Sylvie Nettlewick's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Sylvie reached the reading house by midafternoon. The cat rode in her bag, nose poking out. She saw the crooked fence and the apple tree at once. Beneath the twisted trunk, a goose sat on a nest beside the door. It raised its head and hissed. Sylvie stopped on the path. The author's warning was true. The bird ruled the way in. She took one step. The goose stood, wings out, and charged. Sylvie backed off fast. The cat yowled and ducked deep into the bag. Twice more she tried. Twice more the goose drove her to the fence. Her heart pounded. Half a day's walk, and a bird stood between her and the shelves. "You'll not win that game," a voice said. Sylvie turned. An old woman leaned on the fence, watching. She was wiry, with hands scarred from hard work. A faded ribbon hung on her flannel shirt. A fine axe rested across her shoulder, too clean for chopping wood. She split her time, it seemed, between the trees and this garden. She studied Sylvie the way a judge studies a late entry. "The goose nests every spring," the woman said. "Folks give up and go home. You came far, by the dust on you." "Two towns," Sylvie said. "I only want the library." The woman grunted. She set down her axe. "Then feed her, don't fight her." She reached below the fence and lifted a woven basket. Inside lay windfall apples, bruised and sweet. "She guards the nest, not the fruit. Roll one wide. She'll go for it." Sylvie took an apple from the basket. Her hands shook, but she aimed. She rolled it hard across the grass, away from the door. The goose watched it tumble. Then it left the nest and waddled after the fruit. The path lay open. "Now," the woman said. "Quick and quiet." Sylvie hugged the bag to her chest and walked. The cat stayed hidden. She passed the apple tree, passed the empty nest, and reached the door. Behind her, the goose pecked at the apple and ignored her. She had done it. She pressed her hand to the latch and breathed. "Thank you," she called back. The woman had already picked up her axe. "Basket stays by the fence," she said. "Next fool who comes will need it." She turned and walked toward the trees. Sylvie opened the door. Cool air and the smell of old paper met her. Rows of shelves rose in the dim light. She had found the Willow Room. She stepped inside, the cat warm against her, and stood among the books the memoir had promised. Then a woman at the desk looked up, frowning. "We're closed to the public today," she said. "And I'm afraid no animals are allowed inside."