Jenny's Cabin

Jenny's Cabin is Chapter 4 of How I Met My Echo On Big Wolf Cliff

Jenny’s cabin is tiny—more a shed than a cabin, with a small grey door and a vine-covered window. Are those wild strawberries? Liz has never seen them climb like that before. The cabin looks green—or at least, Liz thinks it is. The true color is hard to discern, swallowed by moss and lichen. She glances at Jenny, who smiles widely with pride. This is her home.

Jenny opens the door and hesitates.

“Are you sure you’d like to come inside?”

“Of course.”

“I do share my home with many critters.”

Liz stops, her mind flashing to sprites, fairies, and leprechauns.

“Are you afraid of mice and chipmunks?”

Liz shakes her head. “We have mice in our cabin too. Sometimes, there's the odd squirrel. My mom hates it, and Dad tries to keep them out, but each time he closes up a hole, they find a new way to get in. She swears she'll build a new cabin soon, whether Dad wants it or not.”

“I hope you will feel at home here then.”

They step into the tiny cabin, which opens into a large, bright, yurt-like space. Light pours in from a wide dome above, wrapping the room in the warmth of a pleasant hug.

Jenny raises an eyebrow with a teasing grin and beckons Liz to the small window by the door. She tips her finger to her lips and tiptoes to a wooden box with a glass top on the ledge. Liz creeps up behind her as Jenny lifts the lid. Inside, beneath a delicate rainbow quilt, three tiny mice sleep on a miniature four-poster bed. They're so new that their fur is still thin and patchy. Jenny smiles at Liz and slips the lid back down.

“Flo and Jack had their triplets three days ago, so we need to be extra quiet for this visit,” Jenny whispers.

Liz nods her head.

The house is tidy and has a sweet and earthy smell. Tiny jars filled with flowers, branches, mushrooms, and balsam fingers line the shelves along the back windows. A large willow branch catches Liz's attention—it's pulsing in the sunlight. Each pussy willow wriggles, as if trying to break free. Liz jumps as one pops off, scrambling across the shelf and disappearing through a small cat door in the sill.

“What great timing,” Jenny muses. “Their dormancy is over.”

She takes Liz’s hand and lays it palm up on the shelf between the door and the branch. One by one the pussies drop from the branch and scramble across her palm and out the door. Liz giggles as each little fuzzball tickles her skin like tiny feather dusters. The branch empties, and once bare, she steps back with eyes wide as pies.

“They don’t do that on your side,” Jenny explains.

“No, they definitely do not.”

“Where are they running off to?”

“They are off to have some fun. In a week or two, they will burrow into the soil to become new willow shoots.”

“Oh my goodness—they do? How odd.”

“Is it? Caterpillars and dragonfly larvae do that on your side, do they not? They are transitional creatures.”

“My dad has a different story. Baby bunnies begin their lives on willow and poplar branches.”

“I wish his story were true. I am always a little sad when the puffs burrow away. I would like it if they grew into bunnies. I often miss their departure. We were lucky to be here when they woke.”

Liz smiles, scanning the forest through the sunny window. Her gaze stops on a paper birch. “What is that?”

“The woodpecker?”

“Yes. What is it doing?”

“He is writing.”

“Writing?”

“Yes. He writes by pressing little dots onto the paper.”

“What is he writing?”

“Likely another love poem to the birch tree.”

“A woodpecker loves a tree?”

“Sure, are there no trees you love?”

“Of course. I love the paper birch in front of my cabin, but I'd never write a love letter on it.”

“No. That is a shame. Perhaps you should.”

“Doesn’t it hurt the tree?”

“How can love hurt a tree?”

“If you peel the paper off, it opens the trunk to parasites.”

Jenny cringes. “The woodpecker does not peel off the bark. He writes his words of love on the loose curls.”

“Have you ever read his letters?”

“Heavens no, that is for their eyes only.”

Liz laughs. “I guess you're right, but I'm very curious what a woodpecker poem is like.”

“If you keep your eyes wide as we walk, you might find less personal ones. I will have to decipher them for you, though.” She smiles.

“I’ve never seen anything like that around my cabin.”

“Sadly, humans are the only literate poets on your side.”

“That's too bad,” Liz says, shaking her head. “I think I could use a translator for some of the poetry I’ve had to read in English class,” she says with a giggle.

“Oh?” Jenny laughs.

“Do you think we visit your side now?” Liz asks, eyeing the stained-glass door at the back of the cabin.

“Sure, but stay close—it’s not all love poems on my side. It can be wilder than your side.”

“Okay—I promise. I think it scared Mom pretty bad.”

Jenny’s eyes darken and drop to her feet.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn't have said that,” Liz says and strokes Jenny’s slouched back.

“You do not need to apologize. I believe it to be true. I wish I knew what happened to her on my side. I miss Lilah terribly.”

“Maybe one day I can convince her to return with me.”

Jenny smiles. "I would love that.”

She takes Liz’s hand and leads her to the stained-glass door.

“Are you ready?”

Liz nods, and they step out into the sunshine.