Will bush's Arc

Chapter 33 of 41

The thread held from the jar in Kate's yard to the daisies at Will's feet. It was the first steady line between them in weeks. Will stood in the patch and felt her hands on the glass like his own hands on warm stone. Then he felt something new open in the line. A narrow channel. A place where sound could pass. Elspeth saw it before he did. She pointed at the seam of light running from the jar to the flowers. "The glass carries more than pull now. She has anchored it with her whole grip. You can speak through it. Once." "Speak," Will said. "With my voice?" "With what is left of it. The owl's chord opened the door. The jar is holding it open. Say one thing. Small. Then let go." Will knelt. He put his mouth close to the daisies and thought of Kate in the yard, the jar cupped in her palms, her knees in the dirt. He said her name. He felt it travel. He felt it land. In her yard Kate's head lifted. Her fingers tightened on the glass. The collie by her feet stood up and pushed its nose against her arm. She did not move it away. She said, low, "Will." Her voice came back up the thread. He heard it in the patch as if she stood beside him. Elspeth's face changed. "Now let go of the jar in your mind. Step back from the line. She has to set it down." "She won't," Will said. He already knew. He could feel her grip. She had waited three years for a sound in his voice. She would not put the jar down now. "If she holds it through the night, the channel stays open," Elspeth said. "The pale one will hear it. She listens for exactly this." Will pressed both hands into the soil. "Kate. Set it on the step. I'm still here without it." Kate heard him. He felt her hear him. She did not move. She sat in the dirt with the jar against her chest and said his name again, quieter, like she was checking a lock. Hoot lowered his guitar. He watched the seam of light thicken. "She's not letting go," he said. "You told her once you were gone. She isn't doing that twice." Will looked toward the cottage below the hill. A cherry tree stood by the porch, its blossoms open in a season it should not have. The flowers were turned at the jar, every one of them, listening. The thread held. His voice sat inside it, and Kate sat around it, and neither of them would move. High on the ridge, something old turned its head toward the sound.