“WHAT’S GOING ON?” I ask Willow, when the walls of our corridor fall away to either side.
Willow claps her hands. “We’re nearing the river!” She turns around to face me, and when she does thereA breeze ripples the hair on my bare arms. I chalk it up to air conditioning, despite the smell of river water it carries’s a silver flashlight in her hands. Where in the world did that come from?
She flicks the beam on and shines it up, to shadow the features of her face. “Make each word count.”
“What?”
Willow smiles into the beam of light—a fireside trick for looking creepy. But she’s already a ghost. The beam of light erupts through the top of her head.
The room in front of us, if, indeed, it is a room, is dark. For a moment I think we’ve stumbled outside, but the unseen ceiling overhead—for there must logically be a ceiling—is starless, and I’d seen the sun’s reflection less than an hour ago.
It’s daylight, out of doors. Or maybe it’s raining, I’m not sure. But this room yawns black before us.
A breeze ripples the hair on my bare arms. I chalk it up to air conditioning, despite the smell of river water it carries.
Willow moves forward eagerly, her steps half-skip and half-run. I watch her light bobbing ahead of us in the gloom as I walk, so I’m caught off guard when suddenly my feet sink into the floor.
I squawk and go tumbling to the ground.
Willow laughs and skips back to me. She holds the flashlight up, shines the light down where I’ve tumbled, and shows me what I’m walking on. I’m sitting in a fine, grey sand.
I stand up and brush myself off, staring at the ground beneath me. “Are we in a construction site, then?” I ask her, but Willow shakes her head.
“We’re nearing the river,” she repeats. “Which reminds me, you don’t know any nursery rhymes do you?”
“I—what?”
“Nursery rhymes. Sing-alongs. Any snatches of song or verse, from when you were a child.”
“Like ‘Ring Around the Rosie?’”
Willow shines the flashlight up, so that I cannot miss the sour expression on her face. “That’s a little dark, don’t you think? I mean like ‘One, Two, Three, Four, Five.’”
“I know Little Bo Peep,” I say. “I know Little Miss Muffet.” I know a few others besides, but I don’t see how they’re relevant.
Willow hesitates for a moment, and I can’t see her expression—she’s shining the flashlight in my face.
“Take off your shoes,” she says. “They’re hanging in shreds anyway and there’s no sense getting sand in them.” The flashlight bobs as Willow kneels to do the same.
I take her advice, tie the laces together, and then swing my sneakers over my left shoulder. “If we’re near the river then we must be outside.” I make it a statement, but there’s a question in my voice as I stand up and dig my toes into the cold sand.
Willow’s light begins bobbing away again, down what feels like a beach. “Maybe?”
“Has someone in your snow globe built a building that houses an entire river?”
“Um. Well, we’re indoors. Kind of. But there is a river, as I’ve said, followed by a train, and then a wood, which is always the hardest part.”
“You mean like an atrium. Or a park.”
“I mean a wood. A thicket. A forest. To Grandmother’s house we go.”
No, I think. Not anymore.
“But enough of that,” Willow says. “The next bridge lies just ahead. It’s a little different, which is why the rhymes are important. Rhymes with water are better, but I suppose your little women will have to do. See if you can’t think of more rhymes over the next few minutes.”
Willow stops, and her beam of light fixes on my face once more. She says, “The boatman expects a song.”