Chapter 7 Finn Feenbart and the House That Remembered

More about Chapter 7 Finn Feenbart and the House That Remembered

The next evening, Finn reached a plain where the grasses grew in straight lines, as if invisible hands had drawn them with rulers. In the middle stood a house. It wasn't large, yet it seemed to have several more rooms than could be seen from the outside. Its roof was crooked like an overturned hat, and the windows were clouded, as if they had seen too much of the future. Finn set his satchel on the step and knocked. Nothing. He knocked again, but this time he heard the knock not at the door, but deep inside the house, as if his knocking was being repeated elsewhere. "Come in, wanderer," said a voice that sounded like old wood. The door opened a crack, then more, and Finn stepped inside. It smelled of dust and cinnamon. In the hall stood a chest of drawers that breathed on silent hinges. On the wall hung a picture of the bridge made of moonlight—only without Finn. A staircase led both up and down; as you climbed, you had to choose whether to fall or ascend to a lower place. “I can’t find my front door,” the house said apologetically. “I have it and I don’t. Remembering is a tiring kind of order.” Finn stroked the banister knob. “Perhaps the door isn’t where you’re looking. Perhaps it lies in a moment, not a place.” “Do you have moments with you?” the house asked hopefully. “I have the day after tomorrow,” Finn said, “and silence. And a trail I once paid for, which continues even when it’s gone.” “Give me a little of the day after tomorrow,” the house pleaded, “just a breath for the hinges. I want to open again when someone knocks who doesn’t yet know what they’re looking for.” Finn opened his satchel. The day after tomorrow lay inside like a thin disc of light. As he raised his hand, it spread by itself: a delicate, glassy warmth that seeped into the cracks, into the window frames, into the pictures, into the railing, even into the slanted roofline. The house took a deep breath. "Ah," it said. "I think I remember. My door begins in the garden, where the pond pretends to be sky." They went outside, and indeed: behind the house lay a pond in which clouds floated, clouds that didn't exist that evening. On the water's surface lay a dark expanse like a second, more closed gate. "Here," the house said. "Here I once promised someone I would be open." Finn knelt down and laid the silence upon the water. No splashing, no crackling: only a stillness that sank deep and at the same time expanded. The dark gate lifted, turned, became a door that didn't lead to the garden, but to a warm hallway where laughter hung and voices smelled of soup. Finn stood up. “You’re open again,” he said. “And you?” the house asked gently. “What did you open without realizing it?” Finn brushed his wild, soft curls from his forehead; the golden pollen shimmered barely perceptibly. “Perhaps a path I won’t see until tomorrow,” he said, smiling as if he knew the smile was allowed to stay.