I had reached the end of my third look, where the road rose and went over a humped wooden bridge （the creekbed beneath it was dry）， when I started to hear honking. Not cars but birds. When I got to the highest point of the bridge I saw a house on my right. On the left side of the road there were no more poppies; the woods had swooped right down to the edge. The house was much bigger than the shoe-woman’s cottage, almost like a ranch house in a TCM Western, and there were outbuildings, two big and one small. The biggest one had to be a barn. This was a farmstead. Behind it was a large garden with neat rows of growing things. I didn’t know what all of them were—no horticulturist was I—but I knew corn when I saw it. All the buildings were as old and gray as the shoe-woman’s skin, but they looked sturdy enough.
The honking was coming from geese, at least a dozen of them. They surrounded a woman in a blue dress and a white apron. She held the apron up with one hand. With the other she was scattering handfuls of feed. The geese went after it greedily, with much flapping of wings. Nearby, eating from a tin trough, was a white horse that looked skinny and old. The word spavined came to mind, but since I didn’t know exactly what spavined meant, I had no idea if it was right. There was a butterfly on its head—normal-sized, which was kind of a relief. As I approached, it flew off.
She must have seen me from the corner of her eye, because she looked up and went still, one hand deep in the pocket of her upheld apron as the geese jostled and flapped around her feet, honking for more.
I also went still, because now I understood what Dora had been trying to convey: goose girl. But that was only part of the reason I froze. Her hair was a rich dark blond with lighter streaks running through it. It fell to her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and blue, the farthest thing from Dora’s constant half-erased squint. Her cheeks were rosy. She was young, and not just pretty; she was beautiful. Only one thing marred her storybook loveliness. Between her nose and chin there was nothing but a knotted white line, like the scar of a serious wound that had healed long since. At the right end of the scar was a dime-sized red blemish that looked like a tiny unopened rose.
The goose girl had no mouth.
6
As I came toward her, she took a step toward one of the outbuildings. It might have been a bunkhouse. Two gray-skinned men came out, one holding a pitchfork. I stopped, remembering that I was not only a stranger, I was armed. I raised my empty hands.
“I’m okay. Harmless. Dora sent me.”
The goose girl stood perfectly still for a few moments longer, deciding. Then the hand came out of her apron and she scattered more corn and grain. With the other hand she first motioned her farmhands to go back inside, then beckoned me to come ahead. I did, but slowly, still holding my hands up. A trio of geese came flapping and honking toward me, saw my empty hands, and hurried back to the girl. The horse looked around and went back to its lunch. Or maybe it was dinner, because the blob of sun was now moving toward the woods on the far side of the road.
The goose girl went on feeding her flock, seemingly unconcerned after her momentary startle. I stood at the edge of her yard, not knowing what to say. It occurred to me that Radar’s new friend must have been having me on. I had asked if the googir could talk, and Dora had nodded, but she’d also been smiling. Big joke, send the kid to get answers from a young woman with no mouth.
“I’m a stranger here,” I said, which was stupid; I’m sure she could see that for herself. It was just that she was so beautiful. In a way, the scar that should have been a mouth and the blemish beside it made her even more beautiful. I’m sure that sounds weird, maybe even perverse, but it was true. “I’m—ouch.” One of the geese had pecked my ankle.
That seemed to amuse her. She reached into her apron, brought out the last of the feed, made a tiny fist, and held it out to me. I opened my hand and she poured a little pile of what looked like wheat mixed with cracked corn into my palm. She used her other hand to hold mine steady, and the touch of her fingers felt like a low electric shock. I was smitten. Any young guy would have been, I think.
“I’m here because my dog is old, and my friend told me that in the city…” I pointed. “… there was a way to make her young again. I decided to give it a try. I’ve got about a thousand questions, but I see you’re… not, you know… exactly able to…”
I stopped there, not wanting to dig the hole even deeper, and sprinkled my handful of feed for the geese. I could feel my cheeks burning.