Free Life in the Land by Rebecca Cohen Page A

crops, pathetic parodies of the lush greens his dad’s gifts had helped to cultivate.
    At the top his dad pointed to the large oak that stood regally in the corner, branches spread wide and adorned with a thick canopy of leaves. On any other farm it would have been pulled out years ago; its roots had encroached into the rich, fertile soil, stealing potential sustenance. Every childhood tale of the family’s special powers linked back to it: from stories of his forefathers who had danced around it naked on Midsummer’s morning, to when his dad had proposed to his mum, raining petunias down upon her until she said yes.
    “We’ve tried this before,” Bobby said as his dad positioned him to stand under the oak.
    “And we’ll keep on trying. I’ve told you before, Bobby, it’s not something that’ll happen overnight.”
    “We’ve been trying forever.”
    “So it won’t hurt to try once more, will it?”
    There was no point in arguing. His dad would ruffle his hair and smile, and Bobby would do whatever he’d been asked. He leaned against the trunk and the knots of gnarled bark poked into his back. Under instruction from his dad, Bobby closed his eyes; his soul was heavy, burdened with the weight of expectation loaded with his own disbelief.
    “You’re thinking too hard. Not your normal problem, I must admit,” said his dad. “Breathe deeply and empty your mind.”
    Bobby slowly inhaled the warm evening air through his nose, and let the exhalation escape though his slightly parted lips. With each breath he released a worry; the internal negativity and self-doubt floated away, captured and held tight in the branches of the oak.
    “Lean back. Let the oak support you.”
    His dad’s words ghosted over him and wrapped around his shoulders like a blanket. The ancient tree his anchor, Bobby allowed his mind to empty, and as it did, his skin tingled with the sensation of being so exposed. The gentle wind whispered through the leaves above him, a soft chant of comfort and support.
    “That’s right,” his dad said. “Now let it in.”
    The air felt heavier, each breath harder. The smell of grass and tree pollen overloaded his senses, even the mildest of breezes an onslaught; Bobby screwed his eyes shut even tighter and bit down on his bottom lip as he felt both hot and cold at once. A sweat gathered on his brow, yet his legs shivered as if he was sitting on a block of ice. Involuntarily, he flinched; his mind swam in the silence, looking—hunting—for something, something out of reach.
    A buzzing like a swarm of bees filled his ears. Louder and louder, a crescendo of noise that made his head ache. A little more, he told himself, but the noise grew louder, and he gasped in pain as a high-pitched squeal ripped through his thoughts. Burning through his nerves, it ignited his fears like a match dropped onto dry hay doused in kerosene.
    Bobby’s eyes flew open, and he slid to the ground, crumpled between the roots of the tree. “I can’t!”
    His dad was at his side, crouched down with his hands on Bobby’s shoulders. “It’s all right, it’ll come. Every time you get closer.”
    “It’s too strange. I can’t last long enough.”
    “You will. These things take time.”
    “But what if this is as far as I get? What if after all these centuries, it ends with me?”
    “And if it does? It doesn’t matter.”
    “But who’ll help Uncle Steven? He’s already getting a bit too old to be running around in spandex.”
    “I’ve been saying that for years, lad. The day my brother hangs up his cape will be the day he’s buried in it. And he’s got your cousins to help. Gavin and Stuart are really showing potential. Too bad about the twins, though. I’m not sure what help they can be, given they’ve the power to turn people puce, but their hearts are in the right place.”
    “But—”
    “But nothing.” His dad stood up. “Now’s not the time to start talking of giving up. Stay a while, sit under the tree,