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passion warped the trajectory. Sailing past the sculptor’s ear out the screen door the green missile landed on the rock in front of us, its froggy innards slipping out from beneath the tough skin pushed awry.
    At that time there was no electricity and no road access to the cabins on the lake. Otto and I were still bringing our food across by canoe. The waste of the avocado suddenly appalled us both. We crept away in silence.
    Today I would not say no to rage, or to any other kind of feeling.

    What is this banging in the kitchen? A can has just thudded out through the screen door, tumbling low and making heavy progress. Looks like some one has been trying to open it with a screwdriver. Tossed aside, smeared with ketchup and flour, the side dented, the label slashed with what look like—claws. Ye gods and mortals. Speak of trolls and they rustle in the hallway.
    Any minute now that bear will sense me with his flour-frosted snout, hunger and frustration all he knows. Now I cannot hear anything except for our breathing, the bear’s and mine. Baba Yaga and Red Suspenders and passion be damned. A bear is not a sustaining illusion. A bear is.
    Oh my. Where have I got to in all this?
    Shuffle back shuffle back, clatter off the walkway while the crows lift off the treetops and all the voices cry, Freya, Freya, we walk in the woods alone my dear, walk in the woods alone.

To Catch a Fish
    P OOR MAURICE. He failed, but until I walked in the door at the cabin neither of us knew that it was a test, to catch a fish. How much easier for both of us if I had presented him with a room of straw to spin into gold, or had asked him to grow a peony, with a sunrise in its midst and the clouds of morning gathered in its petals.
    Here is how it happened. I had been walking into the deepening dusk for an hour, just a grey-haired woman with a backpack and a stick. Not that a stick is much use against the ranging horsefly. Still, I don’t mind flies. They are alive, and so am I. We are two species sharing the same pink evening air, the short green fields and the rectangular lumps of vanilla fudge that resolve into cows when I put my glasses on. I told Maurice not to come and get me. For the first time, he had his own guests at my cabin that night – Stewart Blaney, the antique dealer and his new wife Noreen. I was happy that he was making himself at home.
    Here’s how Maurice’s voice sounds, booming out into the twilight, causing the birds to twitter with anxiety and the fish to stir in the waters.

    Oh ho, Stewart, Noreen, glad you found us. Bienvenus au Lac Perdu. Were my directions adequate? It’s the real boondocks out here. Come on in. Bathroom, second tree on your left past the screened porch. Don’t look so worried Noreen. Come and sit down, Stewart. Isn’t this view tremendous? There you are Noreen. Wine for the lady. Yes, Freya will be in soon. She’s en route from Quebec. New granddaughter. Over-protective grandma. You know the story.
    My granddaughter Tessie is six weeks old and already sorting out the difference between day and night, clever little thing. Her fists curl up like fiddleheads. Mia is marvellous, rushing about with diapers and laundry, laying Tessie down like a fish in the scale, crowing over her daily weight gains.
    What’s that Stewart? How long? Six weeks alone in the bee-loud glade. Yes, bloody loud, exactly. Bored? Me? Not at all. Swim each morning, a walk, books. I’ve been digging compost into a peony bed for Freya. My word, the Giant Hogweed is the stuff of nightmares. Strikes you blind you know.
    I think I’ll pick a few wildflowers for the table. They won’t be up to Maurice’s standard—hawkweed and viper’s bugloss are hardly offerings to bring a peony grower. Maurice with his strains and names. To tell the truth, peonies have never appealed to me. Showy at first, they soon become so shaggy and overblown. I prefer my weeds with their shy