Stony River (23 page)

But as the sun dipped below the mountain, Sevana discovered that before tomorrow could arrive, she had a night to get through first. For with the lengthening shadows came the sharp-edged realization that Fenn was in another town many hours distant. The shadowy house seemed more strange than familiar, and the silence crouched within it like an unseen occupant.

Attempting to ignore the black curtainless windows staring at her like unblinking eyes, but remembering the time the loggers had skulked out in the night watching her,—feeling a little jittery, too, because she’d just seen a mouse scuttle along the wall,—she lit the lantern and tried to lose herself in the book of mythology Fenn had left on the table. Unfortunately, it proved not to contain the harmless myths she’d studied in World Literature, but a much more depraved collection. She grew horrified over the ghastly tales, and shut the book with a shudder. She could never hope to go to sleep now, with such images in her head. In desperation she picked up the other book set there, the discourse of a German philosopher. It was difficult and not at all interesting, but happily it served a purpose: after struggling through just one chapter, she was so wearied by it she was willing to brave the unlit upstairs for bed.

Once in her sleeping bag, though, she lay tense and alert, unable to stop thinking about the dark, empty house around her, and the dark, empty wildlands around the house. Her eyes were closed, but she was listening to the silence with all her concentration, afraid that at any second something might break it. Nothing did—and still she waited, in the grip of a paralyzing fear from which she couldn’t get away.

As the night wore on, a far-off howl of a coyote chilled her blood; later there was an eerie hoot of what she could only hope was an owl. Then she remembered the Indian legend and hoped it
wasn’t
an owl. Even the river slipping through the canyon whispered in strange and disturbing voices at her window. Deep into the night, she heard weird stomping noises that went unexplained until she looked out and saw three deer milling in the yard. Finally she lit the candle, deciding it wouldn’t be a fire hazard to leave it burning in such a large can, and lay down feeling more at ease with the room visible around her. She was just drifting off into her first real sleep of the night when something scampered lightly across her head. She jerked upright and screamed at the sight of a mouse scurrying away from her over the floorboards. That scream frightened her worse than anything. It’s a terrible thing to hear a scream in the middle of the night—even if it is yours, over nothing at all.

That shrill shriek set off a chain reaction in the night world outside. There were hollow pounding sounds as the panicked deer charged out of the yard, and some ravens startled from their roosting in the nearby trees cawed loudly and confusedly at the deer—all of which raucous noises were not immediately identifiable to Sevana, and scared her all over again.

After that fright wore off, she lay calmer but wide-awake, no longer even attempting to sleep. The hours dragged on with no perceptible progress toward dawn. Alone and night weary, she felt a desperate isolation. She was alone not just for the night, but alone in life. There was no one to lean on, no one to help her find her way. And not only she, but Fenn was alone—living in the alienation of his mind where no one could find him. And Joel was alone far up the mountain, unable to share his joys and sorrows with the one he would choose to have at his side. They were all estranged, each in his own life, with nothing to help or bring light.

A thin stiletto moon made a late appearance in the sky, its reflection too limited to drive back the reigning powers of the night. Not until dawn crept into the sky with summer-brushed hues of peach and raspberry did she fall asleep and sleep hard—while the sun appeared with better success than the moon, in full glory.

When she woke again, birds were singing and trees stirring in a warm breeze; the day had started without her. The night terrors were vanished, ludicrous in the bright sunshine. Why had she let them trouble her so? she wondered impatiently—and went to rescue Trapper from the gloom of the barn.

She worked hard that day getting ready for Fenn’s return. By the time the red truck pulled into the yard, laundry was drying on the line, a reasonable likeness of Joel’s potato soup simmered in the kettle, brown rolls were baking, and she was on the front porch trying to work out a splinter she had rammed into her finger while stoking the stove.

“Welcome home, Fenn,” she cried joyfully, running to meet him as he emerged tanned and brawny from the truck, his hair bleached lighter than ever from the summer sun.

“Hello, Sevana,” he said carelessly, leaving her to trail after him as he strode to the house. He dropped his overnight bag on a chair. “I’m going fishing.”

“But dinner—”

“Don’t wait dinner on my account.” He got his pole and crossed the road in straight paces toward the creek.

Mystified, Sevana watched him go—but something in the speed with which he went, told her he’d been cooped up in town too long and had to get away from it. She pushed the soup to the back of the stove, and when the rolls were done she put them in the warming oven.

In an hour’s time Fenn returned with no fish in hand, only a bottle from the springbox. He sat hard and remote, oblivious to her as she set the meal before him. “How was Trail?” she asked, timid in the face of his stonelike silence.

He swore. “Almost lost it sitting in town for two days.” He wedged butter into a roll and devoured it without further comment. But after his second bowl of soup, as he was reaching for another roll, he asked: “How’d things go here?”

“Fine,” she said, but finding it harder than she’d thought to meet his eyes.

“How’d you get that scratch?”

She paled visibly. She’d worn a long-sleeved shirt to hide the healing cut on her forearm, but had never thought he would regard the light scratch across her cheek as a thing of consequence. He usually ignored her as much as he could. “I just got into a little brush,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as faint as she felt.

His eyes were on her narrowly. “Trapper throw you?”

All at once Sevana felt sorry for the mere mortals on his crew who had to work alongside him, their inferior mental powers continually matched against his brilliance. Her face was pleading. “Well, not exactly—that is, he didn’t mean to. A grouse startled him a little and he—”

Fenn was already out the door. Sevana saw him pass the north window on his way to the barn. Even though she knew he wouldn’t find so much as a scratch on Trapper, she still was afraid of what he would say to her when he came back.

When Fenn reappeared, she was busily poking at the stubborn sliver in her finger with a flushed countenance. “Sevana,” he said sternly as he sat down to finish his dinner, “if you can’t handle my horse, you’d better not ride him.”

She winced at the dreaded words. She wanted to plead her case, but wasn’t sure it was the best time. The silence between them was loud. She got up and began to heat water for dishes. That was when she saw the mousetraps on the counter.

The truth was, she was beginning to feel sorry for the mouse she had frightened by her scream—which had been a reflex reaction to being startled rather than real fear. But the mouse had been terrified: she had seen it in the quiver of his whiskers and the speed with which he’d frantically raced to get away from her. Then, too, the very fact that another living thing had shared that lonely night with her, endeared her to it. He was an innocent creature not meaning any harm, and didn’t deserve to be scared out of his wits—much less caught in a cruel trap. “These aren’t live traps, are they?” she ventured, willing to speak up if it would save her mouse.

“No,” said Fenn.

“Isn’t there some way we can move the mice outside without hurting them?” she asked hopefully.

Fenn walked out on her, saving himself all the bother of a reply.

Sevana joined him later on the bench as he carved the deerhorn handle. She looked over the deepening blues and greens of the valley while she waited for Joel to come, noticing that all the dots of snow had finally disappeared from the avalanche chutes. But she was at a loss for something to do until, on a whim, she went in and fetched the book of philosophy she’d started the night before.

“There’s a book that’ll give you a thought or two,” Fenn mocked her as she sat down. “Read it and better your mind.” He plainly regarded her incapable of scholarly occupation.

She lifted her chin a fraction. “The first chapter was fascinating,” she said loftily, and opened the book to chapter two.

Luckily for Sevana, she was able to comprehend the main idea of what was being said, though she had to let many of the particulars go by. But what she did understand she didn’t like, for it portrayed man as an impersonal being in an impersonal universe, and left very little room for any kind of meaning for his existence. When she closed the book quietly, Fenn looked over. “Agree with him?” he asked, still mocking.

“No, I don’t,” she said, glad to show she had understood it. “He sees things so darkly. How can he say we have no purpose? Doesn’t he have any dreams? Perhaps he has none, but he shouldn’t speak for anyone but himself.”

“So you think your life has purpose?” he confronted her. “Do tell, what is it?”

“I have plenty of dreams,” she said confidently. “I’m going to be the best artist I can be.”

“Dreams!” Fenn scoffed. “He’s not talking about the pursuits of life, but life itself. What good is your existence? What significance does it have?”

Sevana opened her mouth to tell him, then shut it as she realized she had no good answer. She sat silent, pondering that startling discovery. Then, more humbly now, she asked confidingly, “Fenn,
you
don’t think life is meaningless, do you?”

“No one has given me any reason to say it isn’t,” he retorted. “Can you?”

“No,” she almost whispered. “But Fenn—how can you bear to think life has no hope?”

He snapped the blade shut, and his eyes were hard. “Better to face it as it is, than pretend it isn’t so.”

And when she only stared at him with a look full of questioning and doubt, he said impatiently: “Come on, Sevana, get the stars out of your eyes long enough to see the only reason you exist is for the hell in your own mind.”

He took sandpaper to the deerhorn, and Sevana took up her earlier occupation of watching the evening shadows overrun the landscape; but now her head was filled with disquieting thoughts. She wanted to tell Fenn not to entertain such fatalistic ideas, but she had nothing to offer in their stead. It disturbed her, for she had no way of knowing what was true, and didn’t know but that he might be right.

Joel drove into the yard at that critical moment, causing Fenn to vanish into the house with a muttered oath. Leaving the engine running, he came across the yard in his woodsman’s agile gait. His hair was tamer than usual, sleek and almost straight, and though he wore a coarse hickory-stripe shirt and canvas work trousers, he wore them with a nearly elegant ease. Sevana smiled unconsciously at the sight of him. He was a man all his own…confident, yet without arrogance—sure of himself not through any airs he put on, but simply in who he was. He was someone she would be proud to be seen with anywhere.

He came up on the steps. “Evening, Sevana. Still want to go?”

“If you don’t object to the company.”

“I requested the company,” he reminded her—which brought a look of happiness to her face.

She jumped up. “Let me tell Fenn.”

He’d noticed the rock-lined garden beside the steps. “Is that your handiwork?”

“Yes, that’s my flowerbed.”

“What’d you plant?”

“Oh, it’s not planted. I guess it was silly to put one in when I don’t have any flower seeds.”

“Can’t Fenn get you some?”

“No, probably not,” she said, with a queer little patient smile. She stepped inside. “Joel’s here to take me to Cragmont,” she announced to Fenn, who was working a bind out of his loggers’ reel.

The metal tape jammed. Fenn swore, pulled it out, started over. Then he looked up at Sevana as she stood expectantly waiting for his response. “You want my blessing?” he asked sarcastically.

“I’m just telling you in case we get back late.”

The tape jammed again and he threw it down on the table in disgust. “Blast it, Sevana, I don’t care if you don’t come back at all,” he said savagely.

She didn’t entirely believe him, but she was tired of his bad mood. She went out the door hoping Joel hadn’t heard any of the exchange.

He had come up on the porch to leaf through the book she’d left on the bench. “Reading philosophy?” he asked, looking up quizzically when she appeared.

“I was trying to.”

“A little hard going, isn’t it?”

“A little.” She didn’t mind admitting her ignorance to him as much as she did to Fenn.

“What did you get from it?”

“That life is meaningless,” she said, curious to hear his response.

He tossed it down in disregard. “Better read a different book,” he said shortly.

Sevana smiled at him. For a little while, specters of doubt had shadowed her mind, stealing her optimism. Now she had it again, though still unfounded—based on her confidence in Joel, that
he
had reason for confidence. Things seemed right again as she walked with him to the truck.