The prairie had a way of making a man feel small. Conway, a “behemoth” as his father had dubbed him, was okay with that. He liked feeling hidden from the world. More than that, he liked feeling fragile; the fragile deserved kindness, and the small deserved tenderness. And the behemoths? They bore the yoke.
In the middle of the nothingness stood an oak tree, its trunk divided in half, resembling a giant lying on its back with two mammoth legs pointed at the sky. God could have easily created two separate trees, had He been so inclined. Yet, the prairie was a lonely place, and being connected to something felt natural. It provided balance and context to the world. Conway understood this, and he wondered if God knew it too. Perhaps that’s why He fused them together from a single seed—much like He brought Jesus into the whole thing. God was alone before that—Lucifer having fallen. It was just like him and his brother, Oatho. Conway smiled at the idea, adjusting the girthy canvas bag on hi…
