the wilderness early to find her before she left. It was mid-August when I started my trek off the high ground to ask her not to go to Vancouver. But no sooner had I started out, than a massive storm system moved in and rained for three days without letting up…what lookouts call a season-ender. And by the time I got home and drove to Landmark Peak, the lookout was boarded up.

  “I didn’t know her address—I barely knew her last name under the unconventional circumstances we’d met—but I went to Vancouver and tracked her down. When I found her apartment, the Mountie was there with her. I couldn’t say what I wanted in front of him; and after meeting him, I was no longer sure I should say anything. He became a real person to me then, not just a faceless hindrance to my plans. I saw them together and found him a real likable fellow, and I decided I was not going to destroy that relationship for the sake of my own desire. So I acted as though I had been in Vancouver anyway, and was just dropping by to congratulate them—their wedding was in less than a month—and got out of there faster than a snowshoe rabbit with a bobcat on its tail.

  “But it wasn’t long after that, just a couple of months or so, she sent me a letter—Why had I come to see her? She said she had to know; she had kept her own post office box so no one else would see my reply. And I wrote, explaining what I had realized in summer pasture, and apologized for not seeing it sooner. She wrote back—she had guessed it might be so, but with the wedding plans in place she had allowed herself to be carried along by them. But she never should have done it, it was all the worst mistake; she was still in love with me. I said I still loved her, too, but everything had pretty much gone against us one way or the other, and it was too late for anything but friendship. She accepted that, but we kept writing. Soon we were sharing every thought of the day just as we’d done before anything came between us. For my birthday, she had a florist in Nelson deliver a bouquet of forget-me-nots to my cabin on foot—it must have cost her hundreds of dollars. We continued to write over the next four years. But words on paper seemed innocent enough—I felt no one could say anything against our being friends. During that time she and her husband transferred to Victoria, and she was working for a branch of the same magazine there.

  “Then I got a letter saying she wanted to see me while she was in Nelson on assignment—she would rent a car and meet me in Cragmont. Her career had taken off, and she was traveling all over the country with the magazine crew. So much time had passed since I’d seen her face or heard her voice, I thought it would do no harm to have dinner with her for old time’s sake. And I wanted to see her for another reason, because I had never stopped missing her, almost insanely at times. I thought if I saw her again, she would be different than I remembered—a world-class photographer and someone’s wife—and I would realize we were no longer the same two people who had once fallen in love, and it would help me close that chapter of my life. But you know, Sevana, that night we met in Cragmont, I ran into a brick wall.”

  “You were still in love with her.” It was a swift, definite response.

  “Yes.” He seemed impressed by her perception. “If anything, the years had made our affinity deeper. We stayed all night talking it out. How it was hopeless to keep denying facts. How we couldn’t seem to live a whole life without each other. We even brought up the unthinkable—her leaving him for me. How it would be hard all around, but maybe there was no real alternative. Things we’d never dared put into words before. So even though I went intending to say goodbye, I left defeated—a helpless, pathetic prisoner. Because now I know
I can never say goodbye.”

  The lantern dimmed, flickered, went out. “That’s what I get for burning too much midnight oil,” came Joel’s voice. He lit a candle on his desk, bringing a lesser, fluctuating light into the room. “More tea?”

  “I still have some.” She swirled it in her cup. “What kind is it?” she asked, hoping to sound merely curious.

  “It’s a mixture of plants I dried—wood-nettle, wild ginger, rosehips…maybe some fireweed. Every batch I make is a little different.”

  It was different, all right. But it wasn’t completely disagreeable, once she’d gotten over the shock of discovering it wasn’t ordinary tea. She thought she’d masked that rather well. She took another drink to show him she was drinking it. “Was it Chantal you went to see that first day I met you?”

  He seemed surprised by the direct question. “Yes, that was when I went to Cragmont,” he admitted. “I never should have agreed to go. Now instead of giving it up, we’re planning to see each other next time we can find a way.”

  He leaned his forehead against his hand. With his eyes closed—every time his eyes were closed—he was holding her again, holding onto the moments that she was his, willing them to last forever so he would never have to let go. But always the moments fleeted by; it was only the memories that lasted forever.

  When he looked up again, his expression was unguarded, torn open by conflicting emotions. “It’s supposed to be over,” he said savagely. “I was supposed to let it go. It’s supposed to be over.”

  “Joel, you can’t help whom you love.”

  That statement, in its naïve simplicity, cut into his agonized thoughts like a well-aimed arrow. It reached through in a way that all the accusations and judgments in the world couldn’t have. Amid his bitter condemnation of himself, there had been no allowances, no excusing of his actions. Now, because of her words, something eased in his heart almost physically.