No one complained. We’d been walking for a long time, and that deep note had taken what little energy we had left. Bones passed around a water bag that was made from deerskin and filled with a tea brewed from the leaves of the singing trees. It was the best thing I had ever tasted, clear, sweet, and somehow dense. Juan’s teas always brought vigor and a sense of well-being.
“Today is the day that your lives begin,” Juan Thrombone intoned.
These words combined with the power of his thoughts and the high-pitched laughter of the white firs behind us. Then came the reverberations in the damp and grassy earth. It was far beyond any lecture Ordé preached. Those were ideas held in a voice that captivated and elated. But Bones’s talk was a symphony that by turns amazed and frightened us. No one of his audience of four could sit still. We couldn’t stop fidgeting there on the ground; every now and then one of us would grunt or laugh.
He retold the story of blue light, saying that it was “no more than a seed in the history of a forest.” He told the story of the great redwood and her death. About how he saved her seedlings so that the world would still have music.
“And now we must begin the work of the world,” Bones said in a hushed tone. Everything else went quiet too: the trees, the earth, even the low continual chatter of my senses and the history of my life inside my mind. All that was left was me hearing his words.
“In Dreamer’s dreaming the world falls apart,” he said. “But of faith and future there is no clear sign, only the blunt clubs of death and love, of fire and freezing, and the highest and lowest animal — man.”
A low moan issued from my chest. My three companions also sang.
He had stopped talking, but I listened still. His words washed over me again and again. The words turned to images. Fires and men who walked like dogs, slithered like snakes, who killed for death and not survival. I saw an army of trees holding back the tides of killing man-animals. And I heard the music of death in the ears of Grey Redstar, and I almost laughed his laugh and felt his glee.
“Rise” came a voice.
Whether it was Bones or one of his puppy trees, whether it was word or thought, I was not sure. But I stood along with the murderer, the one-eyed ex-detective, and the cuckold. We walked together into the presence of the greatest creatures the world has ever known.
They welcomed us with deep bass notes that trailed off into one another. A different color was set off in my mind with each note, and the ground, which was flat, seemed to undulate beneath my feet. We were all staggering and squinting at Bones, who led us.
I realized then that these trees of Juan Thrombone’s were a company of gods. They were only whispering right then so as not to demolish our small group. Bones was one of them. I had become so familiar with his laughter and jokes that I’d half forgotten his true nature.
The journey between the trunks of those trees was like walking through an earthquake. Halfway through I was sure that I wouldn’t make it, that I would fall and be consumed by the roots I could feel reaching up and tickling the soles of my boots.
Then we were on the other side, and it was over.
Out of the presence of divinity and onto a grassy field about a hundred yards in diameter. A plateau looking out over a panorama of California forest. The sky was completely covered in high clouds, and a breeze was the only sound.
My heart was thumping and sweat poured down my face.
We were all silent and scared.
“Damn!” Mackie said at last. “What was that?”
“The heart,” said Juan Thrombone. He held up both hands, clenching them into fists and releasing again and again in way of instruction. “The throbbing heart of life. Where the blood of our souls goes for cleansing before the day begins.”
“Why did you bring us?” I asked.
“I’ve already told you.”
“But there aren’t any trees here to tend.”
Instead of answering, the little man walked to the right, all the way to the edge of the field. We followed.
Down the slope there was another clearing that was at the base of a small waterfall. The fall was no more than a trickle, its water slapping down dark mossy rocks into a large stone cistern.
“It’s like a big bucket,” Gerin Reed said.
“What’s it for?” asked Miles Barber in a rare show of curiosity.
A herd of white-tailed deer wandered around the field beneath the stone water tower. A few were licking the water spilling down the sides.
“Gather your buckets,” Bones said to us. He pointed to a small patch of bushes a few feet away.
I was the closest. Nestled under the bushes were four rough-hewn wooden buckets fitted with covers made from a thicker version of the fabric Addy made for our clothes and with handles made from the same material. There was also a long pole, maybe eight feet long, that had a flat wooden disk attached to one end with wooden dowels.
“Come on, come on,” Bones urged.
We each grabbed a heavy bucket and followed Bones down the steep slope toward the deer and water tower.
One or two were startled to see us approaching, but they didn’t bolt. When Bones stepped down among them they took turns nuzzling him with their snouts in greeting. He scratched ears and thumped on their sides. He crooned to them and they seemed pleased.
When the greeting was over, Bones rummaged around behind the water tower and came out with a ladder made from tree-fabric rope and thick branches. He set it up against the side of the stone container.
“Ho, Last Chance,” he cried. “Climb up there and make yourself useful.”
As I scaled the rickety ladder, the deer became agitated. They ran back and forth with excitement. Some even reared on their hind legs with anticipation.
Upon reaching the last rung, I could see down into the big container. It was at least nine feet deep. The sides were blackened, but the water was crystal-clear.
“Pass up the first bucket, Miles and Miles,” Thrombone said.
The deer were running back and forth across the small clearing, stopping at the end of each circuit at the cistern before dashing away again.
The heavy bucket was passed up, and I removed the thick green fabric cover. It had certainly been used as a chamber pot, but it also contained tree needles, bark, and fist-sized globs of thick golden tree sap.
“Pour it in,” Bones said. “Pour it all in.”
I emptied the contents as well as I could into the water and then I submerged the bucket, washing out whatever was stuck to the sides.
“Now hand it back down! Come on! We don’t have all year!”
I was passed up all four buckets in succession. After they were all emptied, I was given the long pole and told to agitate the water as though churning butter. I’d never used a churn before, but I’d seen it done on TV.
We each took a turn mixing the concoction, and then we each took another turn.
I was afraid that the deer would lick the foul substance from the sides of the cistern, but they did not. They kept up their running, though more slowly after a while.
After a couple hours of churning, Juan climbed up the ladder to examine our work. He nodded and told us to pass up the buckets one at a time. He filled each one and passed them back down to us.
We carried the buckets to the upper clearing, spilling a good deal along the way. Juan led us to a spot near the edge of the plateau. He took from his pouch a tiny seed and a small twig, maybe eight inches long. He poked a hole in the soft earth and dropped in the seed. Then he stuck the twig in the ground to mark the planting.
“Keep pouring until I tell you to stop.”
It was hard work carrying buckets of water from the lower to the upper clearing. While we did, Bones planted more seeds and marked them. Each seed was planted about fifteen feet from its nearest neighbor. After about two hours we’d poured twelve buckets of water on each seed.
“Aren’t we going to drown them?” Gerin Reed asked.
“Can you drown a m
ackerel with the sea?” Thrombone replied.
A half-moon crowned the night by the time we were through. Bones had made a fire that was hot and bright from some tarlike substance that I didn’t recognize. We were all glad to sit after our exertions of the day.
“I have your salaries, gentlemen,” Bones announced.
During that whole day of work not one real discussion occurred between us. There was no feeling between us. Just separate bodies and solitary minds going through the motions of our lives. No one knew what we were doing there, or anywhere.
Then Juan Thrombone produced four small tree-cloth pouches from his larger one. He handed us each a pouch.
Inside mine I found a small dark stone that was cold and slightly moist to the touch. An orange lichen or fungus of some sort was growing along one side.
“A drop or two of water each week and keep it in the pouch. When the moss covers the whole of the stone, scrape it into a bottle of water and let it sit for at least a year.” He pulled out his canteen made from hide and continued, “And then this strong brew have you.”
He passed the bottle around, admonishing us to take only a mouthful. He needn’t have bothered with the warning, though. It had to be at least 150 proof. It was so potent that I had a hard time keeping it down.
The evening had been cool before that sip. But the warmth of the liquor along with the heat of the tar flame warmed me from the inside out. The moon itself seemed to be a source of heat. I loved that moon and I loved the men I’d worked with that day.
I smiled at Mackie Allitar and he saluted the gesture.
My vision began to play tricks on me. The woods around us, lit by the flickering fire, were as bright as day, but the shadows were impenetrable black. In and out of this absolute dark and light moved deer and bear and Juan Thrombone. I had the urge to join them, but when I tried to rise I ended up flat on my belly — laughing.
For a while I struggled with gravity. I was about as coordinated as an infant. I called out and my friends did too. I remember looking up at the moon. I saw the silhouette of a hand reaching for the orb but couldn’t tell then whether it was my hand or not. And then I was asleep.
The dreams were not mine — not completely, at any rate.
I was the poor boy from Kentucky coming in on his cheating wife, offering her a rose. I was a cop branded by the pain of death, sitting in the dark with a man whose name was an alias. Mackie was sitting next to me in an otherwise all-white classroom. He scared the kids so much that they left us alone.
We moved thus back and forth between one another’s memories and desires until we were the best of friends, brothers beyond blood.
I cried when I felt the jangled pain in Miles Barber’s face.
Gerin sat with me as I bled on the floor of the People’s Warehouse.
We climbed mountains together and cried over our greatest losses. We shared our inner fears and lusts. We weren’t alone for the first time that any one of us could remember.
When I felt the light of morning on my face, it was with disappointment. Never had I felt the intimacy of that night of dreams. I didn’t want it to end.
I was covered with a thick tree-cloth blanket, as were the rest of my friends. Juan Thrombone was gone.
I sat up. I could see that my friends were rousing also. Beyond them was the beginning of a new forest. Fifteen young firs had grown at least eighteen inches in the night.
“Hey!” I shouted. “Get up! Get up!”
“How could this be?” Miles Barber wondered out loud.
Gerin Reed was shaking his head.
We were all chattering and amazed when Juan Thrombone appeared among us. I guess he just came out of the woods, but none of us noticed because we were too busy sharing our new friendship and our surprise.
“No more talk, chatty boys,” Thrombone said. “Man your buckets, water your trees. You’ll have no breakfast until their roots are satisfied. It is the future of civilization you hold in your silly dreams.”
Gerin Reed taught us a coal miner’s song that he’d learned from his grandfather. We alternated singing and talking about our dreams.
We doused the saplings, and they grew just that fast. By the end of the day they were five feet apiece. By the end of four days they were twenty feet high.
While we worked, Bones fueled us with venison stews full of wild mushrooms and greens from the woods. Each night we drank stone liquor and passed out and into one another’s dreams.
On the fourth morning we went back through the grove of god trees. It wasn’t nearly so hard, because we held hands and sang.
Everything changed in those few days. Ex-Detective Barber’s pain subsided and his scars, though still there, lost their red rawness. Mackie Allitar gained at least forty pounds, and every ounce seemed to be muscle. Gerin Reed’s eyes became clear and focused, and his perpetual melancholy lessened until it finally disappeared.
I was different on the inside also. I was happy. For the first time I had real friendships. For the next week or so the four half-light men of Treaty were always visiting and talking, playing catch or just taking walks in the woods. Gerin taught Mackie how to fish, and Miles Barber showed me how to write in shorthand.
After ten days we returned to our tree farm. The plateau was empty again. The trees had disappeared, leaving no trace that they had ever been there. And so we replanted. This became our ritual in all seasons and all weathers. We dressed in the blue-green material that Addy and her friends made and grew sentient singing trees and dreamed.
That was the beginning of the groupings among the citizens of Treaty. The primary separation was between half-lights and Blues. But there were more divisions than that among us, among the half-lights especially.
To begin with, each of the half-lights had found what little ability he or she had in very different ways. I had imbibed the whole living blood of Ordé, whereas Mackie had burned out much of his humanity with the crazy and deficient blood of Winch Fargo. Gerin had only tasted the same tainted blood. Addy, on the other hand, had actually shared the living blue blood of her daughter. Of the half-lights only Miles Barber had been transformed by the arcane emanations of Gray Man. No blood had been exchanged, but somehow Gray Man’s dark blue soul had been impressed upon Barber’s mind. Trini had been kissed by Claudia Heart, and Nesta assured us that even a kiss from one of the Blues, under the right circumstances, could afford change. Preeta and later Woolly (the child Gerin and Preeta would have) gained whatever toehold they achieved through the teas and waters, potions, and brews of Juan Thrombone. Bones was a sort of alchemist. He made tars from tree sap and spit that kept insects from biting. No wound could fester under his leaf poultices. He enlightened bears, trained deer, enchanted butterflies, and orchestrated the singing forest.
The whole of our woods, five miles in any direction from Treaty, was deeply touched by Thrombone’s hand. He was the tri-light, as different from his brethren as Gray Man or Winch Fargo.
“I am the forest warden,” he once said. “I tend to the trees and sleep next to First Light.”
Among the half-lights men and women were divided. The four men spent four days out of every fortnight planting trees, drinking stone liquor, and having one another’s dreams. The women worked together also, making tree cloth and cooking, following the recipes given them by Juan Thrombone. About twice a year Addy, Preeta, and Trini would go off with Nesta to perform some ritual in the woods. I don’t know what they did or where they went.
In the hierarchy of the Blues, Bones came first. He was the most powerful (with the possible exception of Gray Man) and knew the most. Not that Juan saw himself as a leader or king.
Everyone loved Juan. He was our patron and protector. After that we looked to Nesta, who seemed to know anything worth knowing. Nesta was concerned and cautious, and her effect on Alacrity calmed many a situation that might have otherwise led to bloodshed.
Winch Fargo, as I said before, had deficient awareness, having seen only the last second of th
e divine message. Alacrity had not seen the light but had been born of a witness’s blood. And even those that witnessed a single shaft of blue were as different from one another as anyone else in the world. Wanita lived in dreams, Nesta in ideas, and Reggie looked for signs and portents of things that are hidden.
No one actually liked Winch Fargo. He was profane and obnoxious. His nickname for me was Big Nigger with the Woodbook. He called Trini and Preeta Cunt Number 1 and Cunt Number 2. He didn’t have a name for Addy because his respect for Bones was actually fear.
The Blues didn’t like Fargo but did pity him. For them his deformity was not the loss of an arm but a deficiency of light. They allowed his company because of his pain.
But they were all Blues, even Winch Fargo. They convened from time to time to discuss their nature or the nature of the universe or Grey Redstar and the ultimate clash of life and death. I tried to eavesdrop on those meetings but I could never take it for very long. The Blues communed with words and also the power of their minds or souls. I could listen for a few minutes, but soon my head would start to ache. If I weathered the pain, a buzz would start in my ears and then my vision would begin to blur. Finally I’d be forced to run from their presence. After that I’d sleep sometimes for a whole day.
Such was Treaty. A congress of outcasts sitting on the precipice of infinity, under the threat of death and living each day more primitively and more magically than the last.
Thirty-one
THE YEARS PASSED LIKE so many moments. Nothing changed much among us. Preeta was the only woman to bear a child — they called him Woolly because he had thick hair like his father. Every seven days Gerin Reed would give a talk on whatever it was that he’d been looking at that week. His sermons covered ants and rocks, the rhythm of the singing white firs, or the bellowing of the puppy sequoias. We’d meet in the clearing, outside of Number Twelve, in the early morning as the sun rose. Warden Reed’s wisdom grew in the forest. Bones said that Reed heard the songs of the trees more clearly than even the Blues did because they took the music for granted but Gerin listened with all his heart. Bones was almost always present at these talks, but other than that, you never knew when he’d be around. He was off minding his forest most of the time. Sometimes he was gone for days.
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