William alexander's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Morning came gray and wet. William stood in the doorway and looked at the tree line where the salamander had slipped away the night before. No movement. No flash of cedar markings on the moss. He had sent his answer into the forest, and the forest had not yet sent one back. Until it did, he could not know if the carved chipmunk had been opened, or set aside, or refused. He needed a place to wait that was not the cottage. The cottage watched him too closely. He took his axe to the small stand of pine at the edge of the clearing and cut posts. By midday he had four uprights sunk in the wet ground, facing the trees. By dusk he had a platform, a ladder, and a roof of split shingles. He carried up a soft chair and an old pair of field glasses. From the platform he could see the full curve of the forest edge without stepping outside. He could watch without crowding her answer. He marked the exact spot where the salamander had vanished. A patch of stone and shell sat there already, an old basin he had built years ago for the birds. Purple grape vines had grown over its rim through the summer. He filled the basin with clean spring water and set it level. If the salamander came back along the same line, it would pass the basin first. He wanted the creature to find water waiting. He needed one more thing. A signal she could read from her side, if she was reading at all. He took a plank from the shed and painted it white. He nailed lilies and small blue flowers around the edge and shaped an arrow of petals pointing up toward his platform. A blue jay landed on the top of it while the paint was still wet. William let the bird stay. He carried the sign to the forest edge and drove the post into the soft ground beside the basin. It said, without words, that he was here, and that he was waiting, and that the path to him was open. He climbed the ladder and sat. Hours passed. The light thinned. He had almost lowered the glasses when he saw movement at the base of the basin. Not the salamander. A small hedgehog stepped out from the ferns, its back covered in pink blossoms instead of spines. It carried something in its mouth. It set the bundle on the lip of the basin, drank once, and went back into the trees. William came down the ladder slowly. The bundle was a strip of linen, the same cloth he had wrapped the chipmunk in. Inside lay a single dried lotus petal, whole and unbroken. His gift had been received. She had answered. He folded the linen closed and held it flat in his palm. The forest had spoken again, and now he had to learn what a petal asked of him.