Read Online Stony River by Ciarra Montanna - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ciarra Montanna
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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.”
“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.
She remained where she stood, lost in the unanswered questions of the night, until she began to shiver in the damp air. Going back in the house, she quietly closed and locked the door, stole across the floorboards—and was halfway up the stairs when she remembered the lantern.
Retracing her way, wincing as one of the steps creaked underfoot, she reached up on tiptoe to the hanging light and twisted the knob as far as it would go. But it continued to burn as brightly as before. Thinking she had turned the knob the wrong direction, she tweaked it the other way, and fire shot out the top, licking the ceiling. With a stifled cry, she turned it back down. But the lantern continued to spew out forked tongues of flame, singeing the ceiling boards.
Panic-stricken, she ran for the water bucket. It was almost empty, but she climbed on a chair and slung what little water was left toward the fire. It sloshed out awkwardly, missing the target and splattering across the table. Jumping down, she glanced back once more wildly at the flames lending a hellish, hazy-yellow illumination to the room, and raced up the stairs three at a time. “Fenn,” she shouted, banging on his door. “Fenn, wake up!”
“What is it?” he responded irritably, after a moment.
“The lantern’s on fire—it’s burning the ceiling!”
She heard him hit the floor. His door flew open as he sprinted past her down the stairs. But the lantern was out. Only an acrid smell in the room lent support to her story.
“It was on fire,” she
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.”
“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.
She remained where she stood, lost in the unanswered questions of the night, until she began to shiver in the damp air. Going back in the house, she quietly closed and locked the door, stole across the floorboards—and was halfway up the stairs when she remembered the lantern.
Retracing her way, wincing as one of the steps creaked underfoot, she reached up on tiptoe to the hanging light and twisted the knob as far as it would go. But it continued to burn as brightly as before. Thinking she had turned the knob the wrong direction, she tweaked it the other way, and fire shot out the top, licking the ceiling. With a stifled cry, she turned it back down. But the lantern continued to spew out forked tongues of flame, singeing the ceiling boards.
Panic-stricken, she ran for the water bucket. It was almost empty, but she climbed on a chair and slung what little water was left toward the fire. It sloshed out awkwardly, missing the target and splattering across the table. Jumping down, she glanced back once more wildly at the flames lending a hellish, hazy-yellow illumination to the room, and raced up the stairs three at a time. “Fenn,” she shouted, banging on his door. “Fenn, wake up!”
“What is it?” he responded irritably, after a moment.
“The lantern’s on fire—it’s burning the ceiling!”
She heard him hit the floor. His door flew open as he sprinted past her down the stairs. But the lantern was out. Only an acrid smell in the room lent support to her story.
“It was on fire,” she
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