The house provides coffee, and Az ventures to the library where she meets a puffin and overhears that the mayor is missing
Note: Az’s notes are on the long side this week. I may break things up in the future, weaving regular entries between the core weekly prompts, but I am still settling Az in, and these elements felt connected. For those who want to read only the core village connectors, jump to the puffin encounter and the library visit. Other entries in this week’s log document the unfolding of the house and the tarot pull for this week in Millcreek Village.
JJ30 026 1 6A ∴ ◍ ⧉ ⌂ — coffee, house
JJ30 026 2 12P ◉ ⸫ ∪ ◒ — bog party reflection
JJ31 026 1 5A △ — card catalog, house
JJ31 026 2 4P ☍ ‣ — puffin, lake
JJ31 026 3 7P cont’d ⁙ ‣ 🜁 ⇄ — library, rumors
A1 026 1 5A || ⧝ 🜂 — signed up for yoga with Deleiri
A1 026 8A ⋈ ⫸ ⁂ — Tarot, Week 2
It has been a week, and yet it is almost impossible to believe it has been a week since I walked through the plum tree, into an unknown park, and up the front stairs with a found key. From a few things I’ve overheard, I’ve gathered that my arrival was unusual. I haven’t even begun to sort out what is going on here, with the house or the village. I’ve stayed mostly close to home, but it is clear that not everything is as it seems.
As a small example, though it is difficult to convey the real-time quality that makes it so delightfully unexplainable:
“A fresh cup of coffee would be nice,” I say out loud.
I’ve said some version of this hundreds of times in the last two years. I’m not sure anyone ever brought me coffee, but knowing there is no one now to bring me coffee has crystallized the simple wish into an epicenter of want standing in for something much more difficult to articulate.
But just now? I mentioned the coffee, and the coffee has already arrived. Just the right temperature. Just the right amount of milk. Just the right sweetness. In just the right mug.
It seems that if I ask nicely, coffee appears at my keyboard, on the bedside table, on the broad sill of the window, or wherever I am sitting. I’m not even sure if nicely is a requirement, but there seems to be no reason to test that.
I may be imagining it, but coffee seems to have been a bridge. I feel the house opening with each fresh cup and with my thanks. I feel the house listening, waiting. Other than asking for light one evening when I sat down to read, which did cause fairy lights to fill the small alcove where I’ve been spending most of my time, I have limited myself to coffee.
I need to know more.
Determined to document my time here, I am making copious notes. I dictate some of these, especially when I am comfortably curled in the blankets and don’t want to sit with a keyboard or pen and paper. I often talk out loud when drawing, too, more than aware of the quiet of the space, no rush of traffic or roar of wind beyond the windows. Into my growing sense of the unknown, I’m talking, filling the silence with voice.
The house listens.
Something else is listening, too. I’ve caught the rustle of something moving, a low whine now and then. Something else has been waiting.
Though I had been reluctant to attend, more hermit than not, the bog party was nice. The bog was beautifully lit, and seeing it first in the dark that way, warm and inviting, I can’t imagine thinking of it any other way. Platforms allowed everyone to move across the space, and there was music, laughter, and the chorus of unseen frogs lining the night.
I mostly tucked myself into the edges out of sight, but it was clear people were excited to see each other. I briefly met the librarian, accompanied by a pale but distinguished man wearing a stunning jacket embellished with a field of stars. A woman dressed somewhat like Peter Pan with a charming pixie full of Tinkerbell shimmer told me I should visit for tomatoes from her garden. I’m wondering if she might have dahlias, too.
Dave, dressed in a forest green suit and a cowboy hat, and always surrounded by people, had brought a brisket that was apparently very good. I didn’t try it, but I had more than one of his buttermilk biscuits. He didn’t seem at all awkward, but I sensed there might be more beneath the surface. There was a family, too, that had just moved into one of the houses on Treehouse Lane.
The daughter seemed serious and on alert as she kept her mother in sight. I didn’t talk to them, but I noticed the mother with her flame-red hair and a pendant that now and then caught the light. Curious, I lifted the prism to look, and I could see the edges of not only sadness but something else, something older and more powerful.
I heard there were dragons coming, and I really did want to see them. But I quickly lost all sense of names. Feeling out of sorts and both invisible and conspicuous standing alone by a tree after depositing my pile of sea glass at the end of the snack table, I left a little early.
Fitting in has always been a puzzle, and it may not be one I can solve here. I will find a way to bring Copper through the portal when I can, but the life I walked away from lingers here like salt on my skin. I have been given a chance to do things differently, which is exciting, even if it scares me.
I am in no hurry though.
No one even knows my address.
I have been slowly orienting myself in the house. It continues to reveal itself in ways I don’t expect. Most of it remains empty, but I do have a nook now where I can read, sleep, work, and appreciate the beautiful, large, paned windows. I know they don’t show from the outside, and I can’t quite explain that. The interior is definitely not the same as the exterior. I have started to wonder if this may be true for some of the other houses in the village, too.
This morning, I woke in the dark and watched the room lighten and shadows cast by hanging ivy begin to pattern the walls. After writing a bit, I straightened the tarot cards I had been studying the night before, idly pulling a card for each of the people and companions I had met at the party, looking for clues. The cards neatly stacked, I moved to put them on a shelf where I had started stashing things, when a small drawer shot out from the end of the bookcase. It was just the right size for the deck. I’m sure these drawers were not there before, but there seem to be others now, three columns of drawers with small cup pulls instead of knobs.
“A card catalog,” I mused out loud. “Very clever.”
Glancing at the pens scattered all over the broad window ledge I’ve been using to write and draw, I wondered what solution the house will provide.
But not now. I’ve decided today is the day.
I plan to visit the library.
The move-in notes strongly suggest getting a library card. They also indicate that I should have met the mayor when getting the key to the house. That didn’t happen, so I am going mostly by the packet of information that was waiting in the house when I arrived.
“Anyway, it will feel more like home if I have a stack of books,” I reasoned aloud.
I barely got the words out when a copy of Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space appeared next to me, with a small pad of sticky notes, a set of adhesive tabs, a highlighter pencil, and a black pen. I laughed softly and murmured a surprised thank you, both to the house and to whatever forces collided to bring me to this space.
I feel myself relaxing here.
Small drawers and hiding spaces continue to appear, nothing too dramatic. They are always functional and well-integrated, so much so that each time, I wonder if I simply had overlooked them. Bachelard’s appearance gives me new information about the house. This is not an ordinary pick, not a cozy fantasy, a spicy romantasy, or some chicken soup version of kick your grief in twelve steps or twenty ways to make friends.
“I do still need books from the library,” I said out loud. “I need books with a due date, too, or else I may never leave the house.”
A cup of coffee appeared at my side, a star painted in the foam.
I didn’t let myself ask about a lemon scone, but I wondered, not for the first time, how long the house has been waiting. Was it waiting for just anyone? Or was it waiting for me?
After enjoying the coffee and, true, curling up and taking a decadent mid-morning nap, I pulled on a long black cardigan, grabbed my backpack, and headed out. “Wish me luck,” I said as I locked the door, slipping the cord with the key around my neck.
The library is just two blocks from my house. It sits next to the rock climbing gym and cafe, where I am pretty sure my neighbor works. I haven’t stopped in there yet, though I am wondering if they have a tuna melt. You have to climb the wall, I think, to enter, so it might be a while before I find out.
From the map, I knew that behind the library is a small lake.
Missing knowing I used to be just minutes from the ocean, I decided to walk around the lake first. It had taken me a while to realize that the mentions I heard at the party of the beach meant at the lake. I thought at first there must be more to the map. Decades near the ocean seem to have narrowed my understanding of sand. (Note to self: I have yet to find a larger map that shows where we are in relation to anything else. I should ask the next time I visit the library.)
As the behind-the-library lake came into sight, it was much smaller than I had expected. I was confused, certain I had heard that someone lived on a houseboat on the lake.
I was admiring the flowers nestled among floating lily pads and thinking there were probably koi, too, when I noticed something black and white emerging from the water near a set of rocks at the edge of the water.
Penguin, I thought, noticing its large orange feet, as it shook itself off.
They have dragons and penguins here?
The penguin started waddling my way.
If a penguin can seem lost in thought, it did. It seemed to be very intent on something. I’m not sure it even noticed me as it passed me.
Unable to stop myself, I said softly, “a lone penguin?”
The bird stopped, drew itself up to its full height, and stared at me, its outlined eyes looking almost comically sad.
Taking in its white face, the bright triangular bill with stripes of orange, yellow, and something between blue and gray, and the distinctive yellow rosette at the corner, I slowly realized my mistake.
“Puffin,” I amended, “truly, I meant puffin.”
If a puffin can huff, it seemed to huff at me and walk on.
“I’m Az, by the way,” I called out. I really like puffins. But I do sometimes reach for the wrong word when out and about in the real world.
I sensed I had offended the puffin.
“I’m new here, and I would love to draw you sometime...” I called again, the offer drifting between us as a wind kicked up from the water.
With that, the puffin stopped, turned around, and called back.
“It’s nice to meet you, Az. I’m Paddles. I would stop and talk, but I’m looking for clues about the missing Maple.”
With that, it turned again and waddled on.
When I got to the library, there were a few people talking with the librarian at the circulation desk.
The library was larger than I expected. I found a terminal and searched for a few titles, surprised to find the library had many of them. After jotting down call numbers in the notebook I always have in my pocket, I headed to the second floor stacks.
I wandered between shelves, pulling books on dark gardens, labyrinths, seabirds, and an interesting collection of traps and puzzles for games. I was happy to find a copy of Piranesi, which it occurred to me to reread. Out of curiosity, I checked the shelves, too, to see what they had by Woolf and was glad to see a copy of To the Lighthouse. I checked the fantasy aisle and saw several titles I might want to read, but I wanted to see if audio was available once I had a card.
I like to listen while I draw, and I have the sense the house won’t mind.
After pulling a stack of new and familiar books, I sat at a small reading desk near a window to do a quick flip, weeding out a few I didn’t really need to carry back to the house on Park Drive. Voices from downstairs wafted to me. I heard the word “Maple” several times, but the voices always quickly dropped too low for me to hear more.
Maple. That’s what the puffin had said, too.
Starting down the stairs, I saw the librarian talking with someone at the desk. I heard something about an election, but once they caught sight of me, they finished up, and the woman left.
I stared after her. I had the distinct sense she was carrying something unusual. I couldn’t tell what exactly, but the pulse was there.
The counter clear, I moved forward to get a library card and check out my books. The librarian seemed distracted by whatever she and the woman had been talking about. I wanted to ask who Maple was, but I didn’t want to seem nosy. I’m new here. I don’t even know how long I’ll be here. I probably don’t need to know.
“Did you know there is a puffin at the lake out back?” I asked instead.
She laughed, smiling either at the question or at my mention of the lake, and confirmed that she did know. I got the sense there wasn’t much about the village she didn’t know, in fact. The puffin, too, she said, had already been in for a library card.
“Are there any books about the local history?” I asked.
The librarian peered over her glasses at me for a long moment.
“They are currently all in use,” she replied.
I was glad I hadn’t asked about a local grimoire.
Maybe next time.
On a whim, I signed up for yoga on the beach with Deleiri, the bronze-scaled dragon. I still haven’t seen Leira, Deleiri, and Mello, and I want to thank them for the delicious cinnamon rolls they left on my steps. I don’t do much baking, but it’s a recipe I think I need, just in case. As for yoga... I’m not sure I can stand on one foot for more than a few seconds. I’m not sure if a dragon can help, but something in the announcement mentioned auras, so I’m definitely intrigued.
I hope mine doesn’t show up black.
”Please don’t let mine show up black.”
For the record, the lights flickered three times in response.
The house has opinions and, maybe, a sense of humor.
(Note to self: I still don’t know where the beach is.)
For week 2, I set up a constellation of questions related to being here, what I am feeling, what I am sensing, and what it takes to be here.
Questions included: What is the house revealing now that I have stayed long enough to notice? How is time behaving here? Where do I stand in relation to the village and its inhabitants? What mystery is present, even if I do not yet understand it? What must be accepted without explanation? If this is not merely a visit, what kind of life is beginning to take shape?
The cards were surprisingly attuned to the questions, to Millcreek, to the emotional tangle within me, and even to the mysteries and magic the village continues to present.
Note to self: I used two decks, one that the house supplied, without my asking, when I was musing about the villagers I had observed at the welcome party. From each deck, I pulled The Hermit into different slots in the spread. This was uncanny. The pulls were random, and yet this doubling up has meaning. The way I read it, the spread contains one or two warnings for me, reminders that I will have to play along, but most of the answers continue to suggest an open and malleable field, one that has room for both interior and exterior mapping.
Note to Readers:
The nature of this project is that there are weekly installments from writers with characters who live in the fictional Millcreek Village. Most installments will at least obliquely respond to a community prompt. The stories will logically move in and out of time as readers get bits and pieces told from different perspectives.
Here are a few of the stories that were relevant for me this week and that have informed Az’s entries and observations. (There are already a whole set of new pieces to read, and Az won’t be addressing things newly revealed until next week.)
Dave brought the brisket (and returned home to find another Dave had arrived)
Neoma and Nova hosted the bog party
Jenifer (the librarian) and Varenne get ready for the party (part 1) and then Jenifer at the library (on the day Az visits)
The art studio still beckons, as does most of the map. Forgive me for holing up in the house this week to give in to a bit of very unexpected TLC. I intended to at least draw Paddles this week, but time in Millcreek has been slippery.
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