Oliver Finch's Arc

Chapter 3 of 9

Oliver climbed the last of the hill and stood at the cottage door. The stone walls leaned, soft with moss, and warm light spilled from crooked windows above him. He raised his fist to knock, then stopped. He had nothing. His pockets held only the ruined flower. Why would anyone open a door for a lost, muddy boy with nothing to give? He knocked anyway. A bolt slid. The door swung inward, and an old woman filled the gap. Flour dusted her sleeves. She looked him over, from his wet auburn curls to his soaked red sneakers, and her mouth tightened. "No coin, no bread," she said. "I don't feed strangers off the swamp." Oliver's throat went dry. "Please. I only need to warm up. I got lost after the flood." He reached into his vest and pulled out the flower to show he was honest. The crushed petals hung loose. Half the bloom was gone. Her eyes flicked past it, unmoved. She began to shut the door. Then something ran down Oliver's wrist. The little centipede, its ocean-blue eyes bright, darted from his sleeve onto the back of his hand. He had not known it followed him off the last tree. The old woman froze. The door stopped moving. "Where did you get that?" she asked. Her voice had changed. "It guided me," Oliver said. "Through the swamp. Tree to tree, over the water. I'd have drowned without it." She leaned close and studied the tiny creature. Her hard face softened. "These live only at the top of the tallest tree," she said. "The one with the blue flower. I've waited years to see one. They don't come down for just anyone." She looked at Oliver with new eyes. "It stayed with you." "It did," he said. The old woman stepped back and pulled the door wide. "Come in, then. Anyone that creature trusts can sit at my fire." Oliver stepped inside. Warmth wrapped around him. A black leather couch sat by the hearth, its cushions deep and worn. A dark shaggy rug covered the floor, thick under his wet shoes. Green plants leaned from terracotta pots on every sill, filling the small room with the smell of soil. He had never seen a place so crowded and so cozy. The woman set him on the couch and handed him a warm cloth. The centipede climbed onto the rolled arm and settled there, still. "Now," she said, sitting across from him. "Tell me how a boy came to hold that broken flower. And why you carried it through a flood." Oliver looked at the ruined bloom in his hand. He had crossed the swamp for it. He had nearly died for it. And now it was worthless. But this woman knew the tallest tree. She knew the flower's worth. Maybe she knew how to make a broken one pay. He took a breath and started to explain.