by Jane Langton
“Oh, yes,” said Georgie, “that’s right.”
Frieda frowned. “It needs a name. You can’t have a society without a name.”
Georgie thought a minute. “How about the Tree Protection Society?”
“It’s got to be more exciting than that.” Frieda had been reading some terrific books. “Knights of the Tree? No, wait a sec. How about a fellowship? The Fellowship of the Tree?”
“Great.” Georgie’s eyes sparkled, because she had read the same books.
But Frieda still wasn’t satisfied. She ransacked her store of fancy words. “I’ve got it. How about ‘noble’? How about the Fellowship of the Noble Tree?”
“Perfect,” breathed Georgie.
“And how about being knights? We could all be Knights of the Fellowship of the Noble Tree.”
“Super,” said Georgie.
Reverently the two knights looked up at the tree that was to be in their keeping from now on. Modestly the tree stood quietly, as if growing ten feet in the night had been nothing special, as if the thousands of new insect trails in the leaves were nothing to brag about.
But the time had come for action. Frieda whipped out her phone to call Hugo and Oliver, Sidney and Rachel, Otis and Cissie.
“Hugo,” barked Frieda, “we need a Director of Communications for the Fellowship. Right away, Hugo.”
“I’m sorry. This is Hugo’s father. May I ask who is speaking?”
At once Frieda became the sweet little girl that she was not. (Anything but.) “It’s Frieda Caldwell,” cooed Frieda. “I’m in Hugo’s class at school.”
“Oh, I see. Well, Hugo’s still asleep, but I’ll get him up.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Von Bismarck. Tell him it’s immensely important.”
“Immensely important. Right you are.”
There was a long pause. Frieda frowned and looked at Georgie. Georgie giggled. At last there was a grumbling “Hello?” and Frieda took command.
“Listen here, Hugo, it’s brand-new. It’s a fellowship. We’re all going to be knights. I’ll explain at Georgie’s. Come right over.”
“Now? You mean like now? Hey Frieda, I’m kind of, like, you know, busy.”
“Drop everything, Hugo. This is really important stuff.”
“But—”
“I said now, Hugo.”
Over the heads of Frieda and Georgie the noble tree stretched itself taller and popped out a dozen twiggy branches all at once. One stroked the glass of the window where Eddy lay zonked out in bed, while across the way another brushed the screen of the second-floor window where the maid-of-all-work stood behind a curtain looking down.
And from a window on the floor below, another pair of eyes stared at the founding members of the Fellowship of the Noble Tree. Mortimer Moon was making a plan. Turning it over in his mind, he went looking for his wife.
19
THE NOBLE KNIGHTS
WHEN FRIEDA TOLD them to come, they came, and she rounded them up in the shade of the tree—Hugo and Rachel, Sidney and Cissie, Otis and Oliver. “Look, you guys,” said Frieda, “do you see this tree?”
They saw the tree. They all said, “Wow,” and Oliver said, “Like, it’s new, right? It wasn’t here before, right?”
Georgie said, “Right,” but she too was astonished, because the tree had changed. Only a few weeks ago it had burst out of the ground as a little green twig, but now it seemed hundreds of years old. The leafy top was level with the chimney and the roots were like enfolding arms or caves or mossy thrones, sending twisted fingers snaking over the grass.
“Good,” said Frieda. “Now hear this,” and she nudged Georgie.
“Hear what?” said Georgie. Her mind went blank.
“The man next door,” hissed Frieda. “You know, the guy with the saw.”
“Oh, right.” Georgie was not used to public speaking. She began in a whisper, but soon the words began pouring out, because the tree was so much in danger. “Mr. Moon owns half of it, you see, and he wants to cut it down.”
Then Frieda, who was an old hand at public speaking, took over and explained about the Fellowship of the Noble Tree. “So listen, you guys, we’re all going to be, like, knights. You know, Knights of the Fellowship.”
For a moment they were too much in awe to say anything. The only sound was the warbling of a bird high in the noble tree. But when Eddy strolled out of the house with a bagel in his hand and said, “Okay, Frieda, what’s up?” they all began talking at once.
“Badges,” said Rachel. “I’ll make badges. You know, with trees on them.” She coughed importantly. “Heraldic devices, that’s what they’re called.”
“How about a tree house?” yelled Otis. “My pop’s got all this lumber down-cellar, because, you know, we tore down the old garage.”
“Terrific!” yelled Sidney. “I’ll help.”
“So will I!” howled Otis.
“Me too!” boomed Oliver.
“An intercommunications command post!” bellowed Hugo. “Up in the tree house. I’ll wire it up.”
“My horse!” screamed Cissie. “I’ll bring my horse. Knights, they always had a horse.”
“I’ll be your page!” shouted Georgie.
“Great!” shrieked Cissie. “I really need a page. I mean, speaking as a knight on horseback.”
“Kid stuff!” hollered Eddy. “But okay, your hero will condescend to be your king.”
It was bedlam. Frieda was disgusted. She pierced the tumult with a blast from her whistle (left over from last summer’s circus). “Hey, everybody, what are we here for anyway? We’ve got to guard this tree night and day.” At once they stopped screeching and looked at her blankly.
Flipping the pages of her notebook, Frieda snatched a pencil from behind her ear and said, “Okay, you knights, raise your hands. Who’ll take nine to midnight, Monday through Friday?”
20
UGLINESS NOW
MORTIMER MOON GLOWERED down at the Knights of the Fellowship as they milled around under his bedroom window. The next day he took revenge by attacking with his chain saw the wooded grove along the banks of the Mill Brook across the street.
It was true that they were not handsome trees, but it was painful to hear the swish-thump-splash, as one after another came crashing down.
“Oh, Fred, dear,” said Aunt Alex, covering her ears, “can’t the Selectmen make him stop?’
Uncle Fred squared his jaw and said, “I’ll do my best.”
At the next meeting of the board in the Town Hall, he complained about the destruction of the Mill Brook trees, and flung out his arms in warning. “Our new tree warden,” he said, “is turning this town into a graveyard.”
“But all those trees were diseased,” said Chairman Jerry Plummer. “That’s what Mortimer tells me.”
“And after all,” said Donald Swallow, the new member of the board, “Mortimer should know.”
“Of course he knows,” said Jemima Smith. “He has a degree in forestry.”
“Mortimer explained it to me,” said Annabelle Broom. “All about some kind of beetle and then there’s this virus that jumps from tree to tree.”
“He says the oaks have canker worm,” said Jerry.
“And there’s blister rot in the white pines,” said Jemima.
“And gypsy moths in the maple trees,” said Donald.
“He explained it to me philosophically,” said Annabelle. “He said that beauty in the future means a wee bit of ugliness now.”
“Ugliness now!” croaked Uncle Fred. “Ugliness for the next quarter of a century!”
“Shhh, Fred,” said Jerry as the door opened. “Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Moon. How kind of you to take time out from your busy schedule of—” Jerry stopped, unable to think what sort of things a tree warden did all day, but Uncle Fred finished his sentence by growling, “Murder.”
But Mortimer Moon only grinned at him, and said, “Why, greetings, neighbor.”
“Oh, Mortimer,” gushed Annabelle, �
�you must explain it to us again, the importance of your crusade. Some of us”—Annabelle nodded at Uncle Fred—“don’t seem to understand.”
“Well, it’s perfectly simple,” said Mortimer Moon, sitting down and beaming around the table. “If we don’t take out the sick trees, they’ll infect all the rest. In fact my neighbor and I”—he smiled forgivingly at Uncle Fred—“have a little disagreement about a badly infected tree right on the property line between us. It’s sad, because unless the tree is dealt with promptly, the contagion will spread into my yard. You should see the leaves. They’re infested with chewing insects.”
“How dreadful,” said Annabelle, scowling at Uncle Fred.
“Oh, by the way, Mortimer,” said Donald Swallow, “my own trees look pretty healthy, but maybe you should take a look at them. I confess I’d hate to lose my purple beech, but if it’s infecting the whole street, I’d certainly sacrifice it, although it would break my heart.”
“Glad to be of service,” said Mortimer Moon.
Donald Swallow lived on Laurel Street, right around the corner from the professors Hall. Therefore everybody at No. 40 Walden Street heard the scream of Mr. Moon’s chain saw and the smashing fall of one mighty limb after another as Donald Swallow’s magnificent tree was lopped and chopped and brought to the ground.
Donald stood watching the massacre with tears running down his face. His gigantic beech tree had been the wonder of the neighborhood. With its broad spreading universe of purple leaves, it had been a piece of midnight in the middle of the day.
“Aha, I told you so,” said Mortimer Moon, holding up a leaf. “Thrips! See there? All those specks?
Donald bent to look. “I don’t see them,” he whimpered. “But I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Moon.”
21
THE MATCHBOOK
THE OTHER TREE, the new fast-growing tree on Walden Street, was like a city under siege. The houses on either side were fortresses with windows like loopholes in enemy battlements.
But there was a crack in one of the ramparts, because a secret agent had begun to burrow inside the walls.
Mr. Moon’s second cousin, three times removed, had been told to beware of the vicious boy next door, but Emerald was beginning to doubt. After watching the delinquent boy and his dangerous little sister from her window and obeying the warnings of Mr. and Mrs. Moon, she had begun to dodge behind doors and hide in closets and listen to their whisperings.
Slowly the world was turning upside down. Good was no longer good, and therefore what had happened to bad? What about the boy and his little sister? What about the other kids who were now swarming in and out of the house next door?
Who, after all, had told her to beware? Her stepmother and stepfather, the same two people who had dragged her away from everything she had always known and loved. Even her cherished family pictures were gone. “Oh, Emerald,” her stepmother had said, “I knew you didn’t want those dusty old things, so I threw them away.”
Only one thing was left of Emerald’s old life, a folder of matches printed with her father’s name:
O’HIGGINS LUMBER
QUALITY BUILDING MATERIALS
She carried it in her pocket and looked at it sometimes, remembering the bundles of cedar shingles in the warehouse and her father striding between the stacks of sweet-smelling boards.
Instead of a father she now had a stepfather, instead of a mother, a stepmother. But surely most of the stepfathers and stepmothers in the world were kind to their stepchildren? Why were hers so different? They seemed to have come from the fiercest of the fierce old folktales, like the one about the wicked queen who sent a woodcutter into the forest to kill her stepdaughter and bring back her heart.
Her own heart, thought Emerald, was not worth the trouble because it was broken already.
“You’ll have to deal with it somehow, Mortimer.”
“You mean like before?”
“Whatever.”
22
THE FLOWERING TREE
FRIEDA WAS GOING crazy. Her list of tree-watchers wasn’t working.
“I can’t possibly do Tuesdays,” said Rachel. “I have these really important ballet lessons.”
“Monday’s out for me,” said Cissie. “That’s when I baby-sit my kid brother.”
“Me too,” said Sidney. “Saturday nights I have to keep my bratty little sister from crawling under the sink and eating rat poison.”
But after the brutal felling of Mr. Swallow’s purple beech—after its dark cloudy head no longer rose above the rooftops on Laurel Street—the list almost made itself. The nine Knights of the Fellowship vowed to keep watch on their own precious tree night and day.
“We’ve got to get going on the tree house right away,” said Eddy. “It’s important. We can keep watch a lot better from way up there.” Standing high on the mounded roots of the tree, he made an imperious decree. “Speaking as your sovereign, I command all you vassals, serfs, and thralls to get busy.”
“What’s a thrall?” said Oliver.
“Listen, Eddy,” said Sidney. “I mean, oh, sir, forgive me!” Sidney fell to his knees and whimpered, “O Gracious Sovereign, your humble servant begs leave to speak.”
“Hear, hear!” shouted Otis.
“You see, Your Majesty,” began Sidney, “this fellowship is a democracy. Your Glorious Majesty can’t order us around.” Springing to his feet, Sidney cried, “All in favor of building a tree house, say aye!”
They all screamed “AYE,” and got to work at once.
It was a big job. First the boards that had once been Otis Fisher’s father’s garage had to be transported to No. 40 Walden Street.
The boards were stacked behind the furnace in Otis’s cellar. Oliver and Otis looked at them, and Oliver bulged his biceps and said, “Lemme at ‘em.”
“Hey,” said Otis, “me first. I mean, it’s my house.” He clawed at one of the mildewed boards, dropped it on his toe, and squealed.
“Out of my way,” said Oliver. In the gloom behind the furnace he heaved at the pile of wood, swept up a dozen boards, and drove a nail into his thumb. Dropping the wood with a clatter, he yelled, “Ouch!” The boards bounced. Blood dripped on the floor.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Otis’s mother, running down the cellar stairs. At once she hurried Oliver up to the kitchen, sprayed his thumb with disinfectant, and wrapped it in a bandage. “There now,” she said kindly. “Just be more careful in the future, young man.”
“Oh, I will,” promised Oliver. “Thanks, Mrs. Fisher.”
He thumped back downstairs, and soon he and Otis were carrying armfuls along Everett Street and around the corner to Walden.
Under the tree, the noble tree—which was now taller than the chimneys of all the houses on Walden Street—the pile of boards looked small. But when Frieda inspected it, she said, “Good,” and slapped her hands smartly. “Okay, you guys, get to work.”
But then there was an interruption. Georgie cried, “Look, oh, look!”
They looked. All nine members of the Fellowship—Otis and Oliver, Eddy and Hugo, Georgie and Rachel, Sidney, Frieda and Cissie, and even Cissie’s horse—looked up at the noble tree as it slowly began to flower. Enormous blossoms were softly opening at once. A sweet smell wafted down.
For a moment all of them were lost in wonder, breathing in the fragrance, their arms hanging slack. Above them, reaching out from her window in the house next door, Emerald plucked a flower from the nearest branch and held it to her nose.
Then Frieda woke up and snapped her fingers. “Hey, everybody, let’s get going. Who’s got tools? You know, saws and hammers and nails, et cetera? And maybe a ladder? Who’s got a ladder?”
“You mean, the same way? It wasn’t easy,
remember?”
“This time it’s only a girl. She’ll be no
trouble at all.”
23
SIDNEY’S FATHER’S SUSPENDERS
HAMMERS, SAWS, AND nails appeared in a jiffy. So di
d all the et ceteras. Workbenches were pillaged in many a house along Walden Street, Hubbard, and Everett. Many a father complained.
It took a week of messy effort. Sawhorses stood here and there under the tree. Electric cables snaked out of Aunt Alex’s kitchen and looped across the weedy lawn. Hand saws wheezed back and forth, sawdust piled up and matted in the grass, electric drills buzzed, a faulty plug sparked, and Aunt Alex’s toaster went sphutt.
At last the job was half done. The six parts of the tree house lay flat on the grass, ready to be hauled aloft: the four walls with their window openings, the floor with its open trapdoor, and the plywood roof.
Frieda walked around the finished pieces, bending to inspect them with narrowed eyes. The proud carpenters stood around, waiting for compliments. Instead there was only another command. Frieda straightened up and said, “Okay, you guys, what about those ladders?”
They groaned. But of course she was right. To lift the house high in the tree they would need ladders, lots of ladders.
Eddy dragged a long aluminum ladder out of a tangle of blackberry bushes behind the chicken house, while the bantam hens scrambled in and out and the peevish little rooster screamed.
Sidney’s ladder was short enough to carry on his bike. Sidney lashed it to the handlebars and wobbled down Laurel Street, pedaling fast because if he slowed down the whole top-heavy apparatus would tip over.
Cissie’s ladder was just a kitchen step stool, but it made a dramatic entrance because she brought it on horseback. Maisie was only a plump brown nag, but high on her back Cissie really looked like a knight.
But then there was another interruption, because Rachel had a surprise. She had been making badges. “Here they are,” she said proudly, “your heraldic devices.”
They were gorgeous. Rachel had pasted silver paper and green ribbons on pieces of cardboard and fastened safety pins to the back.
