The Mountain Queen

Chapter One: The Man in the River

(Part One: The Journey)

Chapter One: The Man in the River

When the thaw came to the Gloaming Valley, and the ice began to crack and split along the river; when the nights grew shorter and the days raised up a feeble noontime warmth against the chill; when the birds and rodents of the valley peeked from their nests and burrows to see if the winter were truly over; a man came floating down the river to our island, and with him he brought the scent of change.

I was on the bank when it happened, helping Father set the legs of our dock into the mud. Father was thigh-deep in the frigid water, legs wrapped up in skins to keep them from freezing, planting his big feet solidly against the heavy current, and frowning as he shifted the dock's long wooden legs, helping them find purchase in the muck. My part was to move the dock's land-half this way and that way as its water-legs sank home. Each time we shifted her—on my end or Father's—she came a little closer to her accustomed resting-place, where she would sit firmly, unshakably, until we hauled her out of the thin late-autumn ice.

I was the first one to see him—just a dim brown shape moving swiftly down toward us on the back of the racing current. I called out to Father, and he twisted his neck to glance back over his shoulder, keeping his feet planted soundly in the mud.

Father didn't waste time trying to guess what he was looking at. Without taking his eyes from the onrushing shape, he opened his jaws and bellowed out:

"Shamus! Brody! Look alive!"

Downstream, my two elder brothers looked up from their place on the bank, where they were dropping fish-traps into the shallows. They saw the shape racing down toward them, and in seconds they were in the canoe, tearing out for mid-river—their lean, muscular arms pulling like one body, the boat leaping forward as if possessed.

By now the dark thing from upriver had come alongside our island, and I could see that it was a man. I stared at it, fascinated, until Father cleared his throat—not loudly, but distinctly—and I understood it was time to get back to work.

By the time we had the dock sunk into place, Shamus and Brody had retrieved the body and laid it out on a flat patch of ground near the center of our little island. Father approached it with slow, heavy steps, and I followed behind him, ablaze with curiosity. Shamus and Brody stood a few paces back, hands folded in front of them, waiting to see what Father would say.

Reaching the body, Father crouched down on his haunches and reached out a hand to brush the hair off the man's face. I got my first good look at the body, and I felt my blood go chilly at the sight.

The skin was white—as white as fishflesh—and tending to blue around the lips. The eyes were wide and staring, as if enraptured by something beyond the sight of living men. It was a strong, well-constructed, sharply-cut face; even slack and white as it was, it had nobility and intelligence; it was even handsome. Above it, the hair was clotted with ice.

The body was dressed in ragged leathers, which might once have been fine; and in places the leather was slashed, and jagged wounds showed through. This body had been through violence. Was it the cold that killed it, or these injuries? There was no way to say.

I would have remained staring at it a long time, but Father had other ideas. After a quick perusal of the cold white body, he straightened up to his feet and looked at Shamus.

"Bring him inside."

And with that, he turned and shuffled off toward the house. The boys took up the body under its armpits, and I hurried along after Father, in case he should have need of me.