Falling From Grace (10 page)

“Maaaary.” A voice called and Cedar's cry drifted from the camp.

The pair pulled apart, kissed again, and Mary ran off in one direction, adjusting her clothing, Cougar in another. My stomach turned as I thought of Paul and his tender heart, though I couldn't help but feel a sense of justice. Cougar and Mary. The two belonged together, joined forever by their nose rings.

When I crossed camp heading for my tent, I found Mary kissing Paul goodbye, jostling Cedar on her hip. Cougar watched from the trail, loaded down with a heavy backpack, his face twisted with contempt. “Let's go,” he snarled.

While I read scientific journals in my tent, the group hiked along the haul road loaded with gear, hoping to find the new clear-cut, choose the trees, and set the ropes before dark, rigging them by headlamp to ensure the sitters climbed into the platforms before morning. Paul related the scene to me at breakfast the next morning. He described how the rain had abated, persisting in a fine mist that settled on clothing and hair in tiny glistening droplets. A rough track that ripped through the wall of trees along the road heralded the site of the afternoon's logging, a large opening full of equipment, logs, and stumps. They stopped at the edge of the clearing and surveyed the scene in silence. The view resembled a bomb blast: shattered trunks, broken branches, crushed shrubs and ferns, ravaged earth. Piles of delimbed trees rested by the yarder, waiting for the trucks.

Terry waded through the carnage to an enormous stump and climbed up between two jagged vertical slivers of wood that rose like daggers above his head. One by one they followed until all eight of them stood side by side across the span of fresh-cut wood. The sharp fragrance of cedar permeated the air.

“Jesus,” Squirrel muttered, one of the few words he'd uttered out loud since he arrived.

“I feel ill,” Sue said. “How can people do this?”

“Come on.” Cougar stepped forward. “Dirt in their gas tanks'll put a stop to this.”

“No.” Terry grabbed him by the arm. “Vandalism works against us.”

Cougar shook off Terry's hold. “Wimp,” he growled and took another step toward the edge of the stump.

Terry moved in front of him. “Peaceful protest. No violence. Or you are out of here.”

Cougar stiffened and clenched both hands into fists.

“Terry's right,” Paul interrupted. “Your tree-sit's a great plan, Cougar. It's worked in California and Oregon. They can't cut with people in the trees and it doesn't hurt anyone.”

Cougar turned to Paul, his face deformed by a malicious grimace. The rest of the group braced for an explosion and was surprised when he answered, “Sure. What are we waiting for?” He lifted his arm and pointed. “Hey, where's he going?”

Mr. Kimori had climbed off the slab and was picking his way through the slash to the yarder. He clambered up into the cab, his cap of silvery hair visible through the dusty window.

“What on earth is he doing?” Terry mumbled.

“The Buddhist has a mean streak,” Cougar sneered.

“Shut up, Cougar,” Jen snapped.

Mr. Kimori climbed from the cab and pushed the door closed. He brushed the dust from his black nylon pants, then made his way back to the stump, the expression on his face one of detached satisfaction. When he reached the group he said. “Shall we work?”

“Do you mind telling us what you did in the yarder, Mr. Kimori,” Terry said. “We don't condone damage to equipment.”

Mr. Kimori reached into the pocket of his vest and drew out his hand. He opened his fingers to reveal a cluster of tiny red and black ladybugs scattered across his palm.

“What the hell?” Cougar jumped from the stump onto the ground beside Mr. Kimori.

Mr. Kimori closed his fingers around the ladybugs, reached over and grasped the handle of the hunting knife that always hung in a sheath from Cougar's belt, pulling it free before Cougar could protest.

“Give me that back,” Cougar growled, but Mr. Kimori held out his hand toward the man. He opened his fingers and inverted the knife point into the middle of his palm. The observers drew a collective breath. Mr. Kimori rotated the knife tip up; a single ladybug clung to the glinting metal.

“Fridge magnet,” he said. “I left one on the dash. A peace offering.”

Paul and Terry chose three trees, far enough apart to deter cutting in most of the area, but close enough so the tree-sitters could still communicate. Over the course of the night, the crew constructed rudimentary platforms high up in each of the trees, hauling plywood and tarps up with ropes and pulleys until they had three solid shelters. An hour before dawn, Paul talked Cougar, Squirrel, and Jen up to their makeshift nests. Squirrel balked halfway and Paul coaxed him the final distance. Sleeping gear and warm clothes were hauled to the platforms along with light backpacking stoves and fuel, a few days worth of food and water, and a bucket latrine each. One radiophone with spare battery was shared between the three of them. Supplies would be replenished nightly.

Cougar hauled his rope up for the final time. Paul called to him. “Would you keep track of any birds you see? Watch for marbled murrelets. Brown and white, big as a robin. Sounds like this . . .” He cupped his hand around his mouth. “Keer, keer.”

Cougar grunted and withdrew to his sleeping bag. The team packed up and headed back to camp, the lights on their headlamps bobbing through the trees like fireflies.

8

Roger's truck
was parked outside the trailer when I arrived. He opened the door at my knock, dark circles under his eyes. “Faye, come on in,” he said, appearing unsurprised at my arrival. He returned to his desk, the surface a jumble of papers and empty coffee cups. “Sorry for the mess, I'm getting behind with the new baby.”

“Of course,” I said, embarrassed I'd forgotten. He was preoccupied, that's all the problem was. “Well, congratulations,” I said lamely.

“Thanks,” he answered. “Mixed blessing,” he added quickly, nodding. “I know why you're here”—he shuffled through his papers—“I've asked the ecologist to check in with you, but he's busy for another week. I promise, he'll come out.” He held up a scrap of paper. “Here's our correspondence.”

His conciliatory manner disarmed me. “That's . . . great,” I said. “Did you find out about the timber markings?”

“Haven't had time,” he said, shaking his head. “Cal can do that when he comes out.” He tapped his pen on the desk.

“Well”—I slid off the chair, relieved—“I guess that's all I need to know. I better let you get back to work.”

He stood. “You've got quite a crew out there at the campsite.”

I stopped, startled by the unexpected comment. “We do, yes.”

“What are they up to?”

“Protesting,” I replied warily. Wasn't it obvious?

“These guys can damage equipment, blow things up. Anyone we should watch out for?”

“I wouldn't know,” I said, heading for the door. “I do my thing, they do theirs.”

On the way back to camp I stopped at a rise in the road and walked a short distance to an outcropping where I could see over the valley. A family of sooty grouse, startled from the underbrush by my footsteps, scattered ahead of me. The mother zigzagged frantically back and forth to draw my attention while her babies scurried to safety. I sat on a large rock and thought about my conversation with Roger. I could wait a week. But not much longer. We needed to finish up our work and get back to town soon. Process the samples before they dried out. I was supposed to teach a summer course the beginning of July and was scheduled to speak at a conference in Lima in August. With all the distractions, I hadn't worked on either. But I couldn't leave until my trees were safe. A river of green flowed out before me across the landscape. No clear-cutting visible, easy to tell myself Roger was sincere.
A few trees. Keep the men working
. I didn't need to worry. I bade farewell to the family of grouse hiding in the bushes and headed back to the car. I was glad I stuck to my guns over the tree-sit. Obviously, the company was watching.

• • •

Life in
camp reached a state of strained equilibrium. The protesters manned the blockade during daylight hours. Terry checked in with the tree-sitters nightly, coordinating the delivery of food and water. Paul appeared to have forgiven me and we spent long days in the canopy. Grace and Esther turned out to be more than helpful, relieving the original members of the group of a number of tasks, performing most of the cooking and laundry, although I had to insist they stop ordering us all to wash up before dinner. The two women earned a place in Marcel's hall of fame by baking chocolate chip cookies in a tiny solar oven that materialized from Esther's pack. Esther carried a walking stick with a metal tip everywhere she went, which she used to pry
PCF
's survey stakes from the ground. “This messes them up,” she'd say, tying the offending stake to her day pack for later disposal. They organized evening lectures on the history and techniques of non-violent civil disobedience, where they quoted Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr.
ad nauseum
.

“How are things going with Bryan?” Grace asked one morning before breakfast, settling herself on a stump where I worked at my computer.

“Bryan?” I said absently, typing data into a spreadsheet.

“Your usual elusive self,” she said. “You know who I mean.”

“No one named Bryan here.”

“Your internet pal.”

“Oh . . . him.” I hadn't read his last two emails.

“Do you like him?”

“We talk about his dog and rocks.”

“Doesn't sound promising.”

“It's not.”

She took another sip of tea. “What about the other one.”

“Other one?'

“On the list I gave you. What was his name? Jeffrey? John? The engineer.”

“I hate engineers.”

“Marcel likes you.”

I snorted. “What a cute couple. He could carry me in his pocket when I got tired.”

“Stubborn girl. There's a perfect man out there waiting for you.”

I switched off the computer and jammed it into its case. “My size, right, Mom? Perfect.” I stood and hoisted the bag onto my shoulder. “Lay off,” I said, then went in search of Paul to plan our next day's work schedule.

I found him leaning against a large boulder, having breakfast with the forest defenders. Mary sat nearby eating a plateful of scrambled tofu and eggs, Cedar on her knee, the baby barefoot, wearing a folded handkerchief for a diaper, and a tie-dyed
T
-shirt. He pulled at her hair and she plunked him onto his bum beside the log. His fat fingers sorted through the pebbles between his chubby legs and he picked up a fist-sized rock, stuck it in his mouth, and sucked on it with great concentration. Mary replaced the rock with a rice cracker, which he promptly threw to the ground. He rolled onto his knees, pulled himself to standing on Mary's leg, and took four unsteady steps before falling backward onto his diapered bottom. We cheered and clapped, setting Cedar off into a startled bout of crying. The walking surprised us all, not least his mother. He had never ventured far from Mary's arms and always stayed wherever she put him, content to watch the world go by or explore within arm's reach, earning him the nickname Buddha Baby. Rainbow picked him up under his arms—his legs dangled below her knees—and cooed in his ear until he stopped crying.

“I worried I'd still be carrying him at twenty,” Mary laughed. “Rainbow walked at nine months.”

“You'll have no rest,” Esther said. “I'll bet he's running in two days.”

“Wait 'til the climbing starts.” Grace raised an eyebrow and gestured with her chin toward me.

“Bon,” Marcel said. “For a baby to learn to walk on this rough ground and in bare feet. He'll have a first-class balance.”

Rainbow propped Cedar up beside the log again, backed up three steps, and held out her arms.

“Come on, Cedar bug,” she crooned. “Walk to sister.”

Cedar gurgled with pleasure. A smile lit up his fat cheeks and he took both hands away from the log and clapped his palms together. He lifted his dimpled knee and set his pink foot forward into the dirt, hands in the air. He wavered, caught himself, another step, another. Rainbow backed up and he took one more step toward her, then twirled around and tottered straight to Paul.

“Hey, wee man.” He lifted the baby on to his lap and Cedar laughed and pulled at Paul's beard. “We'll climb trees together in no time.”

“No!” Rainbow stood in the centre of the circle, fists clenched, eyes blazing. “No! No! No!” She stomped her boot in the dirt, turned on her heel, and marched off into the forest. Paul and Mary exchanged glances. Neither moved.

“Isn't anyone going after her?” I asked.

Mary moved over and sat beside Paul and Cedar. “She won't go far.”