Oliver Finch's Arc

Chapter 5 of 9

Oliver stood at the cottage door with the broken flower in his hand. Outside, the hill sank into black night. He had until dawn to find the spring, but he did not know which way to walk. If he wandered wrong, the water would sink and the flower would die. He stepped back inside. "I don't know where the spring is," he said. "I'll get lost out there." The old woman wiped her hands on her apron. She did not offer to lead him. "My legs won't take that path anymore," she said. "But you already have a guide, boy. You just don't see it." Oliver frowned. Then he felt a tickle on his sleeve. The centipede crept out onto his wrist, its blue eyes bright in the lamplight. He remembered the swamp. The creature had climbed tree to tree and led him to the tallest one. It knew the way to water. "It came from the spring's tree," the woman said. "It knows where the fresh water runs. Set it down and follow." Oliver knelt outside the crooked stone wall. Moss softened the cold ground under his knees. He lowered his hand and let the centipede drop into the grass. For a moment it froze. Then it turned and hurried around the base of the hill. He followed. The centipede moved fast for its size, weaving between wet stones. Twice Oliver nearly lost it in the dark. He cupped his hands around it and carried it over a mud patch, then set it down again. His red sneakers filled with cold water. He did not stop. The sky turned gray at the edge. Oliver's chest tightened. Dawn was coming, and the hour was starting. The centipede rounded a shoulder of rock and stopped at a narrow gap. Water bubbled up from the stones there, clear and quick, running in a thin stream. The spring. Oliver dropped to his knees. He pinched the flower's stem and snapped it fresh, the way the woman had told him. Then he plunged the bloom under the flow. Cold water rushed over the crushed petals. Nothing happened. His heart pounded. He held it deeper. Slowly, the loose petals shifted. They drew inward and pressed together. The blue deepened. The flower was whole again, round and full, as if he had just picked it from the top of the tree. Oliver laughed out loud. He lifted the bloom, dripping, into the first light. The centipede climbed his wrist again, and he let it. Then he looked around. The spring, the hill, the gray fields beyond. He held a healed flower worth real money now. But he had no idea where his family was, or how to carry the flower home before another flood or thief could ruin it.