Stony River Read online

  “I brought my paints.” But she, too, wondered if even with painting, she could fill up so many empty hours on that remote homestead by herself.

  One foot on the bottom step, Fenn paused. “I’m not going to entertain you, you know,” he said, meeting her eyes levelly. “Bryce may have intended for me to keep an eye on you, but I don’t plan to do any such thing. As far as I’m concerned, you’re on your own.”

  She carefully brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said, with sarcastic emphasis, “I’m not going to treat you as if you were a child. You’re only one year younger than I was when I came out here. I expect you to do as you please, and I will do the same.” He mounted the stairs, his heavy lug soles thudding against each wooden step loudly in the silence.

  Sevana looked after him with a feeling of increasing confusion. She found it hard to admit that her own brother cared nothing for her—maybe even resented her; but he hadn’t yet given her any reason to believe otherwise. Then her eyes narrowed as she stood staring up the empty stairway. If she did nothing else that summer, she promised herself, she was going to find a way past those hard eyes to his heart.

  With that thought to bolster her, she turned to the matter of washing up—intending to imitate everything Fenn had done, since that way of life was so new to her. But she didn’t want to use the washwater he’d left on the counter. She could find another pan and start over with her own. Maybe, though, it would be easier just to wash up at the spring. It was still light outside, the sun tarrying on the higher ridgetops, even though in the house it was already almost as dark as night.

  She was on her way uphill when the bathhouse reminded her of its presence. For the first time since her arrival, she brightened. Perhaps she could take a real bath before bed.

  Leaving the cedar-bark door open for light, she went in to investigate the minuscule building—finding on its stone floor a squat woodstove, several metal pails, and even a rock pit for a sauna, but nothing to serve as a bathtub. There was, however, a black rubber hose strung up the wall; and when she turned the nozzle tentatively, it produced a convincing spray of warm water. There was even a large towel hung there, and a bar of soap in a saucer.

  Eager to be rid of the dust of the journey and wanting to hurry before she lost any more necessary light, she quickly disrobed on the cobblestones and stepped under the makeshift shower. It was cool on her skin but not unbearable. But just as she’d gotten her hair thoroughly wet, the water turned suddenly and bitingly cold.

  With a startled yelp she dodged out of the spray. Further attempts to adjust the nozzle convinced her there was no more warm water to be had. Shivering, she wrapped the towel around her, scooped her clothes into a makeshift bundle, and hurried across the yard for the warmth of the house. But when she grasped the doorknob expectantly, it wouldn’t turn. Vigorously she rattled it both ways. With a sinking feeling, she realized it had locked behind her.

  She stepped back to assess the situation, wet hair dripping icily down her back in the evening breezes. Under no circumstances would she disturb Fenn. She would try the back door, then the windows. If all else failed, she would sleep in the loft at the barn. But before she could initiate any of these fairly reasonable plans, a piercing howl split the air, loud and very close—and with no other thought in her head, she began frantically pounding on the door with her fist.

  A minute or two later Fenn jerked open the door, wearing only a pair of longjohns and a dangerous look in his eye. “A w-wolf!” Sevana chattered as she squeezed past his bare-chested form. “Fenn, there’s a wolf out there!”

  “It’s a coyote,” he corrected, narrowly appraising her toweled figure. “What’d you do—fall in the creek?”

  “I t-took a shower.” She clutched the towel to her more tightly, quaking violently. One of her lightweight street shoes escaped her armload and clattered to the floor, barely missing his toe.

  Fenn retrieved it with a disgusted look and put it back on top of her bundle. “You’d better wait for the sun to heat the hose during the day—unless you enjoy freezing to death,” he advised her critically. “And if you have a towel, I’d rather you didn’t use mine.”

  She held onto the towel protectively, as if he might demand it back that very minute. “I brought one. It’s just that I was in a hurry—before it got dark.”

  He wasn’t interested in her excuses. “Look here, Sevana.” He directed her attention to the doorknob in the dim light. “If the door is locked when you go out, it will stay locked.”

  She wanted to pretend she knew what he meant, but was afraid it would come back to haunt her, as her mechanical leanings were not well-established. “I don’t understand.”

  He looked exasperated. “Just opening the door doesn’t release the lock. You have to turn it out manually—like this.”

  She nodded her wet head meekly. “I’ll remember.”

  “Now, are you through roaming around down here?” he demanded. “Because if you don’t mind, I’d like to get a little more sleep before four o’clock rolls around.” He stomped upstairs and his door slammed shut.

  When the bear had gone back to its den, Sevana found her own way up the staircase and lit the candle in her room. By its faulty illumination she dug through the trunk for her nightclothes, and made up the bed with her sleeping bag and pillow, setting aside the wool blanket for a future chilly night. Next she located her hair dryer, only then realizing the uselessness of the cord dangling from it.

  Why couldn’t she grasp this situation? she asked herself impatiently. She would have to sleep with wet hair. But at least she wasn’t cold anymore. The attic room had been heated by the woodstove below, and the sun all day on the roof above, until the air was very warm—stuffy, even—the odors of woodsmoke and musty wool and old timbers hanging close in the stale air.

  She pushed open the window, and the sound of the river came into the room, constant in the air like a soft night wind. A few stars were beginning to shine in the subdued blue swath above the shadowy treeline. High up in the avalanche chutes, dots of last winter’s snow stood out bright in the dusk. She crawled into the canvas bag and closed her eyes, so that undiminutive wall couldn’t remind her she was encompassed by such a vast wilderness, with even the insignificant town of Cragmont an overlong distance away.

  But even more disturbing than her surroundings was the sense that she was alone—alone even here, where she’d hoped to find some semblance of family and home. In the twilight, in a house where she did not think she was welcome, she lay on the thin, hard bed revisiting all the comforts she had known and taken completely for granted in Toronto—including most of all the happy ignorance that Fenn would rather not trouble himself for his sister.

  But background to those thoughts ran the undertone of the river, winding through the valley with indistinct strains of mysterious music. And the longer she lay there, the more she began to listen to it—finding in the weaving of its distant notes something vaguely familiar, as a song she had known long ago but for some reason had forgotten. And it was that elusive, phantom melody of things half-remembered, filtering through the ancient mossy tree branches hedging the house, that finally lulled her disquiet heart to sleep.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sevana woke in the gray half-light to the sound of heavy steps on the floorboards below, and the smell of coffee. Even though she wasn’t fully awake, she got up at once and dressed in a twill shirt and pair of jeans pulled blindly from the trunk. Then, hiking boots in hand, she ran barefoot down the stairs. Her haste was rewarded by the sight of Fenn shaving in a broken piece of mirror propped on the warming shelf. Pancakes bubbled on a hot griddle, and a stack of cooked ones sat ready on a plate. “You really do get up at the crack of dawn,” she said, impressed, ready to start over with him that new day. She sat down to tug on her socks and boots.

  “What are you doing up?” Fenn demanded, putting down the razor to splash water on his face. He was dressed as
yesterday, in trousers cut off at his boot tops and a white short-sleeved jersey, his suspenders threaded with a leather saw-guard over his right shoulder.

  “I wanted to get up when you did.” She couldn’t explain the necessity she felt for his company before facing the day alone. “I can help you with something.”

  “Don’t need any help.” He dished up the last batch of pancakes and took the heaping plate to the table.

  Sevana found a small dented tin on a back shelf to claim for a washpan, and splashed her own face with water, not taking time to heat the basin on the stove as Fenn had. Then she took his place before the inconveniently undersized mirror. Lacking her usual styling tools, she began corralling her tangled length of hair into a French braid. “We look sort of alike, don’t you think, Fenn?” she inquired, peering at her shadowy reflection that showed serious, expressive eyes, lips with pleasing angles that defied some of that same seriousness, and fair skin glowing a sunrise hue from the cold water. “I mean, the same color of hair and eyes, and all. You can tell we’re related, can’t you?”

  “Lots of people have light hair and blue eyes.” Fenn was not unduly sentimental over his morning hotcakes.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing we have this summer together,” she put forth, to see if she could get him to agree. “What with school and everything, we’ve never had much time to get to know each other. And it seems if we’re brother and sister, we should be friends, doesn’t it, Fenn?”

  “I can do without friends,” he growled, with more gruffness than merited for the innocent observation.

  Securing her braid, she surveyed the finished effect and decided it would do. It wasn’t what she was used to, not any of it, but she would find ways—invent ways, if she had to—to survive until she got back to civilization. She poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove and took it to the table, thinking the stiff new boots were going to require some breaking in. “Is it safe to go walking around here?” she wanted to know.

  “Long as you’re not under a falling tree in a windstorm,” Fenn retorted. He looked up from his plate as she sat down, and something registered in his face for a fraction of a second before he mastered it—an unintentional appreciation for her natural appeal as she sat across from him with face shining-clean and radiant, her pulled-back hair emphasizing the graceful curve of her chin and throat.

  Sevana recognized the look. She had learned early in life that her entrance into a room could elicit glances of admiration from strangers and acquaintances alike. And for that she was not vain, but merely grateful—that with the love of the esthetic she’d been born with, her own appearance did not give her much cause for dissatisfaction. Her only true regret was not having brown hair and eyes, for she had always been convinced that dark girls epitomized true beauty better than their fair-haired sisters. “What about the wolves—and coyotes?” she persisted.

  “They’re not dangerous, either—unless you’re a rabbit.” On his feet to drain the last of his coffee, Fenn went to the counter and began construction of a hefty stack of peanut-butter sandwiches.

  Observing the production, Sevana decided that the bread he’d gotten in Cragmont yesterday wouldn’t last very long if he used the better part of a loaf for every lunch. She wondered if he ever made his own bread. Maybe she could try her hand at it, if she could figure out how to cook in such a rustic kitchen. The stove would probably be hard to master with all its grates and levers, but it would only be confusing at first: once she did something a few times, she was usually all right with it. “Do you have instructions how to run the stove?” she asked, trying to avert a problem she could already see coming. Life was difficult when you were confounded by anything with working parts.

  “Just slide the damper all the way over before you light it.” Fenn moved the lever in the slot to demonstrate. “When it gets going, you can move it back again.” He bagged the collective sandwiches, then foraged for raisins and other oddments to complete his lunch. After filling two canteens from the water bucket, he took his lunchbox in hand, looped a pair of boots with wicked-looking metal spikes over his shoulder by their tied-together laces, and headed for the door.

  “Have a good day,” she called hurriedly, realizing he was leaving.

  His eyes flicked hers briefly as he was reaching back to close the door.

  Sevana crossed her arms as she watched the long-legged figure traverse the yard in the thinning darkness. She wished she could find at least a glimmer of friendliness in his eyes for her. The morning peace was shattered as he fired up the truck and roared away down the mountain, the dense forest quickly blotting up all remnants of the sound.

  With Fenn gone, the house seemed unnervingly hollow and still. As Sevana fried the leftover batter and ate alone at the table, she wondered if she could occupy a whole day, even, against such an empty silence. Briskly, before she could become lost in it herself, she washed the few dishes, swept the dirt from the cracks and ledges of the uneven floorboards, and then went upstairs to unpack, hoping the sight of her belongings would help her begin to feel more at home in that absolutely deserted place.

  The first thing she lifted out of her satchel was her paint box. Just the sight of the treasured paints and brushes gave her the comforting feeling of being in the presence of old friends. No matter where she was, she thought as she reverently placed the box in the bedside crate, as long as she had her paints with her, she could never feel completely lost. A look through her artwork further cheered her, as did several studies hung strategically about the room. Next she took out the few favorite books she’d brought with her, and stowed them in another crate. She had read them so many times, she didn’t have it at the top of her list to read them again that summer—and had in fact been hoping Fenn would have a collection of books she could borrow from. Her things arranged to her liking, she turned her attention to her clothes.

  Since there was no closet, she had little choice but to leave them in the trunk. Briefly she sorted through it. The stylishly rugged clothing she had bought from an expensive outdoor firm for her summer in the mountains, she wanted on top. But as for her good clothes—there were so many more of them! Not having the attention of a father, she had at least consoled herself by spending the money he sent her, so that her wardrobe had become quite a fashionable collection. She shook out her latest find, a sable-black dress without a single accent to relieve its severe aspect except its fine cloth and exquisite cut. The girls in her hall had mutually pronounced it too plain and somber—until Sevana had put it on. But Sevana had never had any doubt. With her inherent artistic sense, she knew exactly how to create the looks she liked. And how she liked that elegant black dress!

  Thinking now of her friends, she realized she felt no deep loss in having said goodbye to them. She liked many of them, but had forged no deep attachments that made it difficult to part company. Never unpopular, she nonetheless had not been perfectly suited to the school scene—too idealistic by nature to be vitally interested in the everyday activities around her, too goal-oriented among classmates uniformly more frivolous, too independent to be swept along in a crowd. And that fact only served to increase her sense of loneliness now, as one detached from her past and unacquainted with her future, so she didn’t seem to belong anywhere. She folded the dress and buried it deep in the trunk with her other good clothes. She would have no use for it here.

  Snapping the lid, she pushed the trunk against the wall, straightened the bed, and was finished with her room. She started downstairs, but as she passed Fenn’s door standing ajar, she couldn’t resist a peek inside.

  His room had the same bench-style bed built into the gable, but boasted two windows and more space—although it seemed smaller because of the snowshoes, camping gear, and other sporting equipment that crowded it. There was also an eye-opening amount of weaponry—rifles, pistols, knives, a bow and arrows, and boxes of ammunition stacked high. But that room contained more than the tackle of an outdoorsman. There were the books she’d been h
oping for, more even than she would have predicted: three long shelves below the big window on the front wall, crammed end-to-end.

  Sevana knew she didn’t belong in that room, but she stepped in just to glance over the titles, not only to see what she could expect to read that summer, but also to learn where his interests lay. She was startled, therefore, by the volumes that met her eyes: weighty tomes of ancient history and mythology, strange volumes of metaphysics and philosophy, malevolent chronicles of crime and war—books of a deep, even a morbid, thinker. Similarly, the few novels he owned were dark and macabre. Aghast, she took hasty leave of that foreign environment and went downstairs, soberly wondering if she and Fenn could ever be close, when they appeared to have so little in common.

  Out in the cold sunshine, where the air rising out of the valley was bringing with it the river’s echo more clearly that morning, she tried to decide what to do with the day. Trapper was picketed under a spindly apple tree below the house, industriously clipping off the dewy blades of grass. She would have liked to take him for a ride, but didn’t dare without Fenn’s consent. More than anything, though, she just wanted to get to a high spot where she could see above the mountain walls and make some sense of this place where she had come to stay. Right now, she felt nothing so much as blind and directionless amid the mazelike ranges.

  Thus compelled, she set up the lane past the homestead, and straightway entered a dark wood stifling the early daylight so effectively that only accidental glints of hazy sunshine hit upon the road. Thick-trunked trees with trailing branches flanked her on either side, towering over a damp green floor of ferns and forbs and stunted yew and cedar. The stillness of the forest was so oppressive, the caw of a raven startled her. Gargantuan shapes lurking between tree columns made her look twice to see they were not wild animals or monsters, but uproots of huge fallen trees covered with moss and lichens, bent and tied in eerily humped and erratic shapes. She began to question the intelligence of pressing through that foreboding wood, for it seemed rather unhealthy to be in it alone. But she had only rounded four or five bends when the road ended unexpectedly in a sunlit turnaround. Even more unexpected, a dusty black pickup was parked there in it.