William alexander's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

William set the opal heart on the table and watched the lamp light move inside it. The salamander had crawled into a cracked clay pot by the hearth and curled there, frills slack, waiting. It would not leave without an answer. He understood that much. The forest had sent him a heart, and a heart needed a reply that weighed the same. He had nothing on his shelves that came close. A bowl of dried apples. A stack of old letters. His journal. None of it carried the kind of weight the jar carried. An empty hand would read as no answer, and no answer would read as no. He pulled on his oiled coat and stepped out. The flood had pulled back enough to wade. He walked until he reached the old beaver dam at the edge of the marsh, its logs patched with blue moss. He had used the hollow under its arch before, when he wanted to think without the cottage watching him. He sat on the dry stones inside and opened his journal on his knee. He tried three lines. He crossed out three lines. Words kept making it about him, about what he felt, what he hoped. She had not asked for any of that. She had sent a heart and waited. He shut the journal. He thought about the woman who had closed her door against the world, and about what a person in that state could safely receive. Not a promise. Not a speech. Something small enough to hold. Something that already held something else gently, so she could see how it was done. He remembered the carved chipmunk on the shelf above his workbench, the one he had shaped last winter from cherry wood. Its small paws cupped a lotus blossom. He had never known why he carved it that way. Now he did. He walked back through the wet grass and took it down. The wood was warm from sitting near the stove. He wrapped it in clean linen and set it on the table beside the jar. The salamander lifted its head from the clay pot. William knelt and offered his hand flat. It climbed on. He tied the linen bundle to its back with a strip of soft cord, light enough that it could carry the weight without strain. He wrote no note. A note would crowd the gift. He carried the salamander to the door and set it down on the wet step. It looked at him once, then slipped into the dark toward the trees. William stood in the open doorway until he could no longer see the cedar markings on its back. He had sent his answer. Whatever came next would come from her side of the forest, in her time.