Willow Marsh's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Willow gripped the ladder, but the ladder hung too high above the water. Her canoe drifted beneath it. When she reached up, her fingers brushed the bottom rung and missed. The deep water spread black between her and the house. She could not climb from a boat that would not hold still. She needed something to bridge the gap, or she would never reach his door. She tried to pull the canoe closer with the paddle. The hull bumped a stilt and spun. Her paddle slipped. She grabbed the post with both hands and held on, breathing hard. The ladder still swung out of reach. Climbing it from here was impossible. Then a splash sounded behind her. Willow turned. A great blue heron landed on the floating garden of ferns and wetland flowers that ringed the house. She knew this bird. It was her own heron, the one that trailed her canoe most mornings and stole fish from her bucket. It must have followed her all this way. The heron stepped onto the tangled mat of blooms, and the mat held its weight. Willow stared at the floating garden. The plants grew thick and woven, matted root to root. The heron stood on them without sinking. Maybe they would hold her too. She hated the idea. One wrong step and she would drop into deep water. But the ladder gave her nothing, and the flowers gave her a chance. She tied her canoe to the stilt and tested the mat with one sandal. The woven roots pressed down, then pushed back. They held. Willow stepped off the canoe. Her heart slammed. The garden sank under her, cold water rising over her feet, but the tangle did not break. She crept forward, arms wide, following the heron across the floating flowers. A reed snapped. She froze, then kept moving. The mat carried her to the base of the stilts, close enough now. She reached the ladder and grabbed the rung above her head. This time her fingers closed tight. She pulled herself up and out of the sinking flowers. One foot found the lowest rung. Then the next. She climbed, sandals slipping, until she stood on the mossy porch. Willow had crossed the water. She stood at his door at last. But the door hung open on a dark, empty room. No lamp burned inside. No fire, no voice, no stranger. His flat boat was gone from the post below. She looked out across the swamp and saw only her tied canoe and the heron preening on the flowers. She had fought so hard to reach this house, and he was not in it. Wilbur was somewhere else in the swamp. Now she had to find where.