A Different Interpretation
His library visitors, especially Bob and his friends, noticed his abstraction. They inquired after his health and left sweet treats and encouraging notes on his desk, but nobody asked him outright what was wrong.
Niles was in two minds about that. Part of him was grateful for their reticence. Sharing his deepest concerns had never been his way, and starting now, when he couldn’t even admit to himself what bothered him? A road leading to disaster, surely.
A small part of him thought differently, wished he could talk about Orren with someone other than his trees who offered comfort and encouragement, but weren’t able to assure him of his sanity, or temper his runaway anxiety.
But asking for help wasn’t his way either.
He’d been alone so long, solving his own problems had become a habit.
Then, one rainy Wednesday evening when Niles found things to do so he wouldn’t have to pass his trees and see their colourful leaves covering the gravel, Celia breezed into the library.
Niles blinked. She was a frequent visitor, always with her children, often with her friends in tow. Right then, she was very much alone, and she carried a bottle of wine under one arm and held two glasses.
“Oh, he’s good,” she said briskly. Then added, “Bob mentioned you were afraid to go home.”
It wasn’t his home he feared, but Niles shrugged and let it go. “I like my work and there’s plenty of it.”
“Yeah, right. And I can smell bullshit when I’m face-down in it. I have children, you know? Sit. Here.”
He sat on the sofa and accepted the glass of wine she poured for him. Her visit was a welcome distraction. Hopefully what she needed from him would prove one, too.
“Now, come on, spill,” she invited after sampling the wares she’d brought.
“You’re the only one who doesn’t have a moan buddy.
How do you even cope? I love coming here with the girls because there’s always someone happy to look after the children for twenty minutes so we can have a proper chat.
They do it, too, of course. Bob’s crowd, I mean.
They go out to the glade to have a private moan. But you never do that.”
“I have a roof over my head, food on the table, and a library to run… what’s there to moan about?”
“Oh, top-level bullshit. Everyone needs a good moan now and then. And you’re moping and it’s getting worse. So spill. Who broke your heart?”
Niles had just taken a sip of wine and was in danger of spitting it across the table. “What?”
“Oh, come on. We can all see you’re pining, but we haven’t seen anyone around. Ergo… breakup. Probably long-distance. Who is she? He? They?”
“He,” Niles said. Just saying the word sent a weight sliding from his shoulders. “It’s such a weird story I don’t dare tell it to anyone lest they think me a nutcase.”
Celia held her wineglass loosely between her fingers, her posture more relaxed than Niles had ever seen.
“I’m a psychotherapist,” she said after a while.
“Fully trained and licensed. I stopped practicing to have the children, but I’m keeping up with the research and my CPD hours, so I can go back to it when they start school.
You could treat me like your friendly neighbourhood shrink and know that whatever you say will not go any further. ”
“You’ll have me committed.”
“No chance. If you were that sort, I wouldn’t have let you near my children. Come on, Niles. Tell me what bothers you. Maybe I can help.”
She topped up his glass and Niles drained it as if he needed Dutch courage.
But really, if Orren was a hallucination then the only one he’d hurt with entertaining it was himself.
Or was it? The website project and the town history had grown from his interaction with Orren, and now they were touching many lives.
In that context, talking it over with Celia didn’t seem so unreasonable.
At the very least he could make sure he did no harm.
He held his glass out for another refill, then took a deep breath.
“It started last autumn,” he said. “I came to the library and found a book on my reception desk with a leaf on top. That leaf held a message—anonymous, of course. More came, both books and messages. The books were about local history and mythology. The messages were personal. Nothing creepy, but they sounded as if they’d been written by someone who’d watched me.
Someone who… understood. Who cared. And then one morning, Orren waited in the glade when I came in from my book round… ”
The words came easier as he got into the telling, and Celia made a fantastic listener, not interrupting his train of thought and letting him get it all out.
“I sent him a message when I saw a chestnut in the park starting to change colour. That was before the August bank holiday. He never replied. We’re now well into autumn.
There’s no sign of him and—” Niles took another breath.
“And I’ve come to the conclusion that I made him up.
I needed to change and I needed a reason or maybe a push and… ”
“Orren was that push?”
“Yes.” Niles was proud of himself for telling his story without excess emotion. He’d even delivered his conclusion, damning though it was, with professional detachment.
“Right. Now tell me… how open are you to a different interpretation?”
“If you have one, I’ll listen.” Niles lifted his hands, palms up. “I don’t think it will change anything, but I’ll listen.”
Celia set her glass on the low table and stayed this way, leaning forward, gaze intent. “Two things strike me about your story. One. Have you kept the books and messages Orren sent you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can you show them to me?”
Niles’s eyebrows rose. “You want me to prove they’re real, physical objects rather than figments of my imagination?
Fine.” He levered himself out of the sofa, crossed to the bookcase that was filling with myths, folklore, and local history, and pulled two books from the topmost shelf.
On the way back, he collected a leather folder from his desk.
“These two are not the only books Orren gave me, but the rest are on my bedside table,” he admitted. “They’re old, expensive, and often first editions. I like to have them close by, just in case.”
She didn’t ask him to elaborate, just bent her head over the books. Then her eyes flew to the folder as Niles opened it to display the leaves. Orren’s beautiful cursive blinked in silver pen from oak and chestnut, beech and gingko.
“Here’s your proof he’s not a hallucination,” Celia said. “He may be a prankster, or a conman, or a million other things… but you didn’t invent him. He’s real.”
“Right.” Niles found no comfort in her pronouncement.
If Orren was real, then where was he? Why didn’t he return to the glade as he’d promised?
And if something was delaying him, why didn’t he at least say so?
“What’s the other thing?” he asked to distract himself.
“You said there were two things that jumped out at you.”
“The other thing is what he said to you.” She picked up her wineglass again and took a thoughtful sip. “He told you he’d have to leave when the last leaf fell. He also said him staying would take more than you asking.”
“Yes?” Niles couldn’t see where she was going with that.
“What if—for him to stay, I mean—your glade needs to be a place where the last leaf never falls?”
Niles wanted to laugh, but the mirth was bitter on his tongue. “And how am I supposed to accomplish that? You want me to glue them on?”
“Don’t be an idiot.” Her voice was suddenly sharp. “If you just want to feel sorry for yourself, I’ll go back home. I can spend my evening vegged-out in front of the telly. Think, man! What if this was Orren’s way of telling you what he needs from you?”
“Have a glade where time stands still?”
She rolled her eyes and dumped the last of the wine into his glass.
“Here. You don’t seem to have any brain cells to kill.
Have you never heard of evergreens? And I’m not talking Christmas trees.
There are leafy evergreens. There’s even an oak species that doesn’t lose its leaves.
Plant one of those in your glade and see what happens. ”