In the Barren Ground

by Loreth Anne White

For each new reader brings to the Story afresh his own unique set of past experiences, giving him a peculiar lens through which to conjure different emotions out of the very same words .

one of the elders of the Twin Rivers First Nations community, had told her that this land was called the hosi—the treeless place. And that it was no-man’s-land.

We all had them—trophies. Whether they were stuffed animal heads, scarves, trinkets, Instagram photographs, locks of human hair, kids’ baby teeth. They all said: I was there. I did this. This is my Story. My triumph. My bravery. My ownership of this thing. We considered serial killers creepy when they kept mementos from their victims, like body parts, and when they touched those mementos again and again in order to relive the emotional thrill of their kills. But really, it was no different for the rest of us.

People underestimated the power of silence, and how it could compel someone to speak, to fill it.

Early November. When the clocks changed for winter. Her father used to say it was at this time that the veil between seasons—between the living and the spirit world—grew thin, at least according to his childhood Scandinavian tales. It was when the dark things began to creep out of the woods.

Vulnerability isn’t good or bad, Tana. It’s not a dark emotion, nor a light one. It’s not a weakness. It’s the birthplace of all feelings. If you run away from it, if you fear it, and shut it out, you will be shutting out all that gives purpose and meaning to life . . .