Rebecca cuts herself what she thinks is a reasonably sized slice of blueberry pie. You and I might think it too large; but for her, like Goldy Locks’ bowl of porridge, it’s just right. She leaves it unheated. One squirt of whipped cream.

It’s Thursday, and Rebecca’s day off from her job as a receptionist at Carlisle Auto Insurance. It’s a temp job she’s doing for six months. She’s saving money so she can continue her creative writing classes at PCC. This will be a low-key day. She said no to shopping with friend, Audrey, and no to a drive to the coast with her mother. Rebecca wants to read. She wants to read all afternoon. She’d love to read and write all day every day, but that’s not possible, yet.

She looks at the cushion in her couch’s center. It has a minor dent in the shape of her buttocks. They’re not big buttocks, and thank goodness for that. But they could be if she has too many “just right” sized slices of pie. She shakes out the feeling. Rebecca loathes fat shaming, and won’t do it to anyone, herself included. She takes a seat in her spot, and her tabby, Winslow jumps up on her left and makes himself comfy.

To Rebecca’s right sits a pile of four books she wants to choose from. Not one is a romantasy, though she’s tried to get into the newish genre, she thinks it’s silly. She made it fifteen pages into Fourth Wing and “had to” give up on it. She prefers classic mysteries and literary fiction.

She thinks. She says to Winslow, because, yes, sometimes Rebecca talks to her cat, which should I read Win?  Here we go.

I have here, Farewell, My Lovely, by Raymond Chandler, Busman’s Honeymoon, by Dorothy L Sayers, Middlemarch, a super chunk classic, by George Eliot, and Cassandra At the Wedding, by Dorothy Baker. Rebecca eats two bites of pie; thinks while she chews. So, Winslow? 

Winslow merely purrs, closes his eyes. He clearly feels no need to have any input.

Rebecca says, well, Win. I pick Middlemarch. I think it’s a good choice. Winslow is now sound asleep.

Rebecca finishes her pie. Though she’s tempted to lick her plate, she doesn’t. Even though she’s in her own living room, and who would care?  She takes the plate to the kitchen, rinses it, and leaves it on the counter. She rinses off every speck of leftover crust and filling. Rebecca doesn’t want ants.

She settles back into her couch spot and proceeds to read. She loves the heft of the book and its cover.

Rebecca sighs happily, and thinks, if only.

She can sense that she’s drifting away. Not to sleep, but into daydreams. Winslow continues to sleep. Rebecca is on page twenty five. She should get up and move around. Maybe go for a walk. Maybe it’s the pie that made her sleepy. The book is good. She likes it. She’s read Eliot before, The Mill On the Floss. That was brilliant, she thinks. So far, though, Rebecca’s just not head over heels for Middlemarch. But, she tells herself, twenty five pages aren’t many.

Winslow stirs; stares at the front door. Does he hear something, or is he just staring? He stretches, then curls up and goes back to sleep. He’s making Rebecca feel sleepy. To read or to take a nap?

She gets up, stretches, picks up the book and reads three more pages while she paces her living room. Nope. Middlemarch isn’t for her.

She decides on a catnap, but not before a bathroom visit. She sits back in her spot. She leans back. Her couch is so dang comfortable. Rebecca sits back up, puts Middlemarch aside, picks up Farewell, My Lovely. She gets to page eleven. It’s good, but why can’t she focus?

Winslow has jumped up to the back on the couch by Rebecca’s head. She gives up, lies down for a nap, pulls her quilt over her. She notices it’s almost dark. How can it be almost dark? She hasn’t been sitting and reading for long. It’s April. The Equinox has passed. She looks at the clock on the wall opposite. It’s 4 pm. 4 pm!? She ate her pie at 12:30. After lunch. Three and a half hours could not have gone by. Now it’s pitch black out there.

As she drifts away, Rebecca thinks, just a short nap. Her doorbell rings. She will not get up to answer the door. It’s likely no one she knows anyway. Before she closes her eyes again, she catches Winslow’s heavy stare. His amber eyes are glowing. Glowing? 

****

Rebecca walks at Lovejoy Arboretum. It’s one of her favorite places. She knows the trees by heart. Today, a Sunday, it’s deserted but for her. Definitely odd. She walks her usual route, and comes upon a tree she’s never seen. It’s not a sequoia, but it is a giant. It’s an apple tree, but Rebecca can’t see its top. It rises up and into the cumulus. And from one particularly sturdy branch hangs a wide rope ladder, its rungs extra thick. She wants to climb, but where does it end up? When does it end?

A raven speaks to her from a nearby branch. He says,

Dear Rebecca. You want to climb, don’t you?  Alas, what is up there, and how great is the distance. That’s what you’re thinking.

Rebecca smiles, and says,

Yes, of course I want to climb. I should have brought a book so I could read up there.

Well, just so you know, Rebecca, my name is Yeats. William Butler, that is, but humans call me just plain Yeats.

Rebecca says,

There’s nothing plain about Yeats.

Yeats laughs his raucous raven laugh. He says,

I’ve brought a book for you. It’s here, beside me, in the crook of this branch. Here, take it. Take it, and climb to the top. Don’t come down until you finish it. But I should let you know before you start, that halfway up, there are two doors. If you’re tired, you can stop climbing there, and choose one. And behind each of those two doors, there are two more doors. You have choices, Rebecca. The first one, and once that one is made, another. And behind each of the two doors behind the one door you choose first, if you decide to stop climbing that is, there’s a shelf containing six books. More choices, Rebecca. Always more choices. And always with different outcomes. What do you want to learn? About what do you want to read? And that’s if you cease to climb halfway. You can keep going. But who knows when you’ll reach the top?

Have I gone on long enough yet? Asks Yeats in a friendly, helpful voice.

Rebecca looks at him and rolls her eyes. She says,

You’ve given me a lot to think about, Yeats. I merely wanted to walk among the trees for awhile. Can I choose not to climb at all?

Of course you can, dear Rebecca. If you don’t climb this tree, there are two more like it in the Arboretum. Different kinds of trees, different doors, different stacks of books. And please remember, Ms. Oakley, I’m a raven first, but many people call us ravens Trickster. I might be playing a trick, but I might not. Perhaps that’s a little on the nose, like the feathers on my beak. It’s a friendly warning.

Rebecca says, why did you call me Ms. I thought we spoke on an informal basis?

I like you, Ms. Oakley, but are you my friend? Humans can be Tricksters as well. From what I know of you, you’re a good person. You like animals, and that’s important to me. You also love to read and learn, and you’re generous. But I have to be careful, as you should be. We all want things. Sometimes we only think we know what we want. What’s the matter? Why are you rolling your eyes at me, Rebecca?

You’re starting to sound a little preachy there, Yeats.

Indeed. I’m sorry, Rebecca. No more discussion. I’ll leave you this book, and you can decide what you want to do. As I said, there are two more similar trees, not of the same kind but with similar kinds of choices. There’s no need to climb any of them. You can choose one or none, but if you choose a tree, then a door, and then another door, you must see your choice through to the end. Follow the instructions to the letter. Read your chosen book. No turning back. But also, like I said, you can choose this book, finish your walk and return home. Time for me to leave you! Good luck Rebecca Oakley!  Enjoy all the choices.

****

Rebecca finds her favorite bench, which happens to be the one closest to the giant apple tree. Now she can”t remember what, if any, tree or garden was there before. She thought she knew the Arboretum like the back of her hand. Now she’s not sure.

She opens the book that Yeats left for her. It’s Invisible Cities, by Italo Calvino. Rebecca read this, about ten years ago, she remembers. She was sixteen, should she reread it? Maybe she’ll see it differently as an adult? She flips through the pages. A lovely pink envelope drops to the ground from page 120. Maybe this is the trick? Does she just go home? Leave the envelope unopened? Climb this tree? Wait for one of the others?

Rebecca tears open the envelope. She pulls out a pamphlet. At first it looks thin. It came in a normal size business envelope, but then it expands in thickness. In fact, it’s about an inch and a quarter thick. Then she realizes it unfolds into an octagonal shape, twelve inches by twelve inches. She flips through the thick paper octagon. It has five hundred and fifty three pages. Rebecca catches her breath. She quickly folds it back up. It immediately shrinks. She places it back in the envelope and the envelope back in the book.

She realizes she has found the perfect book to read, and it will take much more than one afternoon to read it. She’s never seen anything like this before. She never knew anything like this existed. It’s a map; a map with illustrations and pages and pages of text. It’s a map of every arboretum on the west coast. But it’s not a map of trees and gardens. It’s a map of the villages and kingdoms that exist in the treetops. It tells where all the doors, windows, and entrances to these places are.

Is it real? Is it fiction? Is it a mystery map, or some kind of epic fantasy tale? Rebecca won’t be climbing any trees today.

She walks back to her car and drives back to her apartment. She misses Winslow, and it’s time for maybe a glass of wine and leftover homemade curried eggplant. And it’s time to read and study some before bed.

****

Rebecca awakens with a groggy start. How long did she sleep? And that sure was a wacky dream. Wait. Was it a dream?  Sure it was. A talking raven who recommends books. She only dreamed it because she couldn’t decide what to read. She asks herself again how long she slept. Winslow is in the same spot he was when she fell asleep. Has he been there the whole time, or did he move and come back? She left his food bowl full. And she filled his water dish before her nap.

She looks out, and sees it’s dark. She lets her eyes adjust to the darkness and looks at the wall clock. It reads 1:07. She assumes am. She hopes; because she still feels odd. What was in that pie? Audrey made it especially for her because blueberry is her favorite kind.

Rebecca throws off the quilt and gets up off the couch. She’s only a little dizzy, and she hears something drop to the floor. Winslow leaps into the warm spot she left.

She looks at the floor, and sees a book, and a torn open pink business envelope. The book is Invisible Cities, by Italo Calvino. That and the envelope are from her dream.

Winslow!  What do you think is happening? Sweet boy, what happened while I slept?

Rebecca picks up the envelope first, and her fingers tingle. She glances at Winslow, and his eyes are glowing again. Intense amber. She pulls a little pamphlet out of the envelope, and it expands in her right hand. The title says, Distant Lands In Deciduous Trees…