The sagging roof had been fixed. The place had been repainted, and a garage with an apartment above it had replaced the old tin carport, but her grandmother’s old place was still clearly recognizable. It was the tree that had given it away. An ancient oak that had fused with another to become like a gigantic wooden guard dog, towering over the property.
Her grandfather had hung a swing from its sturdy branches when she was a little girl. It leaned back towards the National Forest that bordered the rear of the property as if yearning for its relatives on the other side of the fence. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the thick wooden frame of the screen door.
“Who’s there?” A rich female voice called from the rear of the house.
“My name is Linda. Linda Nielsen. My grandma used to own this house.”
Linda heard footsteps echoing on the suspended wooden floor like an approaching drum until a small silhouette was framed by the screen door. It cracked open on its latch and she found herself being scrutinized by a pair of chestnut-brown eyes.
“Are you sure you’re not a reporter?” she asked as much with her arched eyebrow as her voice. Just then, a saffron-colored butterfly landed on Linda’s shoulder, flapped its wings four times and flew away. “You’ve received a vote of confidence. I suppose you ought to come in.” She opened the door and led Linda into a glass-walled sunroom that had been installed on the back of the house.
“Thank you for letting me in,” Linda began. “I spent countless hours here as a little girl and I immediately recognized the tree. There’s not another like it in the world.” The woman nodded, her feet tucked under her on a rattan chair.
“Recognized it from where?” the arched eyebrow asked her again.
“The picture from the back of your last CD.”
“So, you know who I am?”
“Yes. I’m a tremendous fan. Who hasn’t heard of Nyad? The platinum-selling pop star who vanished into thin air. When I realized where you were, I had to come.”
“Have you told anyone?”
“No, of course not. You obviously didn’t want to be found. And the answer is ‘yes,’ by the way.”
“The answer to what?”
“Yes, I am a reporter, but that’s not why I’m here. I think I get it.”
“Get what?”
“Well, as I listened to your music, I noticed how you veered away from the guitar and synths that marked your first albums and started using flutes and woodwinds and then, on your last one, all of the sampled sounds from nature. I recognized the sound of the musicians – the chorus of trees, the choirs of crickets and birds. I wasn’t hearing the songs so much as remembering them from my childhood.” Nyad nodded and smiled ruefully.
“The critics savaged me. My label dropped me. They didn’t get it. I’m glad someone does. Come on, let’s go out back and listen to some music.”
Literature in Small Doses 