Linny Marsh's Arc

Chapter 9 of 22

Linny stood at the edge of the ravine and forced her breath to slow. The river below churned with ice and broken trees. The lights on the far side blinked between branches, close enough to count. She could not stay here. The panther would finish with the gray creature and come looking. She had no knife and no plan. She turned along the rim to find a way down or across. She walked upstream first, keeping the drop on her left. The wind cut through the seams of her painted coat. After a hundred paces the ground dropped into a narrower gap. A frostwood had fallen across it. The trunk lay wedged between two clusters of iced trees on either bank, its fine upper branches locked into the shimmering canopy on the far side. Snow sat in a low ridge along the top. She stepped closer and tested the wood with her boot. The trunk held. It was wide enough for one foot at a time. Below, the river ran a long way down. A sound broke from the frostwoods behind her. A low huff, then the crack of a heavy branch. She did not turn. She stepped onto the log. She kept her eyes on the far bark and moved. One foot. The next. The trunk gave a slow creak under her weight. Snow fell from it in soft clumps. She reached the middle and made herself keep breathing. Wind pushed against her hat. She flattened her hand on the wood and kept going. Halfway across, a shadow passed above the canopy on the near bank. She heard wings open. She did not look. She ran the last stretch, arms out, and threw herself into the iced branches on the far side. Fine ice snapped against her face. She caught a limb, then another, and dragged herself down onto solid ground. Behind her the panther landed on the log. The trunk shifted under its weight. It took one step and the wood groaned. It took a second step, and the log rolled off its wedge and dropped. Ice and wood went down together into the river. The panther beat its wings once and hauled itself back to the far rim. It paced there. It watched her. It did not try to cross. Linny sat down in the snow. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them against the warm paint tubes under her coat until they stopped. Then she stood up. The lights were still there, closer now, low between the trees. She could see they were not lanterns. They did not flicker like fire. They held steady and soft, the way the painters had rendered light in that place. Flat. Static. She had crossed. She could not go back. She walked toward the lights.