There are many varieties of willow growing along the rivers and streams in my mountain, and their bark has many uses.

Bitter bark can be stripped and chewed as a pain reliever. It’s been a godsend in the past, especially when I had a toothache, though I ended up pulling the molar myself with a pair of pliers. Hurt like hell, but there’s no pain worse than a throbbing tooth.

Today, I’m after a different sort of bark. The fragrant kind that dries out your mouth as soon as you start to chew it. That’s the bark with tannins.

I return to the cabin with a cart full of willow limbs. Unhitching my horse, I let her graze around the front yard beneath the golden September sun while I get right to work with my draw knife, stripping the bark from the branches.

The Squirrel comes out of the house to watch me for a bit, as though to silently inquire whether there’s anything I need. I ignore her. After a minute, she heads back inside.

I don’t know what she’s cooking in there, but it smells good. My stomach begins to grumble while I work as the sun climbs to it’s zenith, but I ignore that too.

After a couple of hours I’ve got all the bark stripped. I gather it up onto a tarpaulin, take a piece of wood from the woodshed and pull out my hatchet. Collecting great handfuls of bark, I chop it methodically into one inch strips, littering the tarpaulin with thousands of bark chips.

The Squirrel’s outside again. Watching me. Querying.

Well. I suppose I could have her build the fire.

Gruffly, I gesture to the outdoor fire pit. Her eyes follow my finger and she nods once in understanding. Then she hurries forward and begins collecting the bark chips in her skirt.

I watch her a moment. What’s she doing? She’s not actually thinking of using my hard gotten tannins for kindling?

Skirt full, the Squirrel rises and begins scurrying towards the fire pit. I rise sharply and bound after her, half in a panic. Just before she can empty the chips into the ashes, I pull her back by the shoulder a bit roughly.

She falls with a yelp of alarm, landing squarely on her backside, sending bark chips flying. I guess my face is frightening. She takes one look at it and turns white. Her whole body begins to shake.

Nostrils flaring, I point to the bark chips scattered around her, then point her firmly back to the tarpaulin.

That—is not for burning. Put it back. Every single piece.

Her eyes grow a bit shimmery in the midday light, and she sucks in a trembling lower lip, nodding once again.

I watch her work from my aloof height. She continues to tremble in my immense shadow, like some small, terrified creature about to be eaten. I make no move to reassure her that’s not about to happen.

Only when every last bit of bark has been gathered does she take it obediently back to the tarp. Having her attention once again, I point to the woodshed, to the fire pit again, and back to the woodshed, my glare unforgiving, my command, I’m sure, clear. With downcast eyes and a neck bent in silent apology, the Squirrel hurries to accomplish the task I’ve given her, and I go back to mine.

As I continue to chip away at the bark, I begin to feel strange. What is this emotion? Guilt? It’s not something I’ve experienced in a long time.

Was I too harsh on her? It was a simple mistake, after all. I can’t fault the Squirrel for knowing nothing of the tanning process.

Then, I didn’t ask for her to come here, either, and make a nuisance of herself. She’s the one who forced her way into my space, started touching this and that without permission…

In the end I’ve collected about ten pounds of willow bark. I scoop it all into the big cast iron cauldron and haul it over to the fire pit. Perhaps finally understanding my intent, the Squirrel is already waiting with water. I take the pail from her and slosh it over the bark. She hurries to fetch me another.

I mark the way she scrambles down the trail to the creek, following the line of her body with a woodsman’s appraisal.

She’s quick, the Squirrel. Almost acrobatic in her movements. Just like her namesake. But she’s clumsy too. Starting and stopping, looking all around her nervously, eyes always darting left and right as though expecting a predator to jump out of the grass at any moment.

In this too, she is like a squirrel.

After a minute she returns breathlessly, carrying another bucket of water. I take it from her and douse the bark. She holds her hand out for it, clearly intent on going down to the creek a third time. But I hold it back from her, and go myself. She stares after me, watching me go, dismayed. And I begin to feel a grim sense of satisfaction.

My pride, I think. I’m wounding her on purpose.

I don’t need her help. I don’t need anyone. She knows this. She’s trying so hard to make herself useful, but she is unnecessary to me. As insignificant as a ladybug that happened to land on my sleeve.

With a few more buckets of water, the willow bark is completely submerged. The Squirrel stands beside the cauldron with a long pole, breaking up the bark, stirring it diligently. I take it from her hand without so much as glancing her direction, and resume the task.

She stands helplessly beside me, fists balled in her skirts. I turn my back on her, ignoring her. Rejecting her. My stubborn pride again.

Maybe it’s a cruel trait, but to a survivalist, it’s a necessary one. Without it, I’d have died out here a long time ago.

Bark thoroughly saturated, there’s nothing to do now but wait for the water to boil, and for the tannins to be released from the bark. I leave the pole against the cabin wall and make my way inside, thinking I’ll take a break and have a cup of coffee. The Squirrel hurries after me.

Inside, I’m still a bit surprised to see how clean the place is. It’s the same old home, but different. By light of day, I’m not wholly convinced I like it.

I look for the coffee pot in the usual place, but it’s not there. It’s already on the fire, I realize, full with hot coffee. I turn to see the Squirrel clasping my mug in her little hands. She holds it out to me and I take it from her without a word, filling my cup.

I’m growing angry, I realize. Resentful. I don’t like her moving my things without my permission, even if she is being helpful.

Maybe this was a mistake, taking her in. I’m a solitary man, after all. Set in my ways. And this is no place, no life for a woman.

Perhaps it would be best for both of us if I turned her out now…

I go to reach for the honey I keep on the shelf, but it’s not there. I turn a fierce glower on the Squirrel, and she gestures quickly to the table where it’s already been laid out for me.

I grunt irritably and find my seat, stirring a generous spoonful into my cup. Meanwhile, the Squirrel is busy over the hot coals of the fireplace.

She clears off my dutch oven and lifts the lid. A delightful smell fills the cabin, and forgetting my crankiness and my pride for a moment, I find myself looking her direction, trying to see over her shoulder.

What’s she got over there?

A minute later, she sets a steaming golden cake in front of me, together with a wooden fork. I stare at it, wide-eyed, salivating, and I pull it closer to me.

The scent of cornbread is unmistakable. But not just any cornbread, no. This is sweet. And if I have one weakness in all this world, it’s sweets.

Resentment forgotten, secretly thrilled, I’m about to dig into it when the Squirrel touches my shoulder lightly. I look up at her. She’s holding a knife. With a deft hand, she slices the cornbread horizontally through the middle, layering a bit of wild honey inside before closing it again. I swallow.

The first bite tastes like heaven. Though it’s still piping hot, I can’t shovel it in my mouth fast enough. In less than a minute, the plate is bare without so much as a single crumb left behind.

Greedily, I hold my plate out for more. The Squirrel obliges me.

In minutes the entire dutch oven has been emptied. I didn’t leave her even a single bite. But the Squirrel doesn’t seem upset by my appetite. If anything, I think she’s pleased.

Well, I admit to myself, belching quietly, that makes two of us.

Satisfied with this break, I make my way back outside to stir the bark while the Squirrel remains inside, cleaning up and reseasoning the dutch oven. She works with the door open so I catch glimpses of her now and again, though I don’t mean to. She’s preparing for dinner, I think as I hear her beginning to chop vegetables. The thought gets my mouth watering, and suddenly I’m hungry all over again.

She’s clumsy, but she’s not useless, I concede. And for all she irks me, she’s still a damn good cook.

I guess I could try out this arrangement of ours a few more days…