Sierra Ashwood's Arc

Chapter 5 of 8

Sierra ran downstream with the folded chart in her fist. The fire had reached the head of the river. Smoke rolled over the top ledge, but the falls still ran clear below it. She had one job left. Measure the lower valley from the falls before the smoke swallowed her landmark for good. She reached the base of the cascade and dropped to her knees. Water dropped in three stages, pool to pool to pool, over dark rocks. She marked the lowest pool on her map. Then she paced south, counting steps, sighting back to the falls each time she stopped. Sixty paces. Ninety. The valley floor opened wide and green. She sketched the bends of the river as she walked, fast and rough, fixing each turn against the water behind her. Ash began to fall. It drifted down and stuck to the wet page. Sierra wiped it with her sleeve and kept counting. At a hundred and forty paces she found a broad shelf and a cluster of weathered wooden structures. Canvas roofs. Rope lashings. Crates stacked against the walls. An old base camp, built by someone long before her. She marked it on the map. A second true point, tied to the falls by paces she had counted herself. Blue birds burst from the canvas as she stepped close. They wheeled once over the pool and were gone downstream. Sierra glanced up. The smoke had thickened. She could no longer see the top of the fall, only the white water below. If it dropped any lower, her sightline died. She fixed her compass on the falls and took the last bearing. West-northwest, the river ran on past the camp. She marked the angle. Her hand shook. She checked it twice. The lower valley held on the page now, anchored to the water, exact enough to walk. Then the sky changed. The light went gray and heavy. A cold gust pushed the smoke sideways. Sierra looked up and saw dark cloud pile over the ridge. The first drops hit the page hard. Rain came down in a solid sheet, hammering the pool, flattening the brush. She hunched over the map and shoved it inside her jacket to keep it dry. On the ridge above, the fire hissed and shrank. Steam rose where flame had been. The rain drove it back, then out. The falls ran clear again, the top ledge sharp against the wet rock. Her landmark had survived. Sierra pulled the chart from her jacket. The ash washed off in gray streaks. The lines held. She had the cave route, the falls, the camp, and the lower valley, all measured and true. The fire was dead. But the rain kept falling. The river was already rising over the lowest pool. If the water climbed much higher, it would swallow the very landmark her whole map was built on.