Chapter 2 - The Ghost of the Blackwood Weir
The world narrowed to the sound of rising water and the frantic, rhythmic beat of horses' hooves against swollen turf.
Alaric was in the saddle before the groom had finished his sentence, but Vivienne did not hesitate. She swung herself onto her father’s heavy draft horse, which was tethered to the pasture gate, discarding her heavy coat for a oilskin riding cloak.
"Vivienne, no!" Alaric shouted over his shoulder as his stallion vaulted the broken fence. "The river is wilder than the day he fell in!"
"I know every curve of this water better than your grooms do!" she yelled back, digging her heels into the draft horse's ribs. "He will head for the willow bend—he thinks that’s where the river gives people back!"
They rode side by side through the blinding downpour, the horses kicking up great clods of black earth. The Blackwood River was no longer a meandering brown ribbon between willow trees; it had become an angry, swollen beast, its waters black with silt and churning with torn branches from the upper hills.
Ten minutes downriver, where the old timber weir narrowed the current into a white-water funnel, they found the pony. The little bay beast stood shivering on the muddy bank, its reins tangled in a bramble bush, its saddle empty.
"Tobias!" Alaric’s voice tore through the roar of the weir—a sound of absolute, unadulterated terror that no title or wealth could soften. He threw himself off his horse, sprinting toward the slippery edge of the stone embankment. "Tobias!"
"Papa!"
The small voice was almost swallowed by the thunder of the water. Down in the pool below the weir, where the foam churned against ancient, moss-covered timber pylons, a tiny figure in a dark blue coat was clinging to an overturned farm crate that had lodged against the rocks. His small hands, blue with cold, were slipping millimeter by millimeter across the water-slicked wood.
"Hold on, son!" Alaric shouted. He began tearing off his heavy riding coat, preparing to dive into the white foam. "I'm coming!"
"Alaric, stop!" Vivienne grabbed his arm with both hands, throwing her entire weight back to pull him away from the lip of the stone weir. "If you jump from here, the undercurrent will pin you against the lower grates! You’ll drown before you reach him!"
"Let me go!" Alaric roared, his face contorted with desperation. "He’s my son!"
"Listen to me!" Vivienne slapped her mud-covered hand flat against his chest, forcing him to look at her. "The lower sluice gate! The iron chain is on the eastern wall! If we open the overflow gate, it will divert the main head of water away from that pool for five minutes!"
Alaric’s gray eyes cleared, the wild panic yielding to her sharp, pragmatic command. "Show me!"
They scrambled down the treacherous, muddy slope toward the ancient brick winch house that overlooked the weir. The door had rotted off its iron hinges years ago, the interior filled with cobwebs, rusted iron gears, and two feet of standing river water.
"The wheel is frozen!" Alaric shouted, throwing his body against the massive iron flywheel that controlled the sluice gate. The iron creaked, but it did not move an inch; twenty years of rust held it fast. "It won't budge!"
"Together!" Vivienne threw herself onto the spokes beside him.
Their hands overlapped on the cold iron. Alaric’s muscles strained until the veins in his neck stood out like cordage; Vivienne braced her boots against the wet brick foundation, using every ounce of strength built over years of farm labor.
"On three!" she screamed over the roar of the water. "One! Two! Three!"
With a sickening CRACK of tearing rust, the iron wheel yielded. They drove it down together, turning it once, twice, three times until a deep, mechanical groan echoed beneath their feet. Outside, the thunder of the main waterfall changed pitch as thousands of gallons of brown water surged into the side meadow channel.
Below them in the pool, the churning white whirlpool around Tobias flattened into a swift, shallow glide.
Without waiting for the wheel to settle, Alaric bolted out of the winch house, slid down the mud bank, and waded waist-deep into the cold current. He reached the crate in three long strides, his powerful arms scooping the small, shivering boy out of the foam and pulling him tight against his wet chest.
"I’ve got you," Alaric sobbed into the boy’s wet hair, collapsing onto his knees in the shallows as he carried Tobias to the dry grass. "I’ve got you, Tobi. I’m here."
Vivienne stumbled down the bank after them, her lungs burning, her hands raw from the iron wheel. She knelt beside them in the rain, pulling her dry wool scarf from beneath her oilskin and wrapping it securely around the boy’s shivering shoulders.
Tobias peeked out from his father’s shoulder, his face pale as lard, his teeth clicking together so hard he could barely speak. He looked at Vivienne, his small, dark eyes widening through his wet lashes.
"The... the river lady," Tobias whimpered, reaching out a tiny, freezing hand to clutch the hem of her coat. "Papa... she came back."
Alaric looked up from his son. His face was streaked with river water and mud, but his eyes were brilliant with an emotion so raw and completely undefended that Vivienne had to look away.
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He did not say thank you. He did not speak of debts or gratitude. Instead, he reached out and took her hand—the hand that was bleeding again where the iron rust had sliced her palm—and pressed it against his cheek, right where his pulse was beating fast and hard.
"She came back, Tobi," Alaric said, his voice dropping into a thick, ragged whisper that was meant only for the three of them. "She came back for both of us."
