Oliver Finch's Arc

Chapter 9 of 9

Oliver stood past the two boulders with the flower wrapped in his vest. The buyer's note said the far town, but no path led there. Open country rolled in every direction. Grass, hills, and empty sky. One wrong turn and he would wander for days, lost, with a treasure that pulled thieves. He knew nothing of the way. His stomach tightened. He almost sat down and gave up. Then something moved on his sleeve. The tiny centipede climbed onto his wrist. Its ocean-blue eyes caught the morning light. Oliver had followed this small guide before, through flood and dark and hill. It had never led him wrong. "You again," Oliver said. His voice cracked with relief. "Do you know the road?" The centipede did not wait. It crawled down his hand and dropped into the grass. It turned east and started forward. Oliver rose and followed. The creature moved fast for its size, weaving between stalks, always keeping ahead. When Oliver drifted right, it stopped and swung back to correct him. He learned to watch its path and match it. They crossed a long slope by midday. Oliver kept the flower pressed to his chest. Twice he heard voices far off and froze. The centipede led him low, down a dry ditch, away from the sound. He never saw who spoke. When the voices faded, the small guide climbed the far bank and went on. By afternoon Oliver reached a wide creek. He would have crossed at the deep bend and been swept off his feet. The centipede turned upstream instead. It stopped at a line of flat stones just under the surface. Oliver stepped across them, dry to the knee, and understood. The creature knew every safe step of this land. The sun dropped low. Oliver's legs ached. He wanted to stop, but the centipede pressed on, and he trusted it more than his own tired eyes. Over the last rise, lights appeared. Roofs. Smoke from chimneys. A town, far and real, exactly where the note had promised. Oliver dropped to his knees in the grass. "That's it," he whispered. "You found it." The centipede climbed back onto his wrist and went still. Its eyes shone blue in the dusk. Oliver had not taken one wrong turn. He was not lost. He was not exposed on empty land. He had crossed the whole open country and reached the buyer's town whole, with the flower safe in his vest. He stood and looked down at the roofs below. The road was behind him now. But the buyer waited somewhere in those streets, a stranger who paid for dangerous blooms and asked no questions. Oliver did not know the man's door, or his price, or whether he could be trusted. He tucked the flower tighter and started down toward the lights.