belong in her hand. The blade closed into the sheath with a single clip that she left open. Sheundid her belt, pulled it out of the first loop, slipped the sheath on, refastened the belt, and tucked her shirt in so the knife was visible at her hip.
When she crossed through the kitchen she saw another note, in a small, uncertain script, next to the empty fruit platter.
The river will take this house. Clear out now.
Come east one mile.
Up the hill.
I found a dog is it your
C. Shoad
A bolt of breath and expended denial shot out of her and opened wider other fears. Crooner was safe but now the house was in danger. But could the creek really take the house? It didn’t seem possible. Letter to letter the note was half-printed, half in a failing cursive. The lines were oddly narrow, the whole thing over-clipped, right to the last missing letter. It was written on the back of a printout page from the James novel, which meant he’d come in as far as the chair by the woodstove and taken what he needed, the page and the pen she’d used to mark significant lines.
At the back door she again laced on her boots—they were walking boots, low on the ankle, not best for the heavy snow and now just as ill-suited to the mud and slush—and stepped out and walked toward the lip of the ravine and theloud saw thrumming the light. As she drew close to the rope she noticed that he’d positioned it over a small metal tap that was directing a steady drip of sap onto the base of the tree. She looked along the ridge and registered for the first time a dozen other tapped sugar maples, all bleeding out in the sudden heat. What she had thought from the house was one loop was in fact two, one drawn over and across another so the rope pinched itself into place, twice fixed. She thought back to the image of the man lowering himself, the coil on his arm, and could not square it with the mechanics of the system she was looking at. Had he come up and remade the rigging while she was finding the knife? The rope was taut, parallel to the ground, down the slope, and she stepped up and saw it whole to the end running into the harness around his body. His back was to her.
He had cut through the top sections of the fallen tree and thrown them onto a crib of branches he’d laid on the bank and was now bent low over the trunk, his feet in the heavy current. He tilted the tip of the blade upward slightly as he entered the thickest part of the log, drew it downward. At some point that he seemed to know precisely he brought the blade out and made a cut from underneath and just as the two cuts met he pulled the saw free and the part of the tree in the river shifted and was taken up by the waters and drawn away lengthways. He watched it as she did, as it was carried downstream, lodging again a hundred or so feet along, the flow coursing around and over it.
She watched the stream in hopes it would calm her. Alph was working against her now, telling her she’d made amistake. Or maybe her brain was telling her to run and Alph was keeping her in place, feeding off dumb suspense.
He was no longer standing in water, the level had dropped already. He held the low-growling saw in one hand and twisted back to pull himself higher with the other. He looked to his footing as he stepped up once, then again, and stood staring at the rest of the downed tree. Some calculation absorbed him. He killed the saw and held it by one finger. He put his boot to the trunk and seemed to test its position. He looked upstream, then down. Then he took in the northern sky and above the sound of the water he called out,
“That won’t buy much time.”
He turned and looked up at her. Though she had seen the face, she now felt its address and it penetrated her breath and seemed to take up in the base of her spine. He turned away and stepped down to the new edge of the water and dipped the saw blade into it for several seconds, then lifted it and tested something in it with the side of his
When she crossed through the kitchen she saw another note, in a small, uncertain script, next to the empty fruit platter.
The river will take this house. Clear out now.
Come east one mile.
Up the hill.
I found a dog is it your
C. Shoad
A bolt of breath and expended denial shot out of her and opened wider other fears. Crooner was safe but now the house was in danger. But could the creek really take the house? It didn’t seem possible. Letter to letter the note was half-printed, half in a failing cursive. The lines were oddly narrow, the whole thing over-clipped, right to the last missing letter. It was written on the back of a printout page from the James novel, which meant he’d come in as far as the chair by the woodstove and taken what he needed, the page and the pen she’d used to mark significant lines.
At the back door she again laced on her boots—they were walking boots, low on the ankle, not best for the heavy snow and now just as ill-suited to the mud and slush—and stepped out and walked toward the lip of the ravine and theloud saw thrumming the light. As she drew close to the rope she noticed that he’d positioned it over a small metal tap that was directing a steady drip of sap onto the base of the tree. She looked along the ridge and registered for the first time a dozen other tapped sugar maples, all bleeding out in the sudden heat. What she had thought from the house was one loop was in fact two, one drawn over and across another so the rope pinched itself into place, twice fixed. She thought back to the image of the man lowering himself, the coil on his arm, and could not square it with the mechanics of the system she was looking at. Had he come up and remade the rigging while she was finding the knife? The rope was taut, parallel to the ground, down the slope, and she stepped up and saw it whole to the end running into the harness around his body. His back was to her.
He had cut through the top sections of the fallen tree and thrown them onto a crib of branches he’d laid on the bank and was now bent low over the trunk, his feet in the heavy current. He tilted the tip of the blade upward slightly as he entered the thickest part of the log, drew it downward. At some point that he seemed to know precisely he brought the blade out and made a cut from underneath and just as the two cuts met he pulled the saw free and the part of the tree in the river shifted and was taken up by the waters and drawn away lengthways. He watched it as she did, as it was carried downstream, lodging again a hundred or so feet along, the flow coursing around and over it.
She watched the stream in hopes it would calm her. Alph was working against her now, telling her she’d made amistake. Or maybe her brain was telling her to run and Alph was keeping her in place, feeding off dumb suspense.
He was no longer standing in water, the level had dropped already. He held the low-growling saw in one hand and twisted back to pull himself higher with the other. He looked to his footing as he stepped up once, then again, and stood staring at the rest of the downed tree. Some calculation absorbed him. He killed the saw and held it by one finger. He put his boot to the trunk and seemed to test its position. He looked upstream, then down. Then he took in the northern sky and above the sound of the water he called out,
“That won’t buy much time.”
He turned and looked up at her. Though she had seen the face, she now felt its address and it penetrated her breath and seemed to take up in the base of her spine. He turned away and stepped down to the new edge of the water and dipped the saw blade into it for several seconds, then lifted it and tested something in it with the side of his
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