Stony River

by Ciarra Montanna

  “I could not forget it,” she said gratefully.

  When she stood to go, he also rose. “I’ll be down later tonight to see how things are going—make sure you aren’t having any more trouble with Fenn,” he told her.

  At his willingness to share her fear and trouble, her feeling of worry eased perceptibly. “Oh, thank you,” she breathed.

  He grasped her shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie, as if he wished to impart encouragement to her. Then she was forging into the underwood with a much lighter heart for home.

  As she went, Joel called after her, “Don’t go too far down the creek, Sevana!”

  She looked back laughingly, but as she went on she was wondering what he meant. Too far! It seemed a peculiar thing to say. Was he only joking—or was there a reason he had said it? The question stayed with her as she picked her way over the rocks. At the place where she would have left the creek for home, she kept going to see what might lie ahead.

  After a short distance the channel began to narrow. Some of the rocks became large boulders. The water’s bubbling changed to a deeper, more resonant sound. And climbing up on a boulder for a better look, she saw that the stream disappeared out of view ahead.

  Cautious now, she sprang to the bank, went a few more paces, and stopped at the sight. As she had begun to suspect, the creek dropped there over a vertical rock face into a deep draw, streaming down in a moon-white ribbon to a churning pool far below. All this time, she hadn’t known the waterfall was there.

  Excited over the discovery, she ran home to tell Fenn. She burst through the front door, then froze in her tracks. He was at the table with his head in his arms, and didn’t stir at the sound of her entrance. Wishing she hadn’t barged in so heedlessly, she began backing for the door. But before she reached it, he sat up, a disoriented look in his blue eyes as he focused them on her.

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” she said, very contrite.

  “That’s all right,” he said a little hazily. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. Kind of dozed off.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “All right.” He yawned, stretched his arms.

  “I can heat up some soup.”

  “Okay.” He was still in a daze.

  While Sevana lit the fire and set the pot on the stove, he sat gazing out the window, his hair rumpled and a shadow of whiskers on his face. There was a vulnerable, boyish look on his face in place of the defensive look she was used to. She was drawn by it and uneasy over it at the same time, fearing he was still under the effects of the fever.

  “Had a funny dream,” he mused.

  “Did you?” She wanted to stare at him, but made herself go on stirring the soup instead.

  “This log was rolling down the hill, just rolling and rolling—and then the hill was gone and the log was in the blue sky, rolling over and over like it had no weight.” He gave a laugh, shook his head. “Kind of strange what a fever will do to your head.” He was still boyish.

  She smiled at him. He seemed sensible enough to her. And she could scarcely believe the change in him. But she didn’t acknowledge it in any way, for fear it would vanish if she did.

  He ate the soup she set before him. Then she brought him tea, but after drinking a little of it he asked for cold water instead. She risked laying a hand on his forehead. “You’re hot,” she informed him. “You’re still not over it. You should go to bed.”

  He drank the water and then, for a wonder, went upstairs at her word. He was sleeping when she checked on him later, and his forehead no longer felt so feverish.

  True to his promise Joel rode into the yard before sundown, after spending the afternoon wondering what Sevana had gotten into by staying the summer there. It was not the first such contemplation he had entertained, but this one the more serious because of last night’s incident. Her description of Fenn’s irrationality disturbed him more than he’d let on. He didn’t relish the thought of her alone in the house with a madman! He had his own theories for at least some of Fenn’s aberrations, and none of them set his mind any easier about her. He felt a neighborly duty to watch out for her, to be in part the brother Fenn wasn’t—but that was difficult when he lived so far away and wasn’t welcome at Fenn’s house. Sometimes he wanted to urge her to leave, but that seemed cruel when she had no place to go. All he could see to do, realistically, was hope for the best, keep an eye out for her, and hold her in his prayers.

  For yes, he was praying again, after avoiding it since his last rendezvous with Chantal. He had done some soul-searching after he’d said all those inexcusable things to Sevana, had been shocked at what had come out of his mouth. It was true he felt at odds with the One whose dictates he dearly wished to ignore. But he was convinced he couldn’t disregard them, despite what he craved, and it was this certainty that caused him to know the door was still open for him to do right. And even though he felt devastated by his own strong desire, he had come to the place where he could sit on the front step with his hands locked between his knees, and ask help from the One above to get through the struggle he faced without failing Him or anyone else. If it was a half-hearted request at best, for he wanted the exact opposite of what he was asking, at least he had gathered the internal fortitude to say the words.

  Sevana went out to meet him on the path. Even with the news that Fenn had improved, Joel offered to stay in their barn that night to be nearby in case she needed him. But though touched he would trouble himself to that extent for her, Sevana didn’t deem it necessary to ask it of him. They talked a while longer—Sevana remembering to tell him of her success with the homemade trap: she had whisked three mice outside already, with Fenn none the wiser. She had thought Joel would go up the hill then, but he said he wanted to see the river while he was so close, and invited her along.

  “But Fenn—” she hesitated.

  “We won’t be long.”

  So Sevana let Joel boost her onto his horse and transport her to the river on the same game trail she always took. At the leaning cedar he insisted she take the rock, while he chose a seat in the stretch of lush grass—over which Flint had already flicked his ears in pleased approval and begun to graze. “I thought this was my own private hideaway when I discovered it,” Sevana said. “But it’s yours, too, isn’t it?”

  “I guess you could say so—even though I don’t get down here as much as I’d like. It’s a good place for thinking. And painting,” he added with a smile, always conscious she saw the world through different eyes than most. “Are you going to?”

  “It’s my next project,” she said, finding it strange how well he understood.

  “Save the riverbank for last,” he advised her. “The flowers that bloom here are some of the best around.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “It won’t be long now. Seems like they’re always at their peak about the time I head for summer pasture.”

  Sevana never liked it when he mentioned his leaving. Each time it reminded her that things could not go on as they were, with the two of them in such agreeable accord. It was the age-old problem of wanting to hold onto the happiness in one’s hand—while time would not oblige and kept marching on, changing all things.

  But Joel’s attention was on something in the river. “Sevana, see the dark shape on that boulder? That’s an otter.”

  She exclaimed as she spotted it: “I see it!”

  The otter, alerted by their voices, raised a smooth, furry head their direction. One inquisitive beady-eyed look, one quiver of the whiskers, and he slipped off his sunning bed into the river. But almost instantly, a sleek brown head poked out of the water, surveying them with bright eyes before ducking underwater again. Carried down the river in the mild current, the otter seemed to be playing a game of hide-and-seek, popping up to spy on them, then disappearing from view, only to reemerge seconds later in an entirely new location.

  Sevana almost forgot to breathe as she followed his antics, trying to guess where he would next appear—but in his m
ovements he was wildly unpredictable, sometimes materializing on the extreme edge of the river and sometimes in the middle, as though purposely intending the element of surprise.

  “Was he playing a game, or did it just seem that way?” she asked, when the otter had floated around the bend out of sight.

  “He was playing.” Joel sounded sure of it. “And maybe showing off for us a little, how at home he is in the water compared to most mammals.”

  Sevana was warmed by what she’d seen. She truly hoped no one was poaching those endearing little animals.

  Joel guessed her thoughts. “Any progress on the case?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Mr. Radnor hasn’t been around for quite a while.”

  Joel picked up a stone and gave it a flick. It bounced all the way across the watercourse and landed on the far bank, ruffling the grass. Sevana gasped out loud, causing Joel to laugh. “Still remember how to skip rocks?” he asked.

  “I think so.” Hunting up a stone, she stepped to the river’s edge and proceeded to sink it so promptly and thoroughly, that after their spontaneous hoots of laughter had subsided, Joel spent some time trying to talk her through her technique. But when she found the moving water even more challenging than the placid lake surface, she gave up in preference of sitting on the bank and leaning back on her hands.

  The Stony flowed with a gentle rippling, its dinnerplate-size stones magnified under the transparent water. “The river has a whole different character than when I first saw it,” Sevana observed poignantly. “I liked the power of highwater, but I like the beauty of the shallow water even more.”

  “You’d like it in winter, too,” Joel answered from beside her. “When it freezes over, it stretches like a broad snowcovered road, and you can walk on it bend after bend—going places you can only dream of in the summertime.”

  The novelty of the thought fascinated her. “I’d like to see it. Maybe I’ll come back this winter—maybe for Christmas.” She was warming in enthusiasm for the idea. “I can cook Christmas dinner for Fenn. And I can hike up through the snow to see you.”

  He seemed to approve of the plan. “I’ll put it on my calendar.” But next minute, in searching for another stone, his hand brushed against a sprig of flowers in the grass. He reached out and plucked it as if suddenly transported to a different realm in his mind.

  Sevana fancied the flowers resembled miniature forget-me-nots. “I’d better check on Fenn,” she said, feeling all at once excluded from his thoughts. She got to her feet.

  Joel stood to oblige her, tossing the flowers pensively from his hand like a mourner casting a bouquet upon the monument of unfulfilled desire. But Sevana rescued the discarded spray from the ground. “What are these called?”

  “Blue-eyed Marys,” he replied, as she tucked them into her hair for the ride home. “Although I’d have to say your eyes are bluer than Mary’s,” he concluded, studying the effect.

  At the homestead, he helped her down. “You’ll be all right tonight, then?”

  “Yes, Joel—thank you. Bye, Flint.” She gave the stallion a pat on the nose as she passed because he was such an obliging horse.

  But after Joel had ridden away in the last of the evening sun, Sevana felt less confident than when she’d had the assurance of his presence. She went in the house fervently hoping nothing would disturb the quiet of that night.

  But at midnight again, she woke uneasily. Somewhere in the house a light was shining. She followed its source downstairs. A kerosene lamp burned on the fireplace mantle, and Fenn was standing at the living room window, staring into a black night he couldn’t see.

  He turned at the sound of her. “What’s the matter—can’t you sleep?” he demanded, annoyed at the intrusion.

  She took a step back at the sight of him, for it seemed that some of the blackness from the window behind him had gotten into his eyes. She wondered if it could be the low-burning lamp making them look that way. “N-no,” she stammered. “Why does the wind blow so at night? Is it going to storm?”

  “No storm, just a downdraft from the mountains. Go back to bed, Sevana.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Been sleeping too much.” He turned back to the window in dismissal of her.

  Sevana started up the stairs, but peered around once again to the silent figure gazing into the night. Then, slowly, she climbed to her room. She lay in the dim glow coming up the stairs, strangely afraid. The same darkness was close about the house again, the same wailing wind. She wished Joel had stayed at the barn—but no, that was foolish; there wasn’t anything truly wrong. Fenn was no longer sick as he had been. There was only a grip of darkness and fear which she felt, but couldn’t explain.

  In her window the sky burned with friendly nighttime stars as usual, and the familiar guardian mountains kept watch over the homestead with their strong, protective presence. But Sevana couldn’t get back to sleep that night until she had pulled the covers over her head.

  Early in the morning she found Fenn shaving at the stove. “Are you going to work?” she asked dubiously.

  “Of course I am,” he retorted. But he poured a shot of whisky into a cup and downed it straight before he poured his coffee; and Sevana thought the hand holding the bottle might have been shaking—although perhaps it was just her imagination, trying so hard to detect anything wrong. She helped him all she could with his breakfast and lunch, then watched him leave the house with his shoulders straight—a man who would bear whatever he had to, alone.

  A little later she went to the meadow. She told Joel that Fenn was better and had gone back to work. But she didn’t tell him of the darkness she’d sensed, for it seemed foolish to mention in that sunny morning. She listened as he played songs on his fiddle, and the lively tunes helped lighten her heart from the strange, secret burdens it carried.

  That morning also, Joel gave her a violin lesson—teaching her to play the folk song, Down in the Valley. It was a fitting song for someone looking over a grand-scale river canyon, she mused. She’d sung the song in music class, but it had held no meaning for her then. For a moment she was lost in reflection, thinking how this life had given her a new perspective in the way she looked at—everything, really. A limited view, perhaps—as narrow as the mountainsides that defined that close-walled valley—but one that suited her surprisingly well. She could never have predicted how much she would appreciate the simplicity and beauty of that basic mountain life.

  She practiced the tune until Joel said it was right, and felt the satisfaction of learning something new. But she didn’t forget about Fenn, and went home early to make him a good dinner. She was afraid a hard day’s work had proved too much for him, and he would be the worse for it.

  But when Fenn came home, he swung across the yard with his usual vigor, his face ruddy and eyes clear-blue and bright. He was angry because Hawk was sending him to Nelson to haggle over a complication with the contract administrator. He unleashed a few imprecations describing what he thought of his boss in general, and a few more concerning the assignment in specific. Sevana listened to his curses and saw the familiar hardness in his eyes—and felt the irony of relief, that she could be glad he was his old self again.

  But as time went by, she found she was mistaken in thinking he was back to himself entirely. Sometimes in his face she saw evidence he hadn’t slept well the night before; he acted more restless than before. He was withdrawn, speaking only when spoken to—not as though spending his energy resenting her presence anymore, but as if scarcely aware she was even there. She didn’t know if the change was the result of the fever, or if something else was bothering him, nor did she ask. But she felt very tender toward him, treating him with as much kindness as she dared—and was not met with hostility as much as just distance.

  Neither did she forget the glimpse she’d been granted of a more open, approachable Fenn. But whether she would be privileged to see that side of him again, she could not guess.

  CHAPTER 18

  The ri
verbank bloomed in a profusion of bright-red Indian paintbrush, purple lupine (quite decorative despite its negative digestive impacts on sheep), white bog orchids, papery bluebells, yellow arrowleaf, and clusters of pearly everlastings with tiny stiff flowers that retained their strawlike perfection even after they were picked. The sitting rock seemed fairly haunted by a lissome woodsprite, who slipped daily down the mountain to record the brilliant flowers and the water that hid none of its stones…and not only these, but also—if possible—the peace of the place, the feeling of being flanked by an immeasurable silence in which the Stony’s unhurried song was no more than a faint refrain.

  Sometimes she would lean back against the stringy gray bark of the old cedar and feel the humid draft of cool river air on her face. It carried with it the scent of fresh, moving water and flourishing green plants—a distinctive smell she could now mark and recognize as characteristic to that place. At such times she forgot she was going places, in pursuit of ambitious ideals. It was enough to sit on the bank and let the water flow past—there one second and then gone, never to return. It was enough to watch the river go places.

  On one such dreamy afternoon she lost all track of time while the sun moved overhead, warm and lazy-bright, glinting on the endlessly flowing water—and suddenly she was on her feet and running for home. She had forgotten she had dinner to get for a hungry logger, whose early morning departures allowed him an early arrival home.

  As she hurried up the road, Joel overtook her in his truck and offered her a ride. Elated to see him, she slung off her pack and climbed in the passenger side huffing a bit. To his remark that he hadn’t seen her for a while, she said the flowers were blooming at the river and she’d been down there painting almost a week.

  She expected him to say he would to get down to see them soon, but quickly learned his mind was not on such ordinary things. He told her he was just back from calling Chantal. She was flying home and wanted to meet him on the way. So he would be going to Nelson in two days to tell her they had to call it off for good. It was bittersweet, for he was looking forward to the chance to see her, even while knowing what he had to say.