Sewn into Trees
The old wooden floorboards creaked as Addie May rocked on her bare feet, waiting for Iris to finish.
Iris smiled at her impatience, the needle winked at her as she pushed it through the floral pattern of Addie May’s dress, drawing out the white thread after. The paper crinkled against the fabric as Iris pulled the thread tighter, her hand rising over her left ear.
On the kitchen wall in front of them, Iris saw her shadow cast by the fire crackling behind her, a black figure drawing a string from the back of a child, and thought of Geppetto creating Pinocchio, the puppet who became a boy.
Hopefully, some of the children in the town still had a conscience, and their drawstrings were not leashes to obey the whims of the townspeople’s orders.
Iris was a librarian, or had been a librarian, before the banning. She and her colleagues had known this was coming. It had started slow, the infection. Neighbors, friends, strangers, turned over to the outrage of their children learning what they were afraid of. People threatened to buy and burn books, others condemned the stories and the librarians, then the hearings, then, defunding.
Iris and her colleagues left their work quietly, heads down, feeling the glare of the townspeople as they waited to throw stones and flaming torches into the library.
Iris did not turn around. She stood taller as she heard the windows clatter, the heat of the rising fire burning into the back of her neck. She smiled, her hands tracing over the corners of book covers of the stories she had tucked away in her coat.
She and the other librarians slipped into the neighboring woods, taking up residence in a historic village lent to them by the college, where they sat vigil, on the outskirts of the town they had known for years, waiting in the quiet for patrons to arrive for their next book, fitting torn pages to their clothes to be read in secret.
In the months that followed, a few librarians had left the woods on their own accord, either by funds or fear, carving a checkout date into the bark of a tree to mark their departure.
Some had been arrested, turned in by a patron who lost themselves in the rabid world they now lived in.
Addie May sighed. She had her chin pressed to her chest. She picked at the wooden floor with a toenail.
“Careful, you don’t want to get a splinter,” Iris warned as she drew the needle and thread out of the fabric again.
Addie May’s head bobbled as she gave an exaggerated nod, studying the difference between the color of the top layer of wood and the piece she had picked off.
“I am almost done,” Iris assured her. She pushed the needle into the skirt.
Addie May cocked her head to look out the window in front of them. Spring was starting to bud, welts of green were rising on the winter burnt branches.
The forest sighed, branches rippled, the wind prickled their skin, pushing into the home through the cracks around the windows, raw and sharp, full of pine needles and frost. Addie May’s socks were being warmed on a string above the fireplace, her shoes roasting by the fire.
“Iris,” Addie May’s voice was firm, a strange tone for a nine-year-old. Iris looked up at the girl. Her face was turned away, Iris could only see the halo of light burning on Addie May’s face.
Iris looked over Addie May. She and her mother had been frequent visitors of the library. Iris thought of how Addie May was once so small, and would lie perfectly still pressed against her mother’s chest during Story Time. How she would follow Iris as she shelved holds, wanting to read the book others had requested.
Addie May was tall for her age, stretched thin from growth. Iris studied over her pale golden hair, which had been threaded into a thick braid punctuated with a black velvet ribbon.
Addie May was like a house, built so carefully by the lessons taught by her mother, peers, and books. Iris wondered, who would she let in? How would she weather when the last brick was laid?
Addie May sighed, relaxing her shoulders. Iris noted how she was fidgeting more, wrinkling her toes and fingers.
Iris perched higher on her knees. Addie May shifted. Iris pinched the corner of a new page to the underside of the skirt and waited.
“Addie?”
The words rushed out of Addie May’s mouth as she asked, “What happens if you go?”
Addie May had asked her many things before. How did the Sun know the time? Does it hurt a snake to shed its skin? Are there wolves who can’t sing well?
Iris sighed. Addie could no longer afford such sweet questions, not while her world was turning over like a coal.
Iris dropped the fabric, the pages rustled as the skirt settled. Iris had been in the woods for a year so far and had seen no reason to leave, unless they dragged her out by her thread.
She had imagined it many times. Like she had imagined Joan of Arc or Robin Hood, dragged out to be confronted by the powers that be.
She had wondered if they would use cuffs, or if they would follow their outdated practice instead, binding her with rope and dragging her to Town Hall like a witch to the pyre.
The judge would say, “Iris Hunt, you are charged for disturbing the peace by distributing piracy and treasonous propaganda, how do you plead?”
Iris would take a breath. She would say, “Guilty, Your Honor.”
The judge would bristle, saying, “What do you say to the town that you have preyed upon? The town that wishes to live peacefully without the disruption of your incessant need to teach heresy?”
To this, Iris would smile, “The disturbing part, your Honor, is that you think silence is peace.”
To Addie May, Iris said, “Then you will tell my story.”
“What if I get it wrong?”
Addie May’s head followed a bird dart past the window.
“Addie May,” Iris coaxed the girl to look down at her by tugging on her dress. Addie May let out a staggered sigh, swatting escaped tears away by the heels of her hands. Iris fretted. She took and squeezed a tear-tacked hand. Addie May sighed as the tears streamed down her face, looking up at Iris with shame.
“Stories can be told differently by what was the most important part to that person,” Iris said.
Addie May croaked, “I don’t know.”
“What is your favorite book?”
“Little Red Riding Hood.”
“A classic,” Iris smiled, Addie May offered a quick smile, then looked away from Iris. “But you know what?”
“What?”
“There are so many retellings of Little Red Riding Hood. But you always know the main parts of the story, don’t you?”
“Her red hood, the wolf, and going to visit grandma,” Addie May listed.
Iris nodded. She squeezed Addie May’s elbows, her eyes serious as she looked at the little patron, “No matter what you say, you will always know who I am, what I did, and why.”
*
Artwork: Andrea Zanatell