Orin Wanderwood's Arc

Chapter 2 of 26

The butterfly led Orin between two black pools and up a low rise. He kept the three things under his tongue. Pink tree. Singing woman. Sister with an L. But the words were going soft at the edges. He tried to picture the pink tree and got only a color. He tried to hear the woman singing and got only the shape of a mouth. He walked faster. The butterfly did not. At the top of the rise, the mist thinned, and Orin stopped. A small orchard stood in the Fen where no orchard should stand. He counted the trees. An apple tree heavy with red fruit. A lemon tree hung with yellow. A plum tree, purple and white. A peach tree with pink blossoms. An orange tree crowded with round fruit. They grew in a rough circle on dry ground, and none of them belonged to the Fen. Orin stepped into the circle. The butterfly settled on a branch of the peach tree and folded its wings. It was waiting for him to see something. He turned in place. The peach blossoms were the wrong pink. Too pale. He moved to the plum tree. Its blossoms were closer, but the fruit was wrong. He passed the apple, the lemon, the orange. He came back to the plum tree and put his hand on the bark. The memory opened like a door. His mother stood under this tree, or one like it, with a knife and a bowl. She was cutting fruit and singing. His sister sat in the grass by her feet. His sister's name was Lily. Not L, not E. Lily. The word came whole into his mouth and stayed there. The ghost girl from the reeds stood between the apple and the lemon. She had followed him, or she had been here already. She watched him with her hands at her sides. Orin said, "It's a plum tree. The tree at my house. It's a plum tree." The ghost girl nodded once. Her mouth moved. He could not hear her, but he thought she was saying the word with him. He broke a small twig from the plum tree. The blossoms were still on it. He held the twig in his fist, tight enough to feel the bark bite his palm. Pink tree became plum tree. Singing woman became mother with a knife. Sister with an L became Lily. The three soft things went hard in his hand. The Fen could take the mist and the path and the hours, but it could not take what he was holding. The butterfly lifted off the peach branch and drifted past him, back down the rise, into the mist. Orin followed. Somewhere behind him, farther off than before, something with long ears moved through the reeds. He did not look. He held the plum twig against his chest and walked.