SAINTS AT THE RIVER.

"The fog finally thinned and the sun broke through. When it did we were in a section where stands of poplar trees lined both shores. As the last smudges of fog evaporated, the yellow sun-struck poplar leaves brightened like lamp wicks being turned up. The air felt charged and alive, like when lightning breaks the sky before rain. Thought we were in slow water, the river's pulse seemed to quicken. Everything, including Luke and me, shimmered in a golden light. For the first time in my life I saw the river the way I believed Luke saw it."

Saints at the River is the second novel by American poet, short story writer and novelist, Ron Rash. In late April, twelve-year-old Ruth Kowalsky from Minnesota, on vacation with her family, steps into the Tamassee River in South Carolina, slips over the waterfall and drowns. She is drawn into a hydraulic and sucked under, to be held there until the river sees fit to release her body.

Her parents obviously want to take her home to be buried, but the local Search and Rescue crews are unable to retrieve her. In spring, the Tamassee is a white-water river, making a dive for the body too dangerous, and the river comes under the Wild and Scenic Rivers Act of 1978, which precludes usual methods of retrieval like dynamite.

The community is divided: dissatisfied with efforts by the locals (he's referred to them as hillbillies), Herb Kowalsky has brought in businessman touting his temporary dam; the white-water rafting business is concerned their river's reputation will tip from thrilling to dangerous; a land developer sees the opportunity to weaken environmental regulations; loggers, too, resent the district park ranger's power; and the environmentalists (tree-huggers) are determined to see the law upheld.

Photojournalist Maggie Glenn grew up in this town and knows most of the players well. She escaped to Columbia, but her boss has sent her back with Pulitzer nominee, Allen Hemphill to cover the story. Maggie's evocative photograph at the scene sees politicians weighing in to the debate. But Maggie also has issues from her past in Tamassee to deal with ("It was not a convenient memory, because I couldn't frame it neatly into the black-and-white photograph I'd made of my past."), and Allen is not free of baggage, either.

Rash's forte is his characters, and here they contend with grief, guilt, fear, resentment, and the need to forgive. Always, Rash's love for, and connection to, the Appalachia and her people are apparent in every paragraph. "… an October sky widens overhead with not a wisp of gray or white cloud, just blue smoothed out like a quilt tacked on a frame. It's a sky that makes everything beneath it brighter, more clarified…. Poplars and sweet gums hold clutches of gold and purple, but many leaves have already fallen. The thinning foliage makes the river seem wider, as if the banks have been pushed back a few yards on each side."

His descriptive prose is often exquisite: "After death, everything in a house appears slightly transformed – the color of a vase, the length of a bed, the weight of a glass lifted from a cupboard. No matter how many blinds are raised and lamps turned on, the light is dimmer. Shadows that cobweb corners spread and thicken. Clocks tick a little louder, the silence between seconds longer. The house itself feels off-plumb, as though the foundations had been calibrated to the weight and movement of the deceased." This is a moving and powerful read.