The Forest Prime Evil

by Alan Russell

  “That’s because we’ve made our world outside of nature,” said Josh. “We’ve insulated ourselves. The Green Man wasn’t afraid to show us how to intermingle with the inhabitants of the forest. Over time, he taught us how to approach trees, and touch them, and hug them, and caress them.”

  “How long did it take him to teach all of you forest foreplay?”

  I could feel Josh’s discomfiture, and growing anger.

  “We learned to appreciate the many wonders of the woods over a period of months.”

  “Did he do this tree hugging clothed?”

  “At first . . . ”

  “But in the end he wasn’t wearing clothes, right?”

  Josh nodded.

  “And the kids did as he did.”

  Another nod.

  “What then?”

  “Eventually, he encouraged couples to explore the trees together.”

  Couples who weren’t wearing clothes. Couples who were probably tired of exploring bark. I wondered what the guru got out of encouraging such things.

  “Did the Green Man take any lovers? Anoint some of his followers as wood nymphs?”

  “No.”

  “No? The man was satisfied rutting with a tree?”

  “He was a teacher, not an exploiter. If you weren’t so jaded, you’d be able to see that.”

  “What did he do? Watch? Cheer?”

  “He just—stood.”

  “Stood? That’s all?”

  Josh nodded.

  “Funny. I heard he exhibited himself like a satyr in rut.”

  “That’s not true,” said Josh. “That’s what sick minds would think.”

  “Explain it better, then.”

  “Sometimes when he hugged the trees he became—aroused.”

  “Brought a whole new meaning to nature loving, didn’t he?”

  Instead of answering, Josh stormed away.

  He wasn’t the only one who was angry. I decided to cool my anger by walking down to the river. I knew the way this time, didn’t need the smoke from Teller’s marijuana to guide me, but it was there anyway.

  “I missed your talk tonight,” I said.

  “You didn’t miss much,” he said, inhaling on his joint.

  I found myself mimicking his deep breaths. There was enough smoke around that I probably risked getting a contact high. But the breaths made me calmer. We practiced our different forms of breathing for a while; then Teller spoke.

  “I talked about the Arrow Tree,” he said.

  “I’m not familiar with that variety.”

  “That’s because there was only one. It was a redwood that stood about six miles east of Arcata. When white men first noticed it in the eighteen hundreds, they described it as a porcupine tree, full of quills.

  “The Chilulas and Wiyots had warred, and they made their peace under that great redwood. They marked the holy spot with an arrow in that tree. Later, whenever anyone from one of the tribes passed by the sacred tree, they symbolized their passage, and the lasting peace, by shooting an arrow into it. Many years passed, and the redwood filled with arrows. The Indians planted them in that sequoia, instead of in each other. Would that we were so wise. I told everyone that the Arrow Tree was the best tree-spiking story I have ever heard.”

  I laughed. As he pulled on his joint, I could see Teller was also smiling. I didn’t let him keep it for long.

  “Was the Green Man the modern metaphor for the Arrow Tree?”

  Suck, think, speak: “Perhaps unconsciously.”

  “In life, he copied the examples of others. Do you think he could have done the same in death?”

  “You mean did he choose to be a martyr?”

  “He was big into ceremony. I talked with the cop who found him. He couldn’t rule out the possibility of a ritual death.”

  Teller shook his head. “No,” he said.

  “You don’t think he willingly became the Arrow Tree?”

  He shook his head again.

  “It would have been nice for me,” I said. “I admired him once. Maybe if he had sacrificed himself, I could have forgiven him for all the things I’m finding out. It’s hard to lose a hero.”

  “Find another.”

  “They’re in short supply.”

  “I’ll loan you one: David Douglas.”

  “Douglas?”

  “You might know him from the Douglas fir and Douglas squirrel. He was an explorer who didn’t care about gold, or fur, or any of the usual exploitations. His interest was in the northwest flora. It took some time for the Indians of the lower Columbia River to understand this man. He was very different from other white men. Over a period of years, the Indians watched him very carefully. They saw him collecting specimens, poking about in the meadows, and the prairies, and the woods. Eventually, the Indians decided there was no harm in him and gave Douglas the name Man of Grass. It was a nickname of which he was very proud.”

  He sucked at his joint, gave a deprecating laugh, and said, “Behold, the new man of grass.”

  “Have any other heroes?”

  “John Muir, of course. He loved his sequoias with a passion, and fought for them too. More than a hundred years ago he called upon the US Cavalry to patrol the parks so as to protect the redwoods from stockmen and timber thieves. I spoke about that tonight. I wanted the campers to understand how long the forest battles have been going on, and how their defenders have stood as large as the redwoods. The Sempervirens Club and the Save-the-Redwoods League didn’t just happen. I told them they could not fail those heroic deeds of the past. It’s their responsibility to keep the battles going into the twenty-first century and beyond.”

  “Sure tonight’s speech wasn’t a swan song?”

  Teller didn’t comment, save by taking another hit off his joint. I watched him in his loneliness. The way his shoulders sloped, and his coat hung on his frame, he looked like a bear. Smokey the Bear.

  “How do you pick your topics?”

  “They pick me,” he said.

  “Do you remember your Circle talk the night the Green Man did?”

  Teller hesitated a moment. “I have enough trouble remembering last night’s talk,” he said.

  “He died the night of the big summer storm.”

  Teller was silent again. “There was no Circle that night,” he finally said. “Before the rain struck, there was a windstorm, and that prevented us from gathering.”

  “You had the tree watch duty that night,” I said. “Methuselah was your charge from eleven to seven. It must have been uncomfortable in the rain.”

  “It must have been,” he said, repeating my words.

  “Do you remember the rain?”

  “Yes. I remember holding my arms up, and wanting to be washed clean.”

  “Sounds baptismal. Religious.”

  “I don’t have time for religion. Only for God.”

  “Did the rains clean you?”

  “No. But I didn’t get a cold either.”

  15

  TELLER ANNOUNCED THAT he was tired and asked if I wouldn’t mind letting him contemplate his navel in solitude. That wasn’t the kind of old growth I was interested in, so I walked back to camp. Ashe O’Connor was waiting at the head of the path, but not for me. “Where’s Thomas?” she asked.

  “Exploring some old roots,” I said. “Why?”

  “My car’s at the cabin,” she said. “He told me he’d give me a ride.”

  “Let me.”

  She hesitated. “It’s out of your way.”

  “All the better,” I said, “for talking.”

  “And what if I don’t feel like talking?”

  “I suppose we can always neck.”

  She didn’t comment or even bother to smile, just tromped ahead of me and made it a point to get into the truck without any assistance. We drove north on the Mattole Road, up the Lost Coast. It was dark, and the going was twisty. We were the only vehicle on the road, but it wasn’t the kind of route that invites speeding. There were too m
any curves, too many unknowns. Just like my investigation. The headlights picked up some reflected light, and I braked sharply. Three deer stood in the road. They didn’t scurry away, just stared into the light.

  “Why aren’t they running?” asked Ashe.

  “They’re confused,” I said. “The light’s disoriented them. That’s why poachers take lanterns out with them at night. They blind their prey that way.”

  Ashe lowered her window. “Shoo,” she said loudly, trying to drive the deer into the safety of the brush. “Shoo.”

  The deer didn’t respond. I turned off the engine, and the lights. A moment later, they ran off.

  It was dark outside, but not so dark that we couldn’t see each other. Ashe was excited by the encounter. She looked flushed and happy. Then she realized that she was smiling, and that I was staring at her.

  “Why aren’t we moving?” she asked.

  “Because I don’t want to run into the deer.”

  “Is that any reason not to put your lights back on?”

  “A calming tactic,” I said. “One that apparently works only on deer.”

  I could feel her bristling and decided a better explanation was in order. “Your shooing was as likely to drive the deer into the truck as away from it,” I said. “I’m just giving them a little more time to get away and get oriented.”

  She decided an explanation was in order also. “I was worried about another car running into us.”

  “I’d say the odds of that happening on this road, at this hour, are about the same as one’s chances of being killed by a widow-maker.

  “Interesting analogy,” said Ashe.

  “Is that your only comment?”

  “No,” she said, suddenly angry. “How’s this? Start the damn truck up.”

  “I don’t ‘shoo’ very well either,” I said.

  She was close to opening the door and walking, not more than a word away. I didn’t challenge her any further, just looked ahead to the black road and let my words hang there.

  “I would prefer to be questioned,” she said at last, “in the safety of my cabin, instead of sitting here in the darkness waiting for death to overtake us.”

  I started the engine and drove. In the five minutes it took to get to the cabin, we only broke the silence out of directional need.

  The cabin was off a dirt road. It was lit courtesy of a generator that sounded with a persistent putter. The edifice looked like a hybrid legacy of Abraham Lincoln and Buckminster Fuller, a log cabin that had once had pretensions of being a geodesic dome. Someone had run short of money, or blueprints, or vision, or maybe all three.

  Parked out front was a car, a faded red Honda about a decade off the docks. Cars like that don’t usually have personalized license plates, but this one did: YES150. Dangerous message to be touting in this neck of the woods. But then Ashe hadn’t been driving her own car around all day.

  The cabin was sparsely furnished. There was a slant to the floor that made me feel like I was on a listing boat. The lights constantly flickered, as if the generator was tapping out. The ceiling was full of cobwebs, and the floor was covered with grit, which crunched under our feet. Ashe apologized for the state the place was in. “Sorry about the mess,” she said. “The great outdoors is beginning to come inside through holes in the ceiling, and I’m afraid that I’ve been rushing around so that I’ve only had time to clean the bedroom.”

  “Rushing around?”

  “Yes,” she said, an answer that told me nothing. “Do you want a drink? There’s some cheap jug wine that was in the fridge when I arrived. And there’s some beer.”

  I asked for a beer, and she brought one for herself also. There were two chairs in the living room. They weren’t far apart, and, after we sat down in them, neither were we. We drank our beers in silence, and it wasn’t long before Ashe collected the empties and brought refills.

  “You wanted to talk,” she said.

  I nodded. It was clear Ashe was comfortable being in control. I wanted to deny her that accustomed position.

  “I’d like you to explain what you’re doing here.”

  The question annoyed her. “What do you mean?”

  “Same observation I made yesterday: there’s an election going on. Why aren’t you in Sacramento trying to grease some legislative skids, or in Los Angeles doing a fund-raiser?”

  “I’m here because this is what the issue’s about,” Ashe said. “These forests.”

  “I thought the issue was about getting votes to save these forests.”

  She tried to dismiss the question. “I can assure you I’ve spent quite a bit of time in Sacramento, and Los Angeles, and every major city in this state.”

  “That still doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”

  On her cheekbones, her high and pronounced cheekbones, two angry red circles appeared. But she still managed to control her voice.

  “Maybe I need to recharge my batteries,” she said. “Maybe I need to see what I’m fighting for, and rally those who are here.”

  “A lot of maybes,” I said. “Can you start a sentence without that word?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’ve visited here over a dozen times in the last three months. For someone with such pressing concerns, you’re spending an awful lot of time in the backwaters.”

  She decided sarcasm was her best evasion. “So you think I’ve got some deep, dark secret,” she said. “Figured it out?”

  “Not yet.”

  There wasn’t anything to indicate that Ashe was relieved. But it was something I sensed. I allowed her to feel secure for a few moments, then spoke a little too casually.

  “But I suspect it might have something to do with your mother.”

  Again, there were no physical giveaways, but my antennae picked up something. My remark had struck home.

  “My mother?”

  I nodded, then remembered Miss Tuntland’s remark about the genealogies of the gods. “What more appropriate setting to look at family trees,” I said.

  “You know?”

  I nodded, not knowing what else to do.

  “He’s not my father,” she emphasized. “He’s my stepfather.”

  I nodded again.

  “Neither one of us talks about the relationship. I wonder which one of us is more embarrassed: Bull or me?”

  Bull. The name was familiar. “Must be tough on your mother.”

  “Right now she has more important concerns,” Ashe said. “She has cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s the one thing my stepfather and I have ever agreed upon,” she said. “We didn’t want the media to know about my mother. They would have taken what was very personal and put it on the front pages.”

  “What’s your mother’s prognosis?”

  “Not good.”

  “Has her condition heightened the tensions between you and your stepfather?”

  “Mind-sets like yours are another reason for maintaining privacy in this matter. I am not acting out of antipathy towards him. Trans-Mississippi is just one of several big lumber companies in this county. My fight is for old growth, not a personal vendetta.”

  I finally figured out the connection. Harold “Bull” Dozier was the CEO of Trans-Mississippi, and a favorite target of the environmentalists. I was surprised their relationship hadn’t been written about, but then there wasn’t a blood connection between the two of them. Or was there?

  “Let’s talk about young growth for once,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How old were you when your mother remarried?”

  “I was thirteen.”

  I looked at her and tried to guess how many years ago that was. “I’m thirty-three,” she said, saving me from asking.

  “Have you been close to your mother for the last twenty years?”

  “Not particularly. She made her choice a long time ago to be Bull Dozier’s wife rather than be my mother. After their marriage, I was put in boarding
school.”

  “Did that make you bitter?”

  “At first,” she said. “In time I came to know it as a blessing.”

  “How so?”

  “Familial bonds are supportive but at the same time restrictive. I learned how to get my self-worth outside of the family. She who travels farthest, travels alone. I have.”

  “Yet you’ve been doing a lot of detouring lately.”

  “My mother’s dying. Is that a good enough reason for you?”

  I didn’t answer. “Who else have you told about your mother’s condition?”

  “Only Teller,” she said.

  I put my beer bottle on the floor, steadied it so it wouldn’t fall on the uneven wood. “How well did you know Christopher Shepard?”

  “Well enough,” she said. “We were lovers.”

  I didn’t try to hide my surprise. Or was that consternation?

  “Once upon a time he gave me a great gift, but that was a long time ago.”

  “Sounds like a fairy tale.”

  She laughed a little, and that changed the tone of our conversation, made us less adversarial. I fetched two more beers out of the refrigerator and handed her one.

  “Just in case we need to cry in our beer,” I said.

  “I won’t have that need,” said Ashe, but she took the beer anyway.

  “Love stories sometimes do me in,” I said.

  “Christopher and I were not a love story.”

  “Oh?”

  “For me, our relationship was more an education, an awakening. I think that was why he was attracted to me. Not physically. But emotionally. He sensed I was needy.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  Ashe blushed. She proved she could do that too. “I was twenty-six when I first met him,” she said. “I wasn’t a virgin. I had had my share of boyfriends, but I didn’t know there was anything to sex besides watching a man exercise on top of me.

  “I think Christopher was attracted to sexually repressed women. Over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that his love life was an extension of his tree planting. It was growth that fascinated him. I think he probably got the same thrill from personal growth as he did tree growth.”

  “Did he use the same manure for both?”

  She ignored me. “I think,” Ashe said pointedly, “that he helped to liberate me.”