man. We watched the dark shape descend, wreathed in foam. Then it struck in the cauldron. Standing now, we peered into the boiling water, half expecting a head to pop up, or an arm or leg—something. There was only the whiteness.
“You saw, didn’t you?” Anna asked.
I nodded slowly. “I saw something fall. Something large—but it may not have been a man.”
“It was a man. I know it was.” She looked to the top of the
cliff and shielded her eyes. “The other man is gone. He’s—he’s a murderer … .”
“Only if …” I stopped. It was no good trying to speak reason. “I’ll go down. I’ll stand by the bank, maybe find a log or something to extend out if … if the man comes to the surface … but …” I ambled away, down to the wild pool.
What if she was right and a man struggled in the water or, perhaps, tumbled, dead, in the churning stuff? The thought was horrible. But what if she was wrong and this was just a ghost of her father, long gone?
I stood by the cauldron for perhaps ten minutes. Aside from the roar and mist and foam, there was nothing. By the time I returned to Anna, her eyes were wide and rimmed with tears, and she seemed to be staring at something ten thousand miles away.
“Let’s go, Anna,” I said gently, taking her hand. She followed me as if in a trance, up the narrow trail to the road, and up again into the hansom cab. I climbed to the driver’s seat above, took a deep breath, and then snapped the reins. This time, the horse did not quarrel, but only plodded away down the road.
I felt numb and cold, as if a shadow had been cast over me and Anna—not just darkness but evil. There had been something very wrong at those falls, some angry and undying presence. It was more than the blackness of the place, the merciless pounding, the convulsing mist—more even than the terrible suggestion of death or the terrible reality of it. Something pernicious haunted that place. Its claws were still in me.
We had gone half a mile down the road when Anna cried out, “Stop the cart! Stop it!”
I pulled up on the reins, and the horse plodded to a halt.
Anna spilled from the compartment, dress and hair streaming back from her as she ran past the horse and clambered down the slope toward the water. She was screaming.
I leaped down from the seat and rushed after her. Was she going to drown herself? “Stop! Anna!”
With a last desperate wail, Anna flung herself into the whitewater.
“No! Anna!” I shouted, vaulting down the slope. I thought she was gone forever, but then I saw her head rise above the waves. There was something in her arms—something heavy—a body: bloodless skin drawn tight over bone. The man was stripped of overcoat and shirtsleeves, flesh scratched by stones. He had been boiled white in frozen waves.
Anna struggled to turn him over, then stared incredulously into the man’s aquiline face. “It’s not my father! It’s not my father!”
Scrambling down the bank, I plunged into the river—so cold!—and grabbed under the man’s arms. A groan escaped his lips, perhaps the sound of life or perhaps merely air forced from dead lungs. With my hands beneath his armpits and my feet wedged between stones, I hauled the body up out of the water and laid it on solid ground.
Anna staggered up behind me. “It’s not my father!”
“No, of course not,” I snapped, kneeling beside the man. “Wake up! Wake up, whoever you are.” I slapped his cheeks—wretched cheeks scratched by stones and fish-belly white. “Wake up! Are you alive?”
The eyelids of the battered man quivered and then slid back, and I stared into eyes more brilliant than any I had ever seen. The man sputtered water from his mouth and gasped, “I’m alive!” He blinked. His wrinkled fingers patted my hand as if to comfort me. “I am alive.”
I leaned toward him and studied his face. He was a man in
his fourth decade, with a serious expression and eyes that beamed blue beneath tangled brows.
“You saw, didn’t you?” Anna asked.
I nodded slowly. “I saw something fall. Something large—but it may not have been a man.”
“It was a man. I know it was.” She looked to the top of the
cliff and shielded her eyes. “The other man is gone. He’s—he’s a murderer … .”
“Only if …” I stopped. It was no good trying to speak reason. “I’ll go down. I’ll stand by the bank, maybe find a log or something to extend out if … if the man comes to the surface … but …” I ambled away, down to the wild pool.
What if she was right and a man struggled in the water or, perhaps, tumbled, dead, in the churning stuff? The thought was horrible. But what if she was wrong and this was just a ghost of her father, long gone?
I stood by the cauldron for perhaps ten minutes. Aside from the roar and mist and foam, there was nothing. By the time I returned to Anna, her eyes were wide and rimmed with tears, and she seemed to be staring at something ten thousand miles away.
“Let’s go, Anna,” I said gently, taking her hand. She followed me as if in a trance, up the narrow trail to the road, and up again into the hansom cab. I climbed to the driver’s seat above, took a deep breath, and then snapped the reins. This time, the horse did not quarrel, but only plodded away down the road.
I felt numb and cold, as if a shadow had been cast over me and Anna—not just darkness but evil. There had been something very wrong at those falls, some angry and undying presence. It was more than the blackness of the place, the merciless pounding, the convulsing mist—more even than the terrible suggestion of death or the terrible reality of it. Something pernicious haunted that place. Its claws were still in me.
We had gone half a mile down the road when Anna cried out, “Stop the cart! Stop it!”
I pulled up on the reins, and the horse plodded to a halt.
Anna spilled from the compartment, dress and hair streaming back from her as she ran past the horse and clambered down the slope toward the water. She was screaming.
I leaped down from the seat and rushed after her. Was she going to drown herself? “Stop! Anna!”
With a last desperate wail, Anna flung herself into the whitewater.
“No! Anna!” I shouted, vaulting down the slope. I thought she was gone forever, but then I saw her head rise above the waves. There was something in her arms—something heavy—a body: bloodless skin drawn tight over bone. The man was stripped of overcoat and shirtsleeves, flesh scratched by stones. He had been boiled white in frozen waves.
Anna struggled to turn him over, then stared incredulously into the man’s aquiline face. “It’s not my father! It’s not my father!”
Scrambling down the bank, I plunged into the river—so cold!—and grabbed under the man’s arms. A groan escaped his lips, perhaps the sound of life or perhaps merely air forced from dead lungs. With my hands beneath his armpits and my feet wedged between stones, I hauled the body up out of the water and laid it on solid ground.
Anna staggered up behind me. “It’s not my father!”
“No, of course not,” I snapped, kneeling beside the man. “Wake up! Wake up, whoever you are.” I slapped his cheeks—wretched cheeks scratched by stones and fish-belly white. “Wake up! Are you alive?”
The eyelids of the battered man quivered and then slid back, and I stared into eyes more brilliant than any I had ever seen. The man sputtered water from his mouth and gasped, “I’m alive!” He blinked. His wrinkled fingers patted my hand as if to comfort me. “I am alive.”
I leaned toward him and studied his face. He was a man in
his fourth decade, with a serious expression and eyes that beamed blue beneath tangled brows.
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