by William Bell
Standing there in awe, Bryan understood now why Elias’s father filled canvas after canvas with images of these living pillars and the animals that moved among them; why Walter believed the spirits of his ancestors walked here. And why his mother — despite Bryan’s opposition — had chosen jail rather than do nothing while these ancient trees fell to the loggers, for she knew that, once felled, they would be gone forever. At one time indifferent to their presence, Bryan now shuddered at the thought of chain saws spewing sawdust as they ripped through the growth rings of these giants; of clamorous machines snorting diesel smoke, grinding ferns and seedlings under huge tires as they dragged away the corpses of the trees, leaving slash and waste behind like the bones of extinct animals to rot in ground that had not felt the unfiltered heat of the sun since long before Jesus entered Jerusalem.
As the light rose higher in the trees, Bryan set up his camp. He tied two corners of the nylon fly to young hemlocks springing from a decaying deadfall and pinned the other end to the ground with sticks. After placing a waterproof sheet on the ground under the fly, he spread his sleeping blanket and set his alarm clock.
In the chill of the evening he ate his sandwiches, washing them down with hot coffee. Then he crawled under the fly, undressed and rolled his clothes to make a pillow. He tucked himself in his blanket and closed his eyes. He had walked a long way, packing a heavy weight, and he was tired.
EIGHTEEN
At exactly ten o’clock in the morning the whok-whok-whok of an approaching helicopter beat the treetops east of the Talbot Inlet airport. A few minutes later, the aircraft gently descended from a clear blue sky, coming to rest some distance from the terminal building. A white stretch limousine drew up as three men and a woman deplaned, shoulders hunched against the turbulence of the blades. Clutching his cap firmly to his head, the chauffeur opened the limo’s rear door. Before the helicopter’s blades came to a stop, the limo had swept away, escorted by two police cruisers.
In the car with Premier Harrington were his two aides and Linda Hobbs, spokesperson for Mackenzie Forest Industries and organizer of the event.
“Nice here, eh?” Aide Two offered as the limo whispered along the highway. The last of the morning mist hung in the upper branches of the conifers that lined the road.
“Where are the reporters?” the premier demanded. “What good is a photo-op without reporters?” He glanced at his gold Rolex.
“No sweat, boss. They’ll meet us en route,” replied Aide One, crossing his legs and brushing a speck of lint from his lapel. “There they are now,” he said after some time had passed.
The limousine came to a halt at a side road from which two RCMP constables were removing a red-and-white log barrier. Parked at the side of the highway were three sedans full of reporters as well as a TV news mini-van. The limo moved off again, trailing the police car along the road into the clear-cut area. Another cruiser slipped in behind the limo.
“This is the gathering place of the activists,” Aide Two pointed out. “There’s the so-called Rainforest Café.”
“Why weren’t those signs taken down?” was the premier’s response. “For chrissakes, Ben, that’s all we need!”
“Linda, I thought you said the area was secure,” Aide One said.
“Sorry,” the flustered woman answered.
Reporters were snapping photos of the Orca Sound, Not Clear-Cut Sound sign, while the TV man trained his Betacam on a poster that shouted in blood-red letters: B.C. Chainsaw Massacre.
“Too late now,” Aide Two said philosophically. “Besides, maybe we can turn this around on them.”
“Sure,” the premier muttered, glancing at Hobbs, who was making notes with a gold fountain pen.
The limo floated sedately over the uneven logging road and re-entered the trees. As it descended the hill, Ben pointed ahead through the windshield. “There’s the river, sir. The logging site is over the bridge and just on the other side of that hill.”
“You have my speech?”
Ben patted his pocket. “It’s right here.”
“Hey!” Aide Two cut in. “What’s that on the bridge?”
The Big Bear River valley had dressed up in its finest for the premier’s visit. Morning mist swirled and danced on the surface of the swiftly flowing water, gracefully rising, illuminated by slanting gold bars of sun, slipping among the thick green branches of the spruce and firs that lined the road. Above, a dome of blue sky. Ravens cawed. A bald eagle circled on the updrafts of warming air.
The limo had come to a halt and its rear doors hung open. Aides One and Two stood on one side of the car, the premier and MFI’s spokesperson on the other. Below them, the drifting mist swirled around the bridge. All eight eyes were trained on the large yellow patch.
“There’s words on it,” Ben announced.
“Words?” The premier squinted. AV HE EES, he read. A light breeze stirred the mist. The sun illuminated, briefly, the yellow sign. Yes, he could see clearly now. He could make out the words. “Get on the phone!” he shouted. “Get the cops!”
When the three sedans slid in unison to an abrupt halt in the middle of the dirt logging road, all the reporters piled out, hollering, and ran toward the bridge. Unprepared for such a hasty stop, the TV van swerved around the reporters’ empty cars and roared downhill, careered alongside the police cruiser and, with a sickening shriek, ripped off the driver’s door. With all four wheels locked up, the van slid broadside, tearing up dirt and stones before it clipped the left rear fender of the pristine limo, shattering the tail light and coming to a stop in a cloud of dust, half in the ditch, blocking the road. The side door crashed open and, with a wireless microphone in her hand, a woman jumped out, followed by a young man with a Betacam. Without so much as a glance at the carnage caused by the van, they ran downhill.
The premier stood helpless, swatting dust from his suit as the melee swirled around him. Ben shouted into the car phone; Aide Two remained fixed to the spot, his mouth opening and closing like a bewildered bass. Linda Hobbs shook her head, capped her pen and got back in the car.
In the distance, sirens. At the bridge, cameras whirred as reporters snapped pictures. Cellular phones appeared and writers read from hastily scribbled notes. Framed by the Betacam, the TV woman buttoned her orange blazer and began to talk into the mike.
The camera operator began with Megan, medium close-up, then zoomed back to take in the yellow nylon tent fly lashed between the bridge abutment and a massive cedar stump, fluttering in the breeze, intermittently revealing the words SAVE THE TREES. As Megan spoke, the camera panned to the spectacle on the bridge. Zoom in on the boy who sat on a blue backpack, dead centre in the middle of the bridge, a thermos beside him. Zoom out to take in the entire bridge again. Pan left to the concrete railing, where a chain was doubled around one of the uprights. Tight shot of the chain, hardware-store variety, lightweight. Pan right, tight on the chain, following it to the boy’s chest, where it encircled him, secured by a combination lock. Follow the chain, slowly, to the right side of the bridge, secured to a concrete upright. Zoom out to establish the scene again, reporters and cops milling around. Medium close-up of Megan as she winds up.
“Megan Sutton, CBC News, Orca Sound. That’s a wrap,” she added, lowering the mike. “Where’s Harrington? He’s next.”
Although by now the sun was high enough to burn off the remains of the morning mist and flood warmth over the treetops and into the river valley, Bryan trembled. He tucked his hands in his armpits, the chain cold on his fingers.
Earlier the insistent beep! beep! of his alarm clock had wakened him to the rich damp odours of the forest and the drip of moisture on the fly above him. Quickly he had pulled on his clammy clothes and, as the morning light crept down the trunks of the spruce that stood around him like giant sentinels, he packed up his gear. After gulping down a cup of lukewarm coffee — he was too nervous to eat — he had set off. Through the chilly ground mist he hiked up the ridge, followed it for a few hundred me
tres and descended to break out of the trees and onto the logging road. The entire river valley was filled with fog as thick as cream. Behind it he heard the Big Bear rushing to the sea.
While invisible ravens squabbled in the trees around him, Bryan had spread the yellow fly on the ground and printed his sign. The black ink had bled into the wet nylon, but the letters were big and easily visible. It had taken just a few moments to set up the sign and the chains. While he waited he sipped the tepid coffee and rehearsed in his mind what he would do, psyching himself up for the confrontation that he knew would probably terrify him. When he had heard the sound of motors, he had locked himself in.
Bryan had not known what to expect, but never would he have imagined the chaos before him, cars and people everywhere. The moan of sirens swelled to a climax, then abruptly died when two more police cars arrived.
Bryan shut his eyes against the incessant flashing of cameras. It seemed the reporters couldn’t get enough pictures of him. He ignored the questions they shouted at him.
“What’s your name?”
“Are you part of a bigger protest?”
“Where do you go to school?”
“How old are you?”
“Who put you up to this?”
“Where are the rest of them?”
He looked at the ground when the TV man trained the Betacam on him.
Bryan felt like the only sane person in a lunatic asylum.
To no one in particular the premier shouted, “This is a goddamn fiasco!” To the cops he snarled, “Couldn’t you even control a logging road? Isn’t that your job?” To Aide One: “Ben, get the car turned around!” To Linda Hobbs: “Get out of the car. Here comes that bitch from CBC!”
“We can’t move,” Ben said. “The van’s blocking the car.”
“I’ll need to fill out an accident report on that van,” one of the cops said.
“Premier Harrington, would you care to make a statement?” asked the TV reporter icily. She had apparently heard the premier’s description of her.
“Get her out of here,” demanded the premier. “Why the hell haven’t they arrested that little creep on the bridge?”
“The premier is not,” Aide One said evenly, “prepared to make a statement at this time.”
Undeterred, the newswoman stepped closer to the limo. She buttoned her blazer. “Premier Harrington, I’m going on record in ten seconds.” She turned to her camera operator. “Ned, get ready.”
Aide Two grabbed her arm. “Move out, Megan. You heard the prem —”
The reporter called, “Ned, are you rolling? Let go, buddy, or I’ll charge you with assault. Premier Harrington,” she said into her mike as the aide quickly released her, “what is the reason for such heavy security on this public bush road this morning?”
The premier drew himself up. His face became a mask of calm reasonableness, lit by a broad smile. “The Orca Sound Ecological Preservation Plan is a fair compromise between the demands of environmental activists and legitimate forestry management.” He gave the self-deprecating shrug for which he was famous. “I am fully aware,” he continued, his voice heavy with sincerity, “that this plan will not satisfy the more … ah … vociferous elements on either side of the issue. But the government thinks that this compromise is a fair and reasonable one that will create thousands of jobs and add to the prosperity of all citizens in our beautiful province.”
“If the plan is fair, Premier, why have more than six hundred people been arrested trying to oppose it?”
Harrington’s face became serious. “If people break the law, they must be prepared to take the consequences. Vigilante actions have no place in this country.”
“Does that mean you are in agreement with what many across Canada feel are overly punitive sentences handed down by the courts?”
“It would be inappropriate for me to comment on decisions made by our learned and hard-working judges. Now, if you’ll excuse me —”
The reporter lowered the mike. “Thank you, Mr. Premier,” she said stiffly.
“Why isn’t that little sonofabitch arrested yet?” Harrington screamed.
“Megan Sutton, CBC News, Orca Sound.” She had lowered her mike but hadn’t switched it off.
Inside the Betacam, the tape rolled.
Bryan felt the cold clutch of fear as three RCMP officers approached him — a sergeant and two constables. One of the cops carried a pair of bolt cutters. The other was Zeke Wilson.
Bryan stared at the six shiny black boots in front of him, the six navy blue legs, each with a broad yellow stripe down the outside. Swallowing on a dry throat, he looked up at three navy blue bomber jackets and three stern faces.
“What’s your name, son?” the sergeant asked.
Bryan looked through the legs at the reporters who had formed a semicircle behind the cops. Cameras clicked. Pens flew across steno pads.
“I asked your name, son.” When he got no reply the sergeant said, “Either of you two officers know this lad?”
“His name is Bryan Troupe.” It was Zeke.
Bryan looked up at him. Anger clouded Zeke’s dark face, filling Bryan with doubt and a deep loneliness. He pressed his eyes closed, determined to control himself and his fear.
Hooking his thick thumbs in his belt, the sergeant demanded, “What’s the combination to that lock?”
Bryan looked at his hands, fingers linked together in his lap, knuckles white. He took a deep breath and fought to control his voice. “I forget.”
Sensing something, the reporters pressed closer. The man with the Betacam stood to the side; the tiny red light on the front of the camera glowed.
“Constable Briggs, move those reporters back,” the sergeant growled. A shuffle of feet followed. “Now, son, I don’t know if you realize the seriousness of what you’re about here, but I want you to undo that lock. What’s the combination?”
“I forget.”
“All right, son, we’ll play it out your way. Constable Wilson, place this young man under arrest.”
“No.”
Bryan’s frightened eyes snapped up to Zeke’s face, and his heart soared as he realized that Zeke’s anger was not directed at him.
The sergeant glared at Zeke but directed his order to the other cop. “Briggs, cut the boy loose.”
“Yessir.” The chain to Bryan’s left parted in the jaws of the bolt cutters and clinked to the ground. Moving behind him, the constable cut the chain on Bryan’s right. The cop stepped back. Bryan remained where he was.
“Wilson, do your duty,” the sergeant commanded.
“My duty, Sergeant, as I see it, does not include
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to John Pearce and Ting-xing Ye for support and encouragement in the writing of this book.
