Stony River

by Ciarra Montanna

  Willy had warned Sevana about a quirk of Jillian’s, that she lived one hour ahead of the time zone. Not that it was a problem, for she was good about showing up at the correct time, but you didn’t want to call her too late in the evening. He said it was her way of beating pressure—if she was running behind schedule, she always had that extra hour to fall back on. Sevana was to learn that was not Jillian’s only idiosyncrasy.

  Then there was Thad Helding, the white-haired gentleman who had been in the first morning, who produced pastoral scenes of barns and cows and pastures in amazing proliferation; and Frank Larkin, a retired conservation officer who carried on his love for animals in realistic wildlife portrayals. Frank actually knew Randall Radnor, and said—as Sevana was hardly surprised to hear—that he was a legend even among other game wardens. There was also the affluent Audree Bourdon who painted only ocean scenes—an odd thing for a landlocked prairie dweller—but painted them brilliantly. Were there other people living dual lives, she wondered, carrying longed-for places in their hearts?

  All these and others dropped in regularly to see if their pictures were selling, or to bring in their latest contributions—or just to catch up on things in the world of art, as artists do. And Willy was always there for them, appearing out of the back room in a magical way for the latest exchange of information or banter, showing he valued it as much as any of them. Sevana couldn’t have asked for a more desirable work environment.

  But there remained one persistent flaw in her happiness, for the place she had left behind so recently still possessed her heart to a territorial degree. At any time, visions would appear unbidden in her mind’s eye, like a secret world only she knew about—lush carpets of swordfern and maidenhair illuminating the deep woods with viridescent light…majestic rainforests casting their slumberous spells of primeval silence…the river cutting a transparent golden path through the hidden, high-walled valley. Sometimes she saw the pika singing in a rockpile, or carpets of alpine flowers flung across the ridges in riotous splendor—even peeking out of rock crevices in the most startling colors where you’d think nothing could grow. And because the loss of such rarefied beauty was too devastating to face, she had to force the thoughts away, locking them back in a place where they couldn’t reach through to hurt her. And yet that same loss was a sacrifice she was willing to make, an impoverishment she was determined to bear, for the greater importance of her lifework there.

  Saturday was a busy day, and Willy helped alongside Sevana, taking a share of the work. It wasn’t until closing time that he had a chance to see how she’d managed in the rush. “Looks good,” he approved, thumbing through the receipts. “You’re doing a fine job. It’s a load off my shoulders, having you here.”

  When things had been put away and they were getting their coats at last, he said, “Seeing as we never got around to lunch, what say we head out to the Roadhouse for dinner? Len and Ralf and Jillian will be there, and we’ll have a good time.”

  Sevana met his confident, playful eyes—wary of the nightlife that went on out there, and yet having an admitted desire to be included in that select group of artists. “It sounds like fun,” she agreed.

  By the time Willy and Sevana entered the bar, the others had already taken a table. “Hey, Willy!” Len and Ralf held up their tumblers to him, as if his appearance signaled the start of the party.

  Willy seated Sevana beside Jillian and went off to the bartender on some unexplained business. He returned with two drinks, one of which he placed before her. Sevana looked at the glass, opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again without saying anything. Willy put his head close to hers. “Made a little deal with the bartender,” he said reassuringly.

  Since it was in front of her, Sevana resigned herself to sipping the strawberry-flavored drink without knowing what was in it. She didn’t have much to say as the others in her party talked and joked, but she felt at ease in their company and shared in their laughter. She could sense by their friendliness that she’d been welcomed into the group—if not on the basis of her artistic merit, at least because she was with Willy. For regardless of the way his friends pretended to disrespect him, in reality they admired him no end for his success in something they were all striving to excel in. It was his statements that drew the most attention, his jokes the loudest laughter, his opinions that were taken as the final word. She even felt a bit heady to be associated with such a popular and important man, whose attentiveness made it clear he regarded her as more than just a working assistant.

  Over dinner Len regaled them with tales of woe concerning the series he was painting for an exacting client—an elderly lady with decided notions of how she wanted her heirloom farmstead represented on canvas. Then Jillian, fresh from a day of design layout at the newspaper, contributed an item from the town news: a natural-food store was opening not far from the art shop, so Willy no longer had any excuse to live on doughnuts and caffeine. Ralf, who worked at the same newspaper as a writer, told of sitting in a meeting that morning with the editor-in-chief, a gruff-and-bluff storyteller type who had adopted the baffling habit of saying ‘and everything else’ in almost every sentence. Both Ralf and a buddy had separately gotten the idea to keep track, and after the meeting tried to enlighten each other of the same thing: the chief had used the phrase fifty-three times in a twenty-minute talk. Ralf was now living in mortal fear that he would pick up the expression through simple familiarity, had caught himself saying it twice that afternoon.

  A talented man in a tuxedo took a place at the piano and began to play classical jazz. Willy called for another round of drinks.

  Listening to the music, Sevana became aware that someone was watching her. She looked over and met the eyes of a young rough in a leather jacket at the bar. He had aquiline features and crew-cut hair, and was looking at her with an unswerving stare. Quickly she looked back to those at the table and resolved not to glance his direction again, but later she inadvertently brushed his gaze and the black eyes were still riveted on her. Something in his manner reminded her of the night visitor at the homestead, and with a shiver she turned her back more squarely to the disturbing stranger.

  As the rounds of drinks continued, Willy and his friends became less and less sensible, and there was much dissolving into laughter which Sevana at first joined, for she found them entertaining in the state of hilarity that had overtaken them—Willy haranguing Jillian for ordering coconut-cream pie if she was so all-fired health conscious all of a sudden, and Len throwing ‘and everything else’ into almost every sentence to aggravate Ralf, with superb effectiveness. But she was feeling increasingly unsettled from the two drinks she had consumed before refusing any more, and after a while she quit laughing for she felt rather sick. The thick, warm atmosphere of the place was getting to her, the loud voices and laughter drilling into her head. She desperately wanted some fresh air.

  While Willy—in the center of much gaiety, for his fun-loving nature drew more than merely artists—was standing on a chair proposing a toast to the bartender, who in a rush of goodwill had just distributed a round of free drinks, Sevana found it a good time to slip out onto the back porch and shut the door on the din. It was blessedly cool out there in the dark, and quiet. She went to the edge of the porch and steadied herself against a corner post, breathing the night air while she gazed up at the stars twinkling between the maple trees. Then the door opened, emitting a shaft of light and a snatch of revelry before it closed again. She looked around to see who had come out. It was the tough who had been staring at her. She had forgotten about him.

  He sauntered across the porch. “Hello there, Sevana.”

  She tried to think how he knew her name. “Have I met you?” she asked formally.

  “You have now. I heard your friend mention you to the bartender when he was ordering your drink. Name’s Ryder.” He stuck out his hand.

  She didn’t take it, choosing to take a step backward from him instead.

  “Pretty wild in there,”
he remarked. “Looks like your friend has forgotten about you.”

  “He’s just having fun.” She edged away another step.

  “But you’re not, are you?” he persisted, following her. “Let’s get away from this mad crowd and go somewhere we can hear ourselves think.” At close range in the light coming from the windows, he looked scarcely older than herself; but she was afraid of his forward manner and unsmiling eyes that never seemed to leave her.

  Even though he had expressed her exact desire, she now had no inclination to agree. “No, thank you—I’m going back in.”

  “Wait!” His black eyes flashed as he caught her by the arm. “What’s your phone number?”

  She jerked away from him, and ran down the steps and around to the front door. Letting herself into the smoke-filled room, she took her seat again, feeling the rapid hammering of her heart. Willy had not noticed her absence. He was still in the midst of a crowd, proposing toasts in all heartiness.

  The back door opened and the man called Ryder came back in. His eyes swept her face before he took a stool and ordered a drink, spinning so his back was to her. She kept track of him warily, wishing Willy wasn’t occupied so he could take her home. She’d suddenly had enough of the evening.

  “How are you feeling, Sevana?” Jillian was alert enough to catch the look on her face.

  “Willy’s trying to poison her with his vodka,” Ralf explained usefully.

  “And everything else,” Len chimed in on cue.

  The musician at the piano had picked up a fast, rhythmic tune. A few people were dancing. The stranger spun around, slid off his stool and came toward her. “Dance?” he asked in a grating tone.

  “No, thank you,” she replied coolly.

  “Come on, your friend won’t mind.” He nodded toward Willy, who glanced over just then and saw them.

  “No. Please—” She stood up and cast an imploring look toward Willy.

  Willy put down his glass and came over. “Leave her alone,” he said thickly.

  “If you want what’s yours, you’d better take care of it,” the man sneered. “Come on, Sevana.” He took hold of her arm possessively.

  Len and Ralf were both on their feet now, watchfully. “Let go of her,” Willy demanded.

  When the man paid no attention, Willy grabbed his arm and pulled him away. The man let swing a punch at Willy’s face. Willy ducked and missed the blow, but was thrown off-balance by the movement and staggered against the row of men sitting at the bar. One of them caught him, steadied him on his feet. “Go get him, Willy!” he cried.

  “Easy now,” pleaded the bartender, setting down a handful of tumblers to watch. The men started cheering Willy on. The stranger looked from Willy to the shouting men; then he gave a last look at Sevana and stalked out the door. Everybody cheered. Willy came over to Sevana.

  “Willy, let’s go,” she begged.

  Seeing her shaken countenance, he consented. He told the others he was taking her home, and escorted her outside. Sevana stayed close to him until they were in the car, imagining Ryder lurking among the shadowy maples waiting for her.

  “What a dimwit,” remarked Willy, starting the engine. “If he ever tries that again, I’ll get him good.” Then he chuckled. “Well, we provided a little entertainment for the locals tonight, didn’t we?”

  Sevana didn’t know how he could talk that way. It had come to her during the fight that Saturday night at the Roadhouse was not a good place to be—even though it had seemed enjoyable enough at first. “He knew my name,” she said. “He overheard you talking about me. He wanted my telephone number.”

  “Lucky you don’t have one.” Willy maneuvered skillfully out of the full parking lot. “Don’t be upset,” he said to her silence as they drove along. “He didn’t mean any harm. He just wanted to dance, and he was a little too drunk to go about it right. You did have a good time, didn’t you?”

  “At first I did,” she admitted, but the reservation in her voice was obvious.

  “You’re just not used to it,” he made excuse. “I keep forgetting you’re only seventeen, haven’t seen much. Things do get a little out-of-hand out there once in a while, but there are plenty of good times, too.” A reverent note crept into his voice. “Some of the best times of my life.”

  He saw her to the door, squeezed her hand encouragingly, and left again. She had no doubt he was headed back to the Roadhouse where the night was still in full swing. She was glad to be home. She tumbled into bed. Her head ached dreadfully and she felt a little ashamed of her reckless evening, but she was too tired to let it bother her for long.

  Joel, on the other hand, couldn’t sleep. He got up and looked out the back door thinking he’d heard a wolf pack in the distance, but all was quiet now. There was a glow uphill behind the trees he recognized well. He got dressed and went outside. The northern lights were brightening the sky with shifting flares of pale green. Some nights they shimmered as sheer curtains of soft gold, a few infrequent times as floating shafts of smoky burgundy or eerie opaque ghost-white, but almost always it was those fluctuating vertical streaks of translucent green.

  He had seen the same sight so often he watched it only a little while, then went to the barn to check on the sheep since he was up—and because he woke them by doing so, felt obligated to spend some time with them. Then, wide awake, he went back to the cabin. Settling at his desk, he reread the last letter he’d ever gotten from Chantal. He still wasn’t used to the fact that he couldn’t write her anymore—the habit of sharing every thought with her was hard to break. He folded that worn letter, thinking it was time to put it with the others, and took another from his desk drawer to read again the offer from the prestigious violin shop in Vancouver. They had wanted him badly—his skills and his reputation. When he turned it down, they told him the offer stood indefinitely: any time he reconsidered, the job was his. There was no one else in the business that had his status, his level of expertise.

  After he and Chantal had gone their separate ways, he had seriously considered it. He’d wanted a change—a drastic one. He seemed to have lost his sense of purpose, and when the wind cried around the cabin at night, he’d heard it in a way he never used to. But time had passed—summer, the early days of fall. He was thankful he hadn’t pursued it. He was no longer so desperately unhappy that he felt an overwhelming urge to run away from his life.

  Even so, he allowed himself to consider for a moment what things would be like now if he’d taken it. The salary was far beyond what he made on his own. But he couldn’t picture it, not even remotely. He dropped that letter in the fire and sat whittling on a branch he’d brought back from Stormy Pass.

  CHAPTER 34

  Sunday morning Sevana put the thought of last night out of her dully pounding head, and resolved in the future to do a better job of keeping her promise to Joel to take care. She couldn’t face the idea of food, so she only drank a cup of Willy’s charry black coffee and made up her mind to visit the church she passed each time she walked out past the crossroad. If it turned out to be the church of David Lindford, Joel would think well of her for looking him up. Even if it wasn’t, if Joel drove two hours to church when he could, she knew he would approve if she made the effort to go there. Besides, even though the sense of revelation she’d had in the high country had been fleeting, it had left a lasting impression on her. She wanted to keep connected to that insight, remember what she’d felt. So she put on a skirt and walked out to the century-old building with the steep belfry. There were only a few cars in the parking lot. One of them was a tiny toylike one she had often seen parked there on her walks.

  She went in and took a seat on the next-to-last pew, self-conscious because she was early and hoping no one would pay attention to her. She thumbed through a hymnal, remembering the one she’d held with Joel for the closing song at his log-built church. It brought her a swift sense of destitution. As you lived your life day to day, you took the events you encountered as a matter of course; and it wasn�
��t until later, looking back, that you realized how exceptional certain of those happenings were, so unique to the moment, so highly to be prized. Was it because at the time you owned the moment, secure in your very richness—and only after it was no longer yours, did you know the sum of what you had lost?

  Her desire to go unnoticed was merely wishful thinking. An athletic-looking man of moderate stature was coming down the aisle, an unreserved smile communicating his welcome. He looked to be in his early thirties, with dark-blond hair and a pleasantly angular face, and Sevana thought him handsome.

  “Hello, how are you this morning?” he asked, his eyes telling her he was not asking as a formality, but truly cared to know. And when he introduced himself as David Lindford, she forgot the awkwardness of being one of the handful of early-comers scattered in the pews, for the import of knowing she had indeed found Joel’s friend.

  When she told him she knew Joel Wilder, David’s face grew even more illuminative as he exclaimed, “Joel’s one of the best friends I’ve got!” Then he asked after him with such interest, that she was not shy to tell him about his flock and fiddles, and recent return from summer pastures.

  “Good to know. I don’t get to see him nearly as often as I’d like,” David said regretfully. He also regretted that Sevana could not meet Krysta, his wife of four years; but she was teaching up on the reserve, and it was such a drive she didn’t come home every weekend. Learning that Sevana had moved there to take art lessons, he responded favorably by saying everyone in town spoke very highly of Willy’s class. Then an elder came up to him about a pressing matter downstairs, but before David went off with him, he shook Sevana’s hand again and stressed that if there was anything he could do to help her get settled in her new life there, she should not hesitate to let him know.

  Sevana thanked him, realizing Joel had gotten just what he wanted out of that exchange. She knew he would be glad when she wrote him about it.