Athabasca Falls

By Rhonda Parrish

The roar of Athabasca Falls was almost deafening, not because the water was falling from a great height; it wasn't, however the river was so powerful the water was propelled with incredible force.  The plaque up top said the intricate features of the falls were caused by the water eroding soft limestone beneath harder quartzite.  The effect was stunning.  The water didn't just fall over a cliff, it swirled, it seethed, it got caught in potholes and tossed about, and it covered everything in a thin layer of mist.

I'd brought her here because the falls had always been my favorite part of Jasper and now that we'd bought a farm just a few hours away I wanted to share that with her.  I don't know why I thought she'd appreciate it, but I did.  My hands grasped the railing in front of me and I sucked in a deep breath of the fresh mountain air, I released it slowly and savored being here, back in The Rockies.  Moments later the peaceful feeling that had enveloped me was shattered.

I turned to see her, golden curls blowing in the playful breeze, chase a grasshopper over the edge.  I ran to stop her, scraping my knees as I dove at the last moment.  Too late.  I only grabbed a whisper, the echo of her passing; she didn't even brush against my fingers as she tumbled down the cliff.

I scrambled on my hands and knees to the side just in time to see her look up.  Her big brown eyes looked into mine, waiting for me to reach out and save her.  She never whimpered, didn't make a single sound at all as she plummeted straight down like a stone.  Even when she crashed into a ledge with an audible crunch, before sliding down into the water – even then she was silent.

As she hit the water, before it pulled her under, I saw her move.  I saw her move and I swear to you it was she who did it, not the river.  I saw her move so I know she was alive as the current and the rocks pummeled her little body before sucking her down.

They say the chasm is filled with underwater caves and stone shelves.  The plaque at the top of the waterfall says they once dropped the carcass of a bear over the ledge and it disappeared underwater and didn't resurface until three days later, and even then it was five kilometers downstream.  Three days and five kilometers.  What chance did my little girl have?

From the moment she slipped beneath the surface, I watched, in my mind's eye as her chubby little body was tossed about like a ragdoll.  Watched her crash into rocks.  I felt her fear, her pain, my betrayal.

Why hadn't I saved her?  Kept her safe?  Wasn't that my job?  Where was I now while she suffered?

In fact I was prostrate on the ledge, my bleeding knees staining the dirt I lay upon.  I couldn't move, I was frozen with horror, even as I watched the foam on the river turn from white to the faintest pink.

When my will finally overwhelmed my terror, I stumbled down the path from the top of the chasm to the river.  I found her there, broken and floating face up in a lazy part of the river.  Her unseeing eyes stared up at the cloudless sky.

I gathered her little body, still warm, into my arms, fumbled my way up the river bank and, cradling her, rocked back and forth while I sang to her.

My husband and I buried her three days later beneath the apple tree in our backyard.  That was five weeks ago and though he's never said it, I feel his condemnation every time he looks at me.  It's there, in everything he says.  I know "Please pass the peas" really means, "You should have watched her closer." and when he says he's too tired to make love, I know what he wants to say is, "Why did you let her off her leash?"

Our marriage died that day alongside Princess, that much is painfully obvious.  I only hope I get the farm in the settlement so I'll be able to look out at the tree she lays beneath and remember how she loved to rest in its shade, her tongue lolling to one side and her tail wagging happily.  Maybe that way, in time, I'll stop remembering how she looked when I found her at the bottom of Athabasca Falls.

Bio: Rhonda is up to her eyeballs in revisions for her first fantasy novel and finds writing flash fiction a smashing way to preserve her sanity (such as it is). You can find out more about Rhonda at her website http://www.rhondaparrish.com