Oliver Finch's Arc

Chapter 4 of 9

Oliver told her everything. The climb. The bent root. The flower at the very top. The old woman listened, hands folded, while the centipede rested on the couch arm. When he finished, he held out the broken bloom. "Can you fix it?" he asked. "It's all I have for my family." She leaned back into the black leather cushions. "A crushed flower from the tallest tree can be made whole again," she said. "I know the way. But the tallest tree is one among many. Any boy can claim he climbed it." Her eyes narrowed. "Prove this flower grew there. Then I'll tell you." Oliver's stomach dropped. The flower looked like any blue flower now, ruined and plain. He had no map, no witness. He turned the loose petals in his fingers and thought. "The centipede," he said. "You told me they only live at the top of that one tree. It stayed with me the whole climb." He looked at the small creature on the couch arm. "But that's not proof of the flower. It could have crawled on me anywhere." The woman said nothing. She wanted more. Oliver's mind raced back to the top of the tree. He remembered the bloom's stem. He remembered pulling it free. He pinched the base of the broken flower and pried the crushed petals apart. Deep inside, curled against the stem, sat a second centipede. Smaller. Its eyes shone the same ocean blue. It had ridden down hidden in the flower itself. The old woman rose from her chair. She crossed to a terracotta pot on the sill and set her hand on its leaves, steadying herself. "Two," she whispered. "They nest in the bloom. Only the true flower carries them home." She stared at Oliver. "No boy could fake that. You picked it yourself, from the very top." "So you believe me," Oliver said. He barely breathed. "I do." She gathered the tiny creature onto her fingertip and returned it to the pot's soil. Then she knelt before Oliver and took the broken flower. "The bloom mends in the water of a swamp spring. There is one behind this hill. You cut the stem fresh, hold it under the flow, and the petals draw together and heal." Oliver's heart lifted. "Then I can still sell it. I can pay the bills." "You can," she said. "But listen close. The spring runs for one hour at dawn, then it sinks underground until the next day. Miss the hour and the flower dies for good." She glanced at the dark window. "It is deep night now. You have until first light." Oliver stood. The flower was worth saving after all. He had proof, and now he had the cure. But dawn was hours off, the hill was strange to him, and he did not know where the spring hid. He pulled on his wet sneakers and stepped toward the door.