The Witch Tree, page 25
There was a sheep wagon in back, round-roofed, and Wes, pointing to it said, almost jokingly,
“Need a place, it’s free.”
“Thank you,” he said. He would use it; it was just right now, and in front of it was an immense, towering cottonwood.
Out of the truck, he crossed the yard with his duffle. When he stood by the sheep wagon he could see into the stream there, the water clear and kitigan, waterweed, trailing neon green over the graveled bed.
A trout held itself against the current, lazily navigating the current, then darted upstream.
“You can wash up in here, if you want,” Wes shouted from the cabin. “Don’t be too proud.”
“Mind if I take a minute?”
“I’ll be a while makin’ dinner. Get situated,” Wes called back. “Make yourself at home. There’s no rush.”
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High over the cabin, he stood at the lip of a rock outcropping, one flat and round as a dais.
The town, in miniature, spread as if from his feet, in the last of the light a dog barking and a boy calling to it, “Rufus! Rufus! Come here, boy!” the sun, dropping over the edge of the world.
A step would set him free, but he wouldn’t do that. When the time was right, he had to go back.
The night coming on, he set his hands on his hips and the moon rose behind the mountains across the valley.
First a glimmer of the palest, blue white light. The moon rose steadily, then leapt into the sky, floating, large as a lit lantern.
Tibik gisis. His moon.
A pack of scurrying wolves came out of the trees below him, traversed the mountainside. The wolf at the head of the pack stopped to test the air and, finding the source of the scent, looked up at him.
Recognized something in him, and went on.
When he came into the yard, Wes had a fire going. There were two logs there at an angle, one abutting the cottonwood.
“Sit,” Wes said, and he did, his legs out, and his back set against the tree. He looked up into it. The branches were broad and encompassing, the new leaves a canopy, and the stars shining through, the moon there all but full. Somewhere, under that self same moon, Sally was driving into Seattle.
Wes handed him a plate, his dinner on it. “What’s your name,” he said, “if you don’t mind me asking. After all, if we’re gonna be working together, got to call you something.”
Wes smiled, a widower, happy for the company. It was such a simple question, but he found himself struck dumb.
And just then, what Sally had said at The Tree came to him: I mean, who’s the one who’s afraid here?!
“Well?” Wes insisted, and gave him a curt nod. “You got to have a name, don’t you?”
“Doden,” he replied, then added, “Miskwa’ doden. It means Red Deer, but you just call me Buck.”
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable support, inspiration, and encouragement of: Editors Chantelle Aimee Osman and Jason Pinter; agent and editor, par excellence, Madison Smartt Bell; my usual partners in crime, Chief and friend Makwa (I hope you recognize yourself here…); Delbert, Henry Tall Buffalo, Odinigun, Nodin, Patrick DesJarlait, Eugenia Rose, John Buck, Howard LaChapelle; and last but by no means least, Mary K. (the real Sally, who, amid all trials, remained sweet); JFC the 279th and a half (you of the aircraft landing lights); Karen Subach, who read umpteen versions, and with her inimitable eye and refined ear provided invaluable commentary; and especially for their creative input, “Matt,” Jim, Jane, and Frank. A nod to Benn, Kevin, Heather, Nathalie, and Kim. And to those I have not mentioned: You have not been forgotten. The list is endless.
Miigwech,
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Wayne Johnson, The Witch Tree
