Falling From Grace (13 page)

10

Three loggers
carried chainsaws, jerry cans of gas, and packs with tools, food, and water into the new clear-cut, having bushwhacked for an hour cross-country from the north. The sound of music drifted through the trees, and they stopped and listened, scratching their heads in dismay.

“Weird bird?” the youngest of the three, a boy no older than nineteen, speculated.

“That's no bird, Billy,” another answered, a wiry, bearded older man with a ponytail.

They resumed their strenuous journey through the underbrush, planning their strategy for the day, which trees, which direction of fall. The music grew louder and they could no longer deceive themselves about its origin.

“A damn recorder,” the third man, heavy-set, in his thirties, and taller than the others, exclaimed.

They stood at the edge of the trees, tired and sweating, and surveyed the clearing. Other than the yarder, and the piles of logs and slash, the place appeared empty. They scrambled down the slope toward the yarder. The bearded faller tipped back his helmet and squinted up into the treetops at the bottom of the clearing. The muscles under the skin of his right cheek jumped.

“What the fuck.” He stabbed his middle finger in the air. “Bastards,” he screamed.

The other fallers stopped to locate the cause of their companion's outburst, following the direction of his angry gesture with their eyes. When they saw the three platforms high in the canopy, they dropped their gear and swore.

“Goddamn motherfuckers.” The bearded man threw his saw, gas can, and pack to the ground. “Fucking bastards.” He ripped his helmet from his head and threw it alongside the saw. It tumbled down the slope, coming to rest against a large stump where a tiny metal ladybug glinted in the sun. Gathering rocks from the ground, he hurled them at the three trees, swearing and spitting when they bounced off with a hollow klunk, well below their targets.

The music stopped. “Hey,” a voice called from one of the platforms and the tousled head of Jen came into view, her short hair a cap of bronze in the morning sun. “Nice language to wake up to.”

“You assholes turn around and hike right back out again,” Cougar called, leaning against a branch in another platform, the recorder in his hand. “No cutting's gonna happen here today.”

Squirrel sat cross-legged in a third tree, munching on an apple.

“What do you ejits think you're doing?” one of the loggers yelled up.

“Saving trees,” Jen yelled back.

“How long you plan to stay up there?”

“Until this valley's a park,” she answered.

The two younger fallers picked up their gear. “You might have a long time to wait.” The tall one called to the bearded logger, who was on his knees gathering rocks. “Let's go, Donnie.”

“No way, Chuck. No fucking way will I leave until I cut down a fucking tree,” Donnie snarled. He lurched to his feet, grabbed his chainsaw, and scrambled over slash to the foot of Jen's cedar. He yanked furiously on the starter cord. The big machine roared to life and Donnie scored a deep slice into the base of the tree. The other fallers and the tree-sitters yelled. Jen screamed. Donnie ignored them; sawdust spewed out from the saw in a continuous stream.

“Lunatic,” Cougar yelled and chucked an orange at the faller, missing his head by inches. “You're crazy.” Unfazed, the man continued with his murderous task.

Billy and Chuck dropped their gear and clambered over the piles of debris. The tree-sitters held their breath as the two men approached Donnie. The man continued to cut wildly at the trunk. Chuck put his hand on Donnie's back and Donnie pulled the saw free of the cut and swung around, the engine rattling in idle. Billy and Chuck stepped back. “Whoa, man,” Billy said. He spread his arms and started talking quietly to Donnie, but the older man lunged forward, the deadly chain whining as he squeezed the throttle. “Get back,” he snarled.

“Asshole,” Cougar yelled and chucked another orange at Donnie, who turned and swore. Chuck leaped forward and grabbed Donnie's upper arms from the back, forcing him to his knees and the saw to the ground. Billy stepped in and hit the safety switch; the saw sputtered to a stop. The two pried Donnie's hands free, then wrestled him to the wood-chipstrewn ground at the base of the tree, pinning him face first in the slash. When he stopped struggling, they released him and the three stood, heaving and panting, brushing dirt from their clothes. Without warning, Donnie threw a punch into the side of Billy's head, picked his saw up from the ground, and stalked off into the forest in the direction they'd come. The others gathered their equipment and, without another word to the tree-sitters, followed.

Cougar radiophoned Terry, who relayed the story to the waiting group. Paul and I listened from the sidelines. “Hang in there,” Terry yelled into the phone. “We'll come and get you.”

“No way,” Cougar insisted. “Things are getting hot.”

“What about Jen?”

Another pause, then those gathered around heard the faint sound of Cougar shouting, “She says bring chocolate tomorrow.”

Terry turned off the phone. “Whew.” He sank onto one of Grace's camp chairs. “I guess the company knows about the tree-sit.”

Grace and Esther arrived back late from the blockade for dinner with two strangers in tow whom they introduced as Billy Samson, a slight dark-haired youth with straight black hair and a wispy beard, and Chuck Ford, a stocky, older man. The men claimed to be fallers with
PCF
. They had walked up the road to the blockade, boots caked with mud, work clothes stained with sap and ground-in dirt, jeans soaked to the knees, and announced to the startled women they were changing sides.

Grace gathered us together. “Tell them all what you told me.” Grace handed the two men each a cup of steaming tea.

They exchanged a glance. At a nod from his companion, Billy spoke up, “The company has their injunction. They're sending the police in tomorrow.”

A ripple of excitement ran through the audience. I glanced around for Paul, but he and Mary were nowhere to be seen.

“Is this true?” Terry queried.

Steam swirled up from the cup in Billy's hands. “We got the word last night.”

Terry clapped Billy on the shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Tomorrow's our big day,” Marcel declared.

Grace handed the fallers a plate of cookies. “Sit down and tell them the rest,” she urged. “About why you're here.”

“It wasn't our idea.” Chuck stared at his feet. “Donnie talked us into walking in with him.”

“I won't cut trees anymore,” Billy said in a quiet voice. “Especially trees with people in them.”

Sue jumped from her perch on the cook stump. “You're the jerks who walked into the clear-cut and tried to cut down the tree-sits?” She jabbed her finger at them. “You could have killed Jen.”

Billy lowered his head and twisted his grease-stained fingers. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't blame us,” Chuck argued. “It was Ransom. We stopped him.”

“Leave them be,” Grace argued. “They're on our side now.”

Terry stepped forward and put his hand on the boy's arm. “What else can you tell us?”

“We—they'll be at the gate at dawn tomorrow,” Billy answered, then straightened. “I'll stand on the road with you,” he announced. He glanced at his companion.

Chuck nodded slowly. “Cutting the big ones—” he confessed. “The sound when they hit the ground makes me sick.” He put his mug on a stump. “Besides, once they're gone we'll all be out of a job.”

Grace convinced Billy and Chuck to stay for dinner, Terry promising them a ride home before dark.

“We stay in town, but you can take us to my mother's house. She lives on the lake,” Billy said.

“In the native village?” Terry asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

The boy dipped his head in acknowledgement.

Esther and Mary served bowls of pasta and bread fresh from Esther's oven. Chuck accepted the offer of a camp chair; Billy chose to sit on the ground against a log.

“Who's this Ransom guy who tried to fall Jen's tree?” Terry asked.

Billy opened his mouth, closed it, and then looked at Chuck as if seeking permission. Chuck studied his plate, then cleared his throat nervously. “He's our best faller.”

“What's his problem?”

“His wife is sick.”

“No excuse.” Sue punctuated her words with her spoon. “He could have killed our friends.”

“We can't speak for him.” Chuck met her eyes. “But both of us kill trees every day.”

“But trees are not people.” Terry swivelled around to face Chuck. “There's a big difference.”

Sue groaned.

“Is there?” Mr. Kimori said quietly from the back of the group where he leaned against the trunk of a tree.

“My grandfather taught me each tree has a song,” Billy said quietly, digging the heel of his boot into the dirt.

“Leave the poor boys alone,” Grace said,

Chuck set his bowl on the ground. “I do it for the money.”

“The company says we're turning decadent forest into productive tree farms,” Billy said, dark eyes focusing on a hole in the knee of his trousers.

“And you believe them?” Chris asked.

“No.” Billy raised his head, expression defiant. “I do it for the money too.”

Marcel leaned over and squeezed the boy's shoulder. “Hey, we all need to make a living. I helped fish the cod to extinction. What is important is that we are here.”

Billy managed a thin smile.

“You know,” Chuck said. “The older guys we work with, like Ransom, know more about trees than anyone.”

“But they cut them down,” Sue retorted.

“You use lumber, don't you?” Chuck threw back at her.

“There's a native group from the area talking to the province,” Terry interrupted. “Our board's trying to connect with them.”

“Why haven't we seen them here?” Chris asked.

“Lots of people from my village work in forestry like me,” Billy said.

“Like you used to, you mean.” Chuck nudged him with an elbow.

Sue whistled through her fingers.

“We should go.” Billy handed Grace his plate. “Thank you for the food.” Terry reached into his pocket for his keys. “But tomorrow morning,” Billy added, “we will see you again . . . on the road.”

I didn't know what to make of this turn of events. The police would be busy. I rinsed out my dishes. I planned on an early night; tomorrow was a big day for us too.

• • •

An impromptu
party erupted. A substantial amount of liquor and pot materialized out of tents and backpacks. Marcel pulled out a flute no one knew he possessed, Esther a harmonica. Chris and Sue lit a fire on the gravel bank. Mary leaped to her feet, twirling and gyrating to the music. Her long tangled hair, her skirt, swirled out away from her lithe body. She wore earrings and a necklace she and Rainbow had fashioned out of lichen, her feet bare. A fairy out of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
, dancing away the longest day of the year. A beauty. An irresistible siren to helpless men. She pulled Rainbow up with her, the girl laughing. The two grasped wrists and circled faster and faster until Rainbow's feet left the ground, airborne. An unexpected surge of affection for the child swept through me.
Heaven knows why she likes me
. I watched the pair, mother and daughter, the grip of Mary's hand on Rainbow's, the force of their revolutions pulling Rainbow outward, those tentative bonds, easily broken, the potential hurt. On the other side of the fire, Grace watched them too, clapping in time with the music, foot tapping, until Sue grabbed her hand and urged her to her feet. No ballerina in her fleece trousers and vest, knobby soled hiking boots, but her poise and style shone through, in the way she moved her arms, the tilt of her head. Marcel invited me to dance, but I declined. My repertoire of talents didn't include dancing, and never in the presence of Grace. Terry arrived back and before he could protest, Sue shoved a beer into his hand and slapped him on the back before dancing off. Before long he joined the frenzied mass in the firelight at the edge of the river. A full moon broke above the tops of the trees and shed an eerie glow over the scene of merry anarchy.

Rumour had it two buses of supporters would leave Victoria in the middle of the night and arrive on the road by dawn. Rumour also had it a group of loggers planned to blockade the buses on the way.

“Don't worry,” Terry said. “The buses will have police protection.”

“Until the cops, they arrest you,” Marcel joked and nervous laughter ran through the group.

I kept to the edge of the party, sipping rum and orange juice made from crystals in a tin mug, uneasy, the mood tense, the laughter too loud, the dancing too furious. The trashing of the camp, the threat to the tree-sitters had unnerved the protesters; tomorrow they would lay their freedom on the road with their bodies. To what end? I watched Paul follow Marcel in a step dance, their heavy boots pounding down on the ground, Marcel in time to the music, Paul out of sync and elastic legged, their faces red with laughter. The sight of Paul made me want to weep. Tomorrow night he would go up the hemlock with the video camera. People in jail wouldn't stop the logging. But an elusive brown and white seabird just might.