Read Online The Riverhouse by G. Norman Lippert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: G. Norman Lippert
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only reluctantly, having twined into the cracks of the stone, but as they ripped away, Shane began to recognize the shape buried beneath. It was an angel carved out of white marble, almost life sized, standing atop a pedestal. The wings were partially unfurled from its back, and one hand was raised, palm up, in a vaguely welcoming gesture. An abandoned bird’s nest was nestled into the vines that entwined the hand.
Shane stood back again, taking in the entire figure. It was somehow both marvelous and a little eerie; beautifully made, but completely forgotten here in the thickness of the deep woods. He realized he was looking at something that had probably not been seen by human eyes for… how long? Decades, maybe?
He looked back the way he had come, up the curve of the hill with its embedded stone steps. It occurred to him that he could clean up the trail, perhaps clear off the bench and the statue, make the footpath usable again. It would be a lot of work, but what else did he have to do with himself when he wasn’t putting in his shift?
Depending on where the path ended up, walking it could be a pleasant enough alternative to going on a bike ride. He drew a deep breath, considering it, and tramped on, leaving the statue behind.
The trees opened and Shane crossed a clearing so covered in dense weeds that he could no longer feel the flagstones beneath his feet. A narrow stream ran through the clearing like a snake, cutting a path toward the river. Large, flat rocks formed perfect stepping stones across the stream. Were they a little too regular to be random? Shane thought they were. Whoever had built this trail had placed them there. Shane might have expected a bridge instead, but on second thought he decided that a bridge probably wouldn’t have fit the original designer’s intention. He had a strange sense that the footpath hadn’t been built as an attempt to subdue and conquer nature, but rather to work with it, following its curves and moods. A bridge would have seemed a bit too bold, somehow. Too… what was the word? Condescending? Maybe.
On the other hand, the stepping stones were like a compromise, a sort of truce between the path’s designer and the woods it passed through. It was the sort of choice that seemed to say
it’s still up to you, nature; if you don’t want us passing through, just raise the water, cover the stones, and we’ll stay out
.
We may rule the cities, but out here, you’re still in charge. Out here, you make the rules.
For now, the water was low, the stepping stones dry, so Shane pushed on, finding the path again on the other side of the clearing. It switched back and forth descending another hill, leading toward another bright clearing that was just visible through the thick belt of trees. This one was much larger and brighter, and Shane was not particularly surprised when he pushed through the weeds and found himself stumbling into the mundane lot of the now-defunct manor house.
He looked around, blinking in the sun, and saw that he’d come out of the tree line at approximately the same place where the crane had been parked on the day the house had been demolished. Now, both the crane and the bulldozer were gone. The house’s cellar had been cleared out, the debris hauled away and disposed of. In its place, the cellar had been filled with dirt, leaving only a vague outline and a few broken lines of stone, rising out of the landscape like relics from some ancient civilization.
Shane walked idly over to the site of the old house, looking over his shoulder at the woods from which he’d come.
It made sense that this was where the footpath had led. After all, both the house and the cottage had once been part of the same property. It was only logical that there would have been some common means of getting back and forth between them. The original owner, Shane recalled, had been an artist, like him. That explained the statue and the bench with its drift of hydrangeas. It explained
Shane stood back again, taking in the entire figure. It was somehow both marvelous and a little eerie; beautifully made, but completely forgotten here in the thickness of the deep woods. He realized he was looking at something that had probably not been seen by human eyes for… how long? Decades, maybe?
He looked back the way he had come, up the curve of the hill with its embedded stone steps. It occurred to him that he could clean up the trail, perhaps clear off the bench and the statue, make the footpath usable again. It would be a lot of work, but what else did he have to do with himself when he wasn’t putting in his shift?
Depending on where the path ended up, walking it could be a pleasant enough alternative to going on a bike ride. He drew a deep breath, considering it, and tramped on, leaving the statue behind.
The trees opened and Shane crossed a clearing so covered in dense weeds that he could no longer feel the flagstones beneath his feet. A narrow stream ran through the clearing like a snake, cutting a path toward the river. Large, flat rocks formed perfect stepping stones across the stream. Were they a little too regular to be random? Shane thought they were. Whoever had built this trail had placed them there. Shane might have expected a bridge instead, but on second thought he decided that a bridge probably wouldn’t have fit the original designer’s intention. He had a strange sense that the footpath hadn’t been built as an attempt to subdue and conquer nature, but rather to work with it, following its curves and moods. A bridge would have seemed a bit too bold, somehow. Too… what was the word? Condescending? Maybe.
On the other hand, the stepping stones were like a compromise, a sort of truce between the path’s designer and the woods it passed through. It was the sort of choice that seemed to say
it’s still up to you, nature; if you don’t want us passing through, just raise the water, cover the stones, and we’ll stay out
.
We may rule the cities, but out here, you’re still in charge. Out here, you make the rules.
For now, the water was low, the stepping stones dry, so Shane pushed on, finding the path again on the other side of the clearing. It switched back and forth descending another hill, leading toward another bright clearing that was just visible through the thick belt of trees. This one was much larger and brighter, and Shane was not particularly surprised when he pushed through the weeds and found himself stumbling into the mundane lot of the now-defunct manor house.
He looked around, blinking in the sun, and saw that he’d come out of the tree line at approximately the same place where the crane had been parked on the day the house had been demolished. Now, both the crane and the bulldozer were gone. The house’s cellar had been cleared out, the debris hauled away and disposed of. In its place, the cellar had been filled with dirt, leaving only a vague outline and a few broken lines of stone, rising out of the landscape like relics from some ancient civilization.
Shane walked idly over to the site of the old house, looking over his shoulder at the woods from which he’d come.
It made sense that this was where the footpath had led. After all, both the house and the cottage had once been part of the same property. It was only logical that there would have been some common means of getting back and forth between them. The original owner, Shane recalled, had been an artist, like him. That explained the statue and the bench with its drift of hydrangeas. It explained
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