An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [28]
“The bushes lining this part of the trail are blueberry,” she says, talking over her shoulder again. “Up at the pond, you’ll see marshberry bushes. I picked so many berries last year, my fingers were black for the season.”
I stop and rest my hands on my knees to catch my breath. “I’ve never picked berries.”
She stands next to me. “When the season comes I’ll give you lessons if you want. Like with blueberries, I’ll teach you not to pick the red ones, because they’re green.”
“I’m lost already.”
“In Newfoundland, green is a synonym for unripe. You’ll catch on.”
“People keep telling me that.”
She lays her hands on her hips then looks up into the trees. “Listen. It’s a white-throated sparrow.” She sings. “Oh sweet Canada, Canada, Canada.” The birds are quiet. The dogs run past again. Norah runs after them. “See you on ahead,” she says. “Take your time.”
A branch from the side of the trail makes a good walking cane. Long legs make it easier for stepping over small boulders. While I walk, I stare down at the rocks, the moss, the dark brown powdery soil and the roots of trees that surface, sinewy like veins in an old hand. The dogs run up behind me. I can almost hear the screeching of their paws when they stop suddenly then backtrack to sniff my cane. One of them clamps its teeth around it.
“Stop that now. Immediately. I said stop it. Did you hear me?” We play a tug of war. I make a quick pull. The stick hits a rock and cracks in two. The dog bolts to the side then runs off. I run to catch up with Norah. “Sorry, did you say something?” I ask her.
She’s sitting on a boulder waiting for me. “I was talking to myself. Ever hear of Fahrenheit 451. Destruction of books by fire?”
“Every librarian knows it.”
She doesn’t leave me time to catch my breath. She hops off the boulder. This time, she walks slowly but turns her head to the side so I can hear her. “I liked the idea of people memorizing books to save them from the book burners. That’s where I got the idea. When I’m on the trails, I practice reciting portions of Carroll’s work that I’ve memorized. It takes my mind off the climb. Your Fahrenheit 451 choice?”
When I was a boy, Tatie told me fables and tales at bedtime. I’d fall asleep dreaming about powerful barons tricked by helpless peasants, mean husbands punished by spiteful wives or fools made wiser by encounters with tricksters. “Fables and Tales of the Middle Ages. Probably not great literature but they entertained me when I was a boy. They started as oral stories so it makes sense to learn them by heart.”
“In the middle ages,” she says, “people had better memories for stories. They had databases for brains.”
“I use databases every day at work.”
She stops then turns round. The top buttons on her shirt are undone. Her chest is shiny with sweat. “And when you’re not working?”
“I only arrived at the end of last summer. Haven’t got my bearings yet.”
“You’re one degree closer to the equator than Paris is and 3.5 hours west of Greenwich. The.5 entitles us to our own time zone.”
“You’re a geographer and a historian.”
“A wannabe meteorologist, a wannabe librarian, a wannabe biologist, a wannabe writer. I dibble and dabble.”
“Like a Renaissance woman?”
“Renaissance women aren’t known for their rubber boots, knapsacks or Labrador retrievers. Come on guys,” she shouts to the dogs. The smallest one, Folio, runs up to us then hops on me with muddy paws. “Down, Folio!” Norah says. I take off my boot to see what’s digging into my heel. Norah eyes the blister. “We’ll have to ship you off to the pre-amputee ward where you’ll be kept company by the half-legged birds on crutches.”
I put on my boot just as the other two dogs appear. Eventually, the hills give way to a slope, then to a plateau. The reliable terrain of the trail gives way to more unpredictable wet patches. We reach a fork. Norah points into the distance. “There’s a tiny stretch of sand around that corner and a rowboat. I’ll be gone for about a half-hour while I check