Free Stony River by Ciarra Montanna

land, talking to itself down in the valley in a conversation too far off to be heard plainly. And she thought she would see if she could find in it a kind of company, even if she couldn’t share its language. So she went seeking it—down the fast-falling lane, across the main road, and through the forest on a little game trail to the water’s edge. And from there it was no background murmur, nor reminiscent melody, but a mighty roar.
    The jasper-green water was dashing by right at her feet, its surface choppy with whitewater and changing every moment. The current was stronger in the middle than at the edges, but it was all going by fast, determined—too powerful to be stopped or restrained by anything. It tossed a cold draft in her face as it went, and filled her ears with its raging.
    A great cedar grew there at a slight lean over the river, and at the base of its spreading trunk was a flat rock only inches from the water. Sevana sat on that rock beneath the low, olive-green boughs, tucking her feet close to keep them dry, and stared at the dizzying current sweeping past her, until she felt it was sweeping her away with it.
    As she sat mesmerized, the torrent became to her not one sound but many, blended together and yet distinct. Foremost was the steady rushing of a mass of water going by in a hurry. But from deep in its heart came the inconstant rumble of rocks dislodging on the bottom and rolling and colliding in the dynamic current. And in wake of the biggest boulders, full-size waves fell forward or backward and shot spray upward in an erratic, ceaseless pounding. On a lazier note, little ripples from the side eddies lapped lightly ashore at her feet. Altogether it was the unsubdued song of the river at highwater, and it was unlike any music she’d heard before. It washed away the noise of her other thoughts, until its song became her own.
    When she took leave of the river at last, her ears still rang with its thunder and she felt slightly motion-sick as she walked down the road to Avalanche Creek. There it was, producing its own noisy turbulence and cool updrafts as it jetted down the draw and tumbled frothing over the road. How the folks back east would laugh at these primitive western ways, she thought, shaking her head at the so-called ‘low-water crossing’. But they wouldn’t laugh at the silky-white water fanning like gossamer over the round dark rocks of its course, or the mist-laden maidenhair ferns edging its banks with feathery circlets. She braved the spray to pick a few delicate fronds on threadlike stems. Then, enticed further, she stepped to the very edge of the stream and let a foamy rivulet shower in and out of her palm, while the cold spray tingled on her face. Invigorated and a little damp, she tackled the steep lane home again, adding sylphlike white windflowers and speckled orange wood-lilies to her ferns, and looking at everything around her.
    She had the sensation of setting foot in a pristine world existing only for her, where shiny-needled conifers and newly leafed bushes glistened in the sunshine, lavish carpets of ferns tinted the forest floor with emerald iridescence, and the sky shone with the unvarying clarity of sapphire—while all the time the river spilled endlessly through the valley. Always before, her world of beauty had existed only in books and magazines, postcards and calendars—but this was real-life beauty. She was beginning to realize how fortunate it was for her as an aspiring artist to have this chance to observe such things firsthand. Despite the isolation, the lack of amenities, the wild meat and horrid powdered milk, the summer promised real possibilities if only—her thoughts rose suddenly in an earnest, almost prayerful, yearning—oh, if only things with Fenn could be as she hoped!
    Something bulky and dark streaked across the road in front of her. She didn’t have time to study it, but after it was gone, she knew she’d seen a bear. Her airy contemplations