William Rosewood's Arc

Chapter 16 of 20

The wet snow fell all night. In the morning William found his last dry rows soaked through. He had sealed the well with the woodshed timbers, but that left the woodpile bare. Now the wood would not burn, and a fire that would not burn meant a cold house. His children slept by the hearth. He had four weeks of dry fuel, maybe less. He stood in the yard and knew he had to cut new shelter for the wood, and cut it today. He pulled the axe from the scarred stump and turned to the old pine at the yard's edge. He had taken its lower branches in the fall. The upper boughs still hung thick with needles. Wide boughs shed snow. He would cut them, build a slant roof over the pile, and keep the inner rows dry. Eddie came out and saw the axe. "You're cutting the pine again." "The top boughs," William said. "We build a real cover this time. Not just a layer laid down." Eddie studied the tree. "The branches are too high. You can't reach them from the ground." He was right. William had never once told the boy he was proud of him, and he did not now. But he handed Eddie the cord and let him climb. Eddie went up the trunk fast and found the fork. He tied the cord to each bough before he cut, so nothing crashed on the wet wood below. Tommy stacked the fallen boughs and dragged them to the shed. He worked without talking. When they had a pile, William leaned four thick poles against the shed frame and lashed them. Then he wove the pine boughs over the poles, thick and overlapping, the way a thatcher lays straw. By dusk the cover stood. It slanted so snow slid off. William laid the soaked outer wood on top to dry in the wind and pulled the inner rows deep beneath the shelter. He tested the roof with his hand. It held firm. The snow would run off it now, not soak through. He fetched an armful of the driest wood and carried it inside. The fire caught. It burned clean, no hiss, no smoke choking the room. Sarah stirred near the warmth. The house held its heat. Tommy stood in the doorway and looked back at the stripped pine. Its lower half was bare now, poles of dead branch and empty trunk. "There's nothing left to cut off that tree," he said. "Not for boughs. Not for poles." William looked at the bare pine and knew it was true. He had shelter for the wood at last. But he had spent the tree to get it. If this cover failed, or the wet rows would not dry, there was no more green pine to reach for. He had used the last of it. The fire burned, and the wood beneath the boughs began to dry.