Page 64 of Beyond The Maples
She sits down with a huff, dusting off her worn dress, and gives me a curious smile.
"How have you been?" I ask.
Sibs quirks her head, hand resting on the cane she never seems to actually use, and says, "Come now, we're beyond small talk. What brings you here?"
I take a deep breath.Here goes nothing.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the little package I'd wrapped in cloth. I unfold the bundle, carefully placing it on the dining room table for Sibs to inspect, and hold my breath. Sibs looks at it, blinks several times and then looks up at me, unimpressed.
"You have brought me a weed," she states matter-of-factly.
"I have. You don't seem...?" The question falls off my lips, unsure how to start this conversation.
"I'm not overly surprised, no. That which is truly resilient always finds a way." She taps her cane thoughtfully, unbothered.
"Have you seen these around elsewhere? Are plants growing in places and we just don't know about it? If so, why are they keeping that a secret?" I stop myself, even though I have plenty more questions.
The old woman just eyes me thoughtfully, still tapping. She stands and makes her way to the door. I worry for a moment that maybe I've overstepped, and I'm about to be shown out, but Sibs just stops and beckons me over to the tapestry.
"I caught you staring at it the first time you were here. Why?" Sibs asks, with no gentleness in her tone. I appreciate the fact that this woman doesn't feel the need to coddle.
"I... I'm not sure. I recognize it, but my memories are... odd." I answer as honestly as I can.
"Odd, how?" she asks again in the same tone.
"I don't know. They blend or mesh, I guess. I remember bits, but I'm never too sure what's a memory or a dream. And I'm the oldest surviving member in my family, so there's no one to fill in the gaps." I shrug like it's not a big deal, but it feels heavy to admit.
The old woman's face softens slightly, seeing me falter.
"I suspect we've all lost a great deal. And in my experience, everyone's brain is unique. It's nothing to be embarrassed about." She points back to the tapestry, "What made you stop at this, then?" she asks again.
"I recognize it somehow. My father was obsessed with history. After my mom died, he became obsessed with figuring out what was happening to our people, our country. He had drawings, scrolls –– all sorts of stuff he had dug up. I don't remember details. I remember the compasses, sort of. They're all foggy too, but I remember it looking more like this? Maybe. Sorry, I don't actually know." I fidget with my hands uncomfortably, feeling embarrassed. I'm usually better at this.
Again, Sibs just watches without judgement, nodding.Her lack of response has frustration bubbling inside of me.
"Ok, can you please tell me what you know?" I say, letting out an exhausted breath. I don't really have time for her to muddle through my memories with me.
To my surprise, the old woman bends forward in laughter.
"I do like you, Ms. Treow. What is it you want to know?" Her eyes glint with mischief, her long grey curls falling out of her disorderly bun to frame her face.
"Everything," I respond.
She shakes her head. "It doesn't work like that. Ask me specific questions."
I tilt my head at her. Because that's an odd thing to say, isn't it? But I decide to play her game.
"Which compass is the real one?" I hammer out.
"Try again," she snaps.
I huff out my frustration. This old woman is wasting my time. I turn to grab my stuff, but her wrinkled fingers wrap around my wrist.
"I can only answer specific questions. Maple, you're a smart girl, so ask smart questions. Both compasses are obviouslyrealbecause you've seen them." She nods at me again, encouraging.
My eyes narrow on her. If she wants to be difficult, fine. I dealt with Willow as a toddler. This is nothing.
"Fine, is this rendition of the compass the original?"
