Stony River Page 5

  But her reverie was forgotten as one of the sheep turned suddenly and bolted down the hill. For a minute it seemed the rest of the flock would follow, for they all stopped eating and looked after him, and some took nervous steps that direction. While Sevana was still staring in surprise, Joel had gone after the runaway with long strides. One of the lambs followed until he turned and spoke to him, not unkindly: “Stay, Thistle.” The lamb halted, and watched Joel disappear down the slope.

  Sevana jumped up to see if she could catch sight of them—and spotted Joel walking the errant sheep back up the hill. She went down to meet them. “He must not have gone too far,” she said, glad Joel had gotten him back without trouble.

  When Joel stopped, the sheep also stopped, looking back at him so indignantly that Sevana burst out laughing—and Joel, too, had to grin. “Never seen a sheep with such wanderlust,” he said, with a rueful shake of his head.

  “Is that the one who squeezed under the fence?”

  “The one and same. I’m going to sell him this fall, for a straying sheep can teach others to do the same.”

  “Oh no, don’t sell him!” she objected instantly, with round eyes.

  “I have to sell a few back to the breeder this year, because for the first time I have more than can winter in my barn,” he explained. “But he will sell them to other people who are looking for that same specialized breed of wool-bearers.”

  Sevana felt better then. “Won’t it be hard to decide which ones to give up?”

  “I do get pretty attached to them,” he admitted. “But in Brook’s case, the decision will be easy—if I can manage to hold onto him that long.”

  Sevana considered the troublesome sheep, who had returned to grazing as though having done nothing amiss. So that was Brook. She remembered Joel calling him a yearling. He was at a gawky stage, too big to be a cuddly lamb and too small to be impressive like the stronger, full-grown rams. There were several others in that same inbetween stage, and she felt sorry for them as well. She couldn’t think of their names, though.

  But she remembered Goldthread, the littlest lamb, standing apart from his mother, Lightning, who ignored him while she grazed and kicked him if he tried to nurse. He seemed resigned to it, and stood watching her out of quiet eyes. Wanting to comfort him, Sevana knelt down and called to him—but even though he looked her way, he wouldn’t come. “Doesn’t he know his name?” she asked Joel.

  “He knows it.” He called to him, and Goldthread came running over at once. Hunting in the grass, Joel pulled up a yellow violet and fed it to him, leaves and all.

  Then the other lambs crowded in to see what favor Goldthread had received, cocking their heads and looking up with beggars’ faces, so that Joel looked helplessly to Sevana. “Now I’m in trouble with them all, for favoring one. And how am I going to find enough violets on this hillside to give them each a treat?” And though he spoke wryly, laughter was in his eyes.

  Sevana smiled back at him, realizing more all the time what a good nature he had. Jumping up, she went in search of more violets, and brought back a double handful for the lambs—who pressed in eagerly to receive a share.

  “There!” she said when all the flowers were gone, opening her hands to show she had no more. “Now you can go back to grazing, for you’ve all had a treat.” But they crowded in closely as ever, waiting expectantly for more.

  “It seems you have made some friends.” And Joel, who had been looking on in amusement, had to send them off with a wave of his hand.

  Sevana could have lingered with Joel much longer in that wonderful place, but she didn’t feel she should stay. It was his pasture and his flock, his scenery and his life—and she was only an onlooker who had a long walk ahead of her. Reluctantly she said she should go, and thanked him for lunch and the view.

  Perhaps he sensed what she was thinking, for he told her she must find a way back whenever she wanted another look at the mountains. She thanked him gratefully—touched by his kindness—and set off, leaving him on that high slope with his well-kept sheep beneath the shining backdrop of the snow-drifted crags. Slowly she walked down the trail, wondering what it would be like to live up there day after day, and never leave at all.

  CHAPTER 4

  As Sevana neared the homestead, her thoughts returned to the day at hand. She had planned to make dinner for Fenn, for it seemed the one truly useful thing she could do for him. Up to this point in her life, all that had been required of her was to do well in her classes and find reasonably constructive ways to occupy her free hours; and she thought it was high time she learned how to survive in the real world—if indeed that was what this present circumstance could be called. The fact that she didn’t know how to cook daunted her not at all: she only wanted plenty of time for a first attempt. So as soon as she had brought in half a bucket of water from the spring—after discovering she couldn’t lift it full—she went straight to the cookstove; but at once saw she was in trouble, for the woodbox was empty.

  Not to be deterred, she stepped onto the back porch and surveyed what was left of the woodpile. One big round was set off by itself, with an axe leaning against it. Numerous cuts marred its top, as if Fenn had attempted to split it without success. If he couldn’t split it, Sevana knew she certainly could not. She chose a smaller round, set it beside the unmalleable one, and carefully attacked it with the axe.

  The tentative blow merely imprinted a faint line across the surface, as the blade bounced lightly off the wood. Mustering strength, she swung the axe harder and knocked the log over. Setting it upright, she raised her arms high and hit the log aggressively, sinking the blade fast into the round. Then she couldn’t get it out, even though she tried wrenching it with her hand and kicking it with her foot. Finally she took the maul and beat it out.

  Composing herself, she took careful aim, and got the axe stuck once more. But with the passing of time, she succeeded in quartering not only that round but also another—not by any special skill or strength, but only stubborn perseverance. Setting the axe down then, she stared regretfully at the chipped fingernail marring her manicure. She took time to run upstairs and trim all her other nails down to match before she carried in the wood, filled the stove,—and was still on her knees much later, coaxing a smoking fire that wouldn’t burn, when Fenn kicked the dirt from his logging boots and walked in the open door.

  Sevana scrambled to her feet, rubbing her hands in a futile attempt to rid them of their charcoal. “Oh Fenn, I was going to have dinner ready for you, but I can’t even get the fire going!” she exclaimed sorrowfully. “I opened the damper as you said, but it won’t burn.”

  He went to look in the stove. “You can’t start a fire without kindling.” There was disbelief in his voice that she could be so ignorant.

  Outside he shattered a round with a few swift blows, and added the splinters to the firebox. When he straightened from lighting the wood, Sevana saw how tired and dirty he looked, and was sorry again there had been no dinner waiting for him when he got home.

  “What were you going to make?” he asked.

  “I—hadn’t gotten that far yet,” she had to admit.

  Without further deliberation, Fenn began drawing out handfuls of potatoes and carrots from a bucket below the counter. Waiting to see what he had in mind, Sevana found her attention drawn again to the fraying threads of his shortened trousers. She wondered if he had to wade creeks the same way cars did around here. But not wanting to offend him with impertinent questions, she merely found a knife and helped him peel potatoes.

  After the vegetables had been set to simmer in a kettle, Fenn added a slab of smoked salmon and half the bottle of beer he’d gotten from the springbox. Then he mixed up biscuit dough and dropped it by spoonfuls onto a baking tin, while Sevana stood back, trying to learn how he did things without getting in the way. She wondered about the source of the white fat he kept in the unlabeled can on the stove and used in almost everything, but had a feeling she was better off not knowing. Once
the biscuits were in the oven, Fenn went out on the front porch to finish his beer.

  With a little time on her hands, Sevana returned to the woodpile. Chopping wood was a novelty to her, a challenge not yet well-mastered. She decided that for practice she would attempt the formidable round she had passed up the first time.

  When Fenn appeared in the doorway to announce that dinner was ready, he found her with jaw clamped tight and wisps of hair coming loose from her braid as she tried to dislodge the blade from the large log round—which had been further scarred by her inaccurate blows and even chipped off a little on one edge, but was otherwise very much intact.

  Something like amusement flickered momentarily in his face as he took hold of the handle and twisted it free in a single motion. “Leave the chopping block alone, Sevana,” he said, handing the axe back to her. “It’s not going to do me any good in pieces.”

  Sevana’s eyes grew big as she viewed the scarred stump in that new light. Propping the axe against it with a sigh, she trailed him into the house. Before sitting down, she purposely filled her cup with water instead of milk.

  Over the fish stew—which she did not particularly relish, even though the thought of salmon was much more reassuring than bear—she announced, “I met the shepherd today.”

  “Wilder?” Fenn regarded his delicate, city-bred sister with some surprise. “What possessed you to go that far up the trail?”

  “I wanted to find a view,” she said. “And I did, too. Oh Fenn, it was splendid! Wouldn’t that be the way to live—so high in the mountains with the sheep?”

  “It’d be a good life, all right. Wouldn’t have to deal with anybody.” There was a hard glint in his eye as he said it.

  She offered to do the dishes that night, and Fenn didn’t object. He brought in a bucket of water for her, and then—evidently impressed by what he’d witnessed earlier—chopped enough sticks to fill the woodbox to overflowing.

  When Sevana went out on the porch later, Fenn was seated on the front steps with his chainsaw beside him, scraping the teeth with a round file. “What are you doing?” she asked, taking a place on the bench.

  “Sharpening my chain.”

  She thought the way his hair fell over his forehead while he worked made him look more boyish. “It’s a nice evening, isn’t it?” she said, hoping he would meet her eyes and smile, to let her know he liked having her there. But he didn’t look up or hesitate in the methodical passes of his file.

  She began to polish her nails a glossy mulberry, even though she doubted there was much point to the ritual if she was going to keep chopping wood and washing dishes every day. Suddenly Fenn confronted her with a question. “Did you go in my room today?”

  She nearly jumped at the direct inquiry. She wanted to deny it, but was afraid he would see through it. “Yes, I did,” she confessed. “But only to see if you had any good books. I didn’t bring very many.” She wondered why he asked. It seemed he knew she had, and was only asking to accuse her.

  “Did you take any?”

  “No,” she said. You didn’t have any, she added to herself.

  “If you want books, ask me first,” he said. “Otherwise, stay out of there.” He took a drink from the brown bottle beside him.

  In the uneasy pause that fell back between them, Joel’s truck was first heard and then seen rattling at a brisk clip down the mountain. Sevana waved a freshly lacquered hand, but Joel didn’t look their direction on his way past the homestead. She wondered where he was going so fast and intent that he didn’t even have the presence of mind to acknowledge his only neighbors. He hadn’t mentioned going anywhere that evening.

  She had just finished the other hand when a bird shrilled into the evening silence—a piercing note that lingered after itself in the stillness. To Sevana it was a melancholy sound, as if all the loneliness of the surrounding mountains had been gathered into that one poignant cry, intensifying it beyond expression. She waited in suspense to hear it again. After a long interval, the bird repeated the single, flutelike note. The evening stood suspended between night and day, listening for another call, but none came. “What was that?” she cried softly.

  “What was what?” Fenn tested a metal bit with his fingertip.

  “That bird that sang out just now.”

  “A thrush.” As he tipped back his head for another drink, his eye lit on her as she sat waiting raptly for a sight or sound of that unfamiliar bird. “Sevana,” he said, annoyed, “haven’t you got anything to do besides sit there and watch me?”

  Her eyes flew to his, startled and hurt. He returned the look, cool and unflinching. Without another word, she got up and went inside. Fetching an unfinished painting from her room, she settled with it at the kitchen table—removing easily into an inner world as familiar as the real one, where life even at its most distressing could be shut out and go virtually unnoticed. But before long, the dim aspect of the room forced her to seek out her inhospitable sibling. “Fenn, could you show me how to light the lantern?” she requested reluctantly from the doorway.

  Fenn merely grunted in response, but in a short time he came in. “Gad, Sevana, that turpentine could send you into a stupor,” he remarked ungratefully, with a superficial glance at the wild oak tree upon which she was laboriously concentrating. “Just like peyote, but easier to come by. Do visions of the gods ever dance before your eyes?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sevana, who was so used to the pungent smell she hardly ever noticed it. She screwed the cap back on the little bottle.

  “So you’re the budding artist,” he observed cynically as he unhooked the lantern from its ceiling wire and set it on the table. “Planning to make a career of it, I hear.”

  “Yes,” she said, encouraged by his interest. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  “I understand Bryce is not overjoyed with your choice,”—the fact of which seemed to please him immoderately.

  “He told you that?”

  “Yes. He even had the gall to ask me to talk you out of it while you’re here. He wants you to choose a more useful vocation—as if he knew better than you, what you wanted to do.” The sarcasm present whenever he spoke of anything even remotely concerning his father, edged his words.

  “Yes, he thinks I should have art for a hobby but not make it my career,” she confirmed. “And I feel bad about it, because he’s willing to pay for my education either way. But I can’t even consider doing anything else. And rather than taking art at a university, I wanted to try something more specialized first—and my teacher said the private studio in Lethbridge is excellent.” In reality, half a dozen schools had been recommended to her, and she had chosen Lethbridge as the one closest to Fenn—but as she felt he would not appreciate the reason, she didn’t enlighten him of it.

  Talking to Fenn that way, finding him a more sympathetic ally when it came down between her or her father, made her feel like they were communicating for once, and she would have gladly continued the conversation. But Fenn had already initiated a series of applications involving the lantern—and Sevana, thoroughly alarmed because it looked far more complicated than anything she’d dealt with there so far, hung onto every word as he explained how to prime the pump and light the mantle, knowing he wouldn’t want to show her twice.

  Convinced by then of her general incompetence, he made her repeat the process on her own. When she had succeeded with much prompting, he hung the light again and turned to his bedtime rituals of washing up and locking the doors. “Try not to rattle around down here too much while I’m trying to sleep, will you?” he made request as he headed for the stairs.

  She nodded absently, already absorbed again with painting in the field flowers one by one. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He stopped his climb abruptly. “No need for you to get up so early.” The way he said it, it was more a request that she didn’t.

  “I like starting the day with you,” she insisted. “I’d be glad to help make breakfast or your lunch.�
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  “I can do it myself.” He went on up to his room.

  Sevana gave the stairs a dark look and returned to her brushwork. Night settled in for good without her noticing. Only weariness and a tight cramp in her fingers eventually brought her back to the present. Shaking the tension out of her hand, she cleaned her prized Siberian-sable paintbrush in turpentine and pinched the bristles back into an exact point to dry. Then she crept to the counter to wash her face, trying not to make any metallic noises with the teakettle or washpan. As she hung the towel back on its nail, a beam of light out the window caught her eye—the moon, nearly round, tangled in the branches of a cedar tree below the clearing.

  Intrigued, she forgot her tiredness and followed the moon outside, both fastidiously unlocking the door and leaving it open a crack to avoid any possibility of another nocturnal lock-out. Out under the onyx-blue sky, the night stretched deep and fathomless and wild. The sheen of the low moon brushed the clearing with frostlike radiance, causing the knobby trunks of the two birches to glow a startling white against the shadows of the forest. The tar-black range leaned overhead, blotting out most of the stars. But in that enchanted midnight, the overreaching mountainside did not seem so much an obstructive wall to trap her in and erase her sky, as a bulwark standing protectively over the homesite, silent and strong.

  Sevana’s heart soared with all the other things reaching heavenward—the points of the trees, the ascendant ridgetops, the spirit of the earth itself lifting toward something higher above it. There was something unexplainable in the night, something calling—the same mysterious pull she’d felt in the meadow, but now even stronger. Her eyes swept the dark treetops, touched on the inky ridgeline, searched the narrow slice of crystalline stars—and she wished to know what was making her heart rise so restlessly in pursuit of something far away—or was it near?—something she couldn’t name.