“You’re sure you’re holding on tight?”
“I’m holding on tight.”
“And you won’t let go?”
“I won’t let go.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Look, if you’re nervous, why don’t you come down, and I’ll go up and do it?”
“No, it’s okay. I’m fine.”
O gripped the ladder with sweaty hands and glanced down to make sure Rimbaud really was holding on. She was just five rungs up, but already the backs of her knees felt wobbly and weak, and the ground had that faraway look to it. Suddenly, painting the Green Man sign didn’t seem like such a good idea.
You can do this, she told herself. It’s not really that high. You scoot up and down the ladder in the shop a dozen times a day. But her self wasn’t buying it. Her self wanted nothing more than to scurry back down the rickety stepladder and abandon the whole idea. But she couldn’t embarrass herself like that – not in front of him.
She coaxed her feet up one more rung. Pushing the paint scraper down securely into her back pocket, she glanced up. If she stood on the second rung from the top, she should be able to reach the sign.
The ladder shook a little, and she let out a scream. Not a big scream, but still a scream.
“Sorry,” he called up.
“Don’t … do … that!”
“Sorry,” he said again. “The sidewalk’s a little uneven.”
She detected a giggle. “Are you laughing? I heard a little laugh at the end there.”
“No, I’m not laughing. I swear.”
“Well, you’d better not, or if I fall, I’ll be sure to fall on your head.”
She scrambled up two more steps. There. Well, not quite. Her feet were planted on the second rung from the top all right, but she was bent over double, her hands fused to the small wooden platform at the top of the ladder.
People who work heights for a living say you should never look down. In the position she was in now, she had no choice. The sidewalk looked about a hundred feet away, though it was probably no more than ten. Her fear seeped through the soles of her shoes, and the ladder began to tremble. She said a silent prayer, then let go of the ladder and stood up straight. Grabbing hold of the sign, she held on for dear life.
Suddenly she found herself face-to-face with the Green Man. He seemed as surprised to see her up close as she was him. He made that little creaky noise in the back of his throat that he made when he swayed in the wind. It was his way of talking, and she imagined she could do no better herself with two great stalks of vines growing from her mouth.
They had spent so long studying one another from a distance that she felt they were already acquainted. She had long since gone from trying to puzzle out his creaks and groans to imagining what he might be saying.
When she’d first caught sight of him, suitcase in hand, that early morning two months back, he had struck her as grotesque and frightening. Later, the vines that grew from his mouth seemed like some horrible punishment he had been condemned to bear, and her fear had turned to pity. But the longer she was near him, the more he became the guardian presence Emily felt him to be. And there was a strange nobility about him.
Now, face-to-face, she saw more. Features that had been indistinct from the ground were suddenly sharp and clear. What looked like worry from a distance proved up close to be concentration. What seemed a grimace from the ground became up close almost a smile. And suddenly she realized the vines that grew from his mouth, far from being a punishment, were a sort of blessing he bore. For what he bore was life – and in that there was joy.
Tucked in among the leaves of the vines that encircled his head were two small carved birds. All her fear had vanished. She felt as secure on her high perch as the birds that sheltered in the branches. When she looked into the Green Man’s eyes, he looked back. The sign gently swayed. And she swayed with it.
He had always seemed ancient to her, his face fissured with wrinkles. But now she saw that the wrinkles were only cracks from the weathering of the wood. Face-to-face like this, he looked ageless.
O stood transfixed. Suddenly, it seemed to her that something sparked deep in his eyes – a flame. She looked deeper, and the flame flared into a fire. She saw dense smoke and, in the midst of the smoke, two figures entwined in one another’s arms.
The vision faded, and she found herself perched on top of the ladder again. The sign creaked as it swayed back and forth, and a word sounded clearly from the Green Man’s mouth. “Be-ware,” said the voice. “Be-ware.”
She sprang back in shock, letting go of the sign. For a moment she teetered, trying to gain her balance. Then, suddenly, she was falling. But as the ground rushed up to meet her, her fall was broken.
Rimbaud had caught her. “Are you all right?” he asked as he cradled her in his arms.
“I think so. I lost my balance.” She looked into those dark fathomless eyes, and she had the feeling he was about to kiss her.
There was a sudden sharp rap on the window of the shop. She jerked back, and Rimbaud set her down on her feet. Emily was standing in the window with an armful of books, staring at them. Without a word, she turned and disappeared into the shadows of the shop.
O stood in the poetry section, looking at the book Rimbaud had brought back earlier that day. It was the last of the “borrowed” books – a volume of poems by his namesake, Arthur Rimbaud. A photo of the boy poet was on the cover. He bore a striking resemblance to her Rimbaud – something in the eyes, the set of the mouth; something in the regal way he held his head, the deliberately disheveled look of his hair. As she studied the grainy old photo, the memory of her fall from the ladder two days before flooded back.
She opened the book and flipped through it, hoping against hope another poem might fall out. There was no poem, but something else fluttered to the floor – an odd fan-shaped leaf, still green and pliant, as though it had just been plucked. It wasn’t the first time she’d found a leaf in one of the books he returned. He used leaves to mark his place.
She brought it to her nose. It had a pungent smell. It was certainly no leaf she recognized. There was nothing remarkably odd about it being there, she supposed. People marked their places in books with all sorts of strange things. But as she held the leaf in her hand and thought of the boy who’d put it there, she sensed it was the hallmark of some mystery at the heart of him.
With Rimbaud becoming more of a presence around the shop recently, Emily’s anxiety level had risen dramatically. Last night, she’d taken O aside.
“Listen, O. When your father sent you to stay here, I know he had ulterior motives. He was looking out for me. I appreciate that – and I appreciate everything you’ve done. You’ve taken very good care of me – even when I didn’t want you to. And you’ve transformed this place.
“But he also expected me to look out for you. I’m inexperienced at watching over teenage girls, but I was once one myself. I know you like this boy, O. But think about it. What do you know about him? You don’t know his real name. You don’t know where he comes from. You don’t know where he lives. He makes me nervous. I want you to be careful. Very careful.”
It was pure craziness, of course, but Emily was so unremittingly intense about it that it got O going as well. Finding the leaf in the book had decided it. The next time she saw Rimbaud, she was determined to follow him to find out where he lived.