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Fiction by Jane (Cohen) Stinson
The Witch Tree - page 2
He pushed his way through the thick brush
that survived under the protection of the tall
pines, breaking a thousand tiny, still-frozen
branches as he moved, wondering what a
plant felt in winter, wondering what he felt in
winter, whether his mind froze around the
edges when the ground froze, or whether his
emotions congealed from November through
April, so that he was unable to deal rationally
with reality.
He knew this path he was following up the back side of the falls, and the high, steep one, as well as he knew the stairs in his and Becky's house, rough-hewn, unsanded lumber cut from the trees of the reservation, as unfinished as their lives and their work. From their studios on the second floor they looked out on Lake Superior, the huge inland fresh water sea that maintained a vision of perfection for the mind. The acreage above the lake where he and Becky had built their house was a piece of land Joe had loved from the time he was a kid.
He knew this path he was following up the back side of the falls, and the high, steep one, as well as he knew the stairs in his and Becky's house, rough-hewn, unsanded lumber cut from the trees of the reservation, as unfinished as their lives and their work. From their studios on the second floor they looked out on Lake Superior, the huge inland fresh water sea that maintained a vision of perfection for the mind. The acreage above the lake where he and Becky had built their house was a piece of land Joe had loved from the time he was a kid.
Dad had often taken him there just to sit and
study the lake and sky and how they blended
into each other, blues stretching to the empty
horizon, and then again blues rising vertically to
the beginning of time and space. It was the only
place for their house so Joe had asked the
Tribal Council for that land. It would make an
inviolable aerie where he and Becky would
dwell with all the spirits of the lake and sky and
there paint magnificent pictures for them.