Rhys Downing's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Rhys walked home from the tearoom with Trema's invitation still warm in his chest. She had asked him to come again. He had said yes without thinking. Now he had no place to bring her, and no time to find one. If he waited too long, she would decide the owl had been a polite ending. He stood at his wardrobe that night and pulled every shirt he owned onto the bed. Most were dark. Most smelled of pine sap and old smoke. He picked a green linen shirt his sister had sent two winters back. Still folded. Still stiff. He set it beside brown trousers and worn boots. Not a suit. Not a hunting coat. A man going for a walk with a friend. He sat down at his bench and picked up a fresh block of cedar. He worked past midnight. The blade found horns first, then a broad snout, then claws that curled inward. He carved the cryptid the way children in the market drew her stories in the dirt. Fierce on the outside. Watching with tired eyes. When he finished, the figure stood the height of his palm. He wrapped it in cloth and did not let himself decide if it was too much. He walked to the fountain at midmorning and found her already waiting. She wore a pale dress and no shoes. Her cap glowed soft in the sun. She smiled at him the way she smiled at the elders. "I don't know where to take you," he said. "I thought I'd walk you somewhere quiet. If you'll pick." "There's a tree by the old chapel," she said. "Pink leaves. A pool under it. The elders sit there when their knees hurt. No one talks loud." She led him. The chapel rose from the moss with glass walls that caught the light and threw it in soft colors on the path. Beside it stood the tree she meant, its leaves hanging like wet silk over a stone pool. They sat on the rim. He gave her the carving. Her small hands closed around it. She laughed once, quiet. "He looks angry," she said. "He's tired," Rhys said. "People misread him." She looked up at him. He looked away. They talked until the light shifted. She told him about the elder who sang lullabies in a language no one else knew. He told her about carving, and about the quiet years, and about his sister's farm. She asked once what he had done before the carving. He said he had traveled. She let the answer sit and did not reach for it. When he walked her back to the fountain she stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. "Next week," she said. "My cottage. I'll cook. Bring nothing." He nodded. He walked home lighter, and afraid. She had asked him inside. He had never been asked inside.