The Language of Trees

by Steve Wiegenstein

  “Or perhaps we should! Debate is good for a man. Sharpens the mind.”

  Charley groaned and jingled the reins. This is what he got for being a deputy, rather than running for sheriff himself, as old Willingham had wanted him to do when he quit the job. But the sheriff had to live in town, above the jail, and by then Charley was too deep into farming and family to chuck that life for the whims of political advancement. So he had thrown his support to Pomeroy, a town man, in return for the job of deputy for the western part of the county. So deputy he was, and tasks like this were his due.

  “Let’s talk about the weather and the crops, Mister—”

  “Gardner,” the man said. “Ambrose Gardner.”

  “Charley Pettibone.” They shook hands.

  “Just so you know, I’m no vagrant,” Gardner said. “I’ve got a square mile on the east bank of the Black River, prettiest country you’ll ever see. And I don’t carry money because I don’t need money.”

  “What about food? You can’t come all the way from there to Fredericktown and back without buying some food.”

  “Pemmican!” Gardner exclaimed. He pulled a few strips from his coat pocket and offered one to Charley, who shook his head. “I make it myself. A pocketful of pemmican and access to water, and I can walk for weeks.”

  Charley turned to study him. “Aren’t you a little old to be roaming the byways?”

  “That’s how you get old, quitting on yourself,” Gardner sniffed. “When I was a young man, I marched many a weary mile during the war, and I never enjoyed a minute of it. Nowadays, I treasure every step, because yes I’m getting old, and there’s no telling how much time I’ll have to walk this earth. So a long walk is a joy.”

  “I know what you mean about marching during the War,” Charley said. “But I guess I haven’t reached that second state yet.”

  Now it was Gardner’s turn to take a closer look. “You don’t look old enough to have been in the War.”

  “Teenage foolishness.”

  Gardner’s thin face grew serious. “Whatever we did during those days, it wasn’t foolishness.”

  “Let me try that pemmican of yours,” Charley said. Gardner handed him a strip.

  “Don’t chew it for a while. You’ll break a tooth. It’ll soften in your mouth eventually.”

  Charley had never eaten a shoe, but if had, he guessed it would taste like Gardner’s pemmican, although the pemmican had an overtone of sweetness. He held it in his mouth and waited for it to soften or for Gardner to look the other direction. They rode on a while without speaking.

  “A square mile, you say,” Charley said eventually.

  “Yes, sir. Took it as my veteran’s bonus instead of cash.”

  To the victor go the spoils, Charley thought. There had been no land grants for those on his side. But no point in dragging up old skeletons, so he held his peace. “What do you grow on it?”

  Gardner laughed. “Squirrels and hickory nuts. Another thing I’m trying to learn from the red man—living off the land. I’ve got a little bean patch down in the valley, but for the most part I hunt and fish, pick the wild greens. There’s a fine spring on my allotment. I sell a few furs and herbs for cash money when I need it. But you’d be surprised how little a man needs to live on.”

  “You should talk to Mrs. Turner when we reach Daybreak,” Charley said. “She knows all about herbs and things. She’s sort of the town healer, I guess.”

  “Indeed, I should. That kind of knowledge is hard to come by. I got most of mine out of books.”

  For the next several miles, Gardner kept up a commentary on everything they passed—the people, the farms, the landscape. It turned out that he was a farmer’s son from Indiana who had drifted for a few years after the war, restless and uncertain of himself.

  “I was that way, too,” Charley told him. “But I found a girl and started a family.”

  For once, Gardner said nothing, but gave an appreciative grunt.

  Charley grew expansive as they rode, enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of an older man with a listening ear and an open mind. Folks in Fredericktown, if they thought of Daybreak at all, considered it vaguely subversive, perhaps European, an oddity half a day’s ride from town.

  They forded the river and reached the fork, where Newton Turner had proudly placed a directional sign a few years ago. Daybreak. Est. 1857. A broad black arrow pointing toward the cluster of houses. “I don’t mean to be contrary,” Gardner said, “but your town has a funny name.”

  “Given to it by our founder,” Charley said. “I never thought more about it.”

  “Have you erected a statue?” Gardner cocked an eyebrow, amused.

  “I shouldn’t say ‘our founder,’” Charley added. “I’m not officially one of the originals. I just showed up as an orphan boy the year they got started, and they took me in.”

  “It all sounds quite official.” Charley couldn’t tell whether he was being mocked, so he kept quiet. “I don’t mean to tease,” Gardner added hastily. “I speak from true curiosity, not just to make idle talk.”

  Charley took him at this word and told him more about Daybreak, its founding by a group of like-minded souls who believed in the common ownership of property, direct democracy, and a host of other social reforms. How the war had divided them, the neutrals from the war party, the Union men from those, like himself, who felt loyalty to a particular state. How they had patched things together after the war, but not without considerable friction and, sad to say, the loss of some of their people, though he refrained from going into detail on that score. No reason to share too many sorrows with a stranger.

  By the time they reached the village, the sun had dropped low in the sky. Charley considered. He was supposed to escort this man to the county line, but by then darkness would have fallen, and it hardly seemed right to drop him in the road at night.

  “We’ll eat here, and I’ll make you a pallet on my floor,” he said. “We’ll finish this trip tomorrow.”

  “That’s pretty decent for an officer of the law,” Gardner allowed. “I appreciate it.”

  Common dinner was in the Temple as always, and Charley wasn’t sure how to manage it. He usually ate with his family, but since Gardner was technically his prisoner, sitting with his family as usual didn’t seem proper. So he steered Gardner to a far table, where one by one the citizens of Daybreak strolled past to look. Then came Charlotte Turner, who didn’t merely stroll by, but sat down with her plate.

  “Who have we here?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Turner, this is Ambrose Gardner,” Charley said.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gardner. Any friend of Charley Pettibone’s is a friend of mine.”

  Charley started to speak, but Gardner interrupted him. “I’m not exactly a friend of Mr. Pettibone’s, although we have had a fine wagon ride out from town. He’s dealing with me in an official capacity, I’m afraid.”

  Charlotte cast an uncertain glance at Charley. “I see.”

  “I appear to have made a nuisance of myself in town, and your sheriff has assigned your comrade here”—Gardner waved expansively in Charley’s direction—“the task of getting me to the county line.”

  “You don’t look like much of a nuisance.”

  “Kind words or faint praise, hard to tell,” said Gardner with a laugh. “I am a nuisance to your sheriff and his friends in the American Lumber and Minerals Company.”

  Charlotte leaned in, alert. “What do you know about them?”

  “Only this,” Gardner said. “A month ago, a cheerful young man came by my place, said he wanted to buy my land for the timber. When I wouldn’t sell, he said he wanted to buy the timber and mineral rights, not the land, as if that was some kind of better bargain for me. Three days later, I caught two boys with saws up on my ridgetop and had to run them off with my shotgun. And that’s when I started getting curious about this American Lumber.”

  “You didn’t shoot them, did you?”

  “Lor
d, no, ma’am. I have not raised a weapon with intent to harm a man since the War. I scattered the leaves over their heads. That appeared to do the trick.”

  “Still,” Charlotte said, her tone a tad reproachful. “Shooting at people over some trees—”

  Gardner smiled. “I’m not as well regulated as some.”

  “Kind words or faint praise.” Charlotte returned the smile.

  A thought flitted through Charley’s mind—Are these old folks sparking?— but he dismissed it. The widow Turner was fifty if she was a day, and this gent older yet. Besides, Charlotte always enjoyed a verbal spar.

  “So what have you learned?” Charlotte continued.

  Gardner examined his spoon for a while. “I figured they needed a business license,” he said. “So I went to Centerville, and from there to Ironton. And in Ironton they said this outfit was buying land over here, so I came to Fredericktown. And everywhere I went, I got no help. This company has the deepest pockets anybody ever saw. And a lot of our public officials have crawled into those pockets and are not coming out.” He cast a glance at Charley. “Not you, sir. You have treated me like a gentleman. But—” He returned his gaze to Charlotte. “If you expect to have the law on your side in any dealings with these people, you will be disappointed. Sell or don’t sell, land, trees, or whatever you like. It’s a free country. Just don’t expect any assistance if your deal goes wrong. All I wanted to know was who owns the company, and I’ve been chased out of three courthouses.”

  “And you walked all that distance?” Charlotte asked.

  The question brightened Gardner’s mood. “Yes, ma’am. Shank’s mare is the only way to travel. I was telling this to your friend earlier. It’s good for the body, and there’s a spiritual aspect to it as well.”

  “Do tell.” Her voice was amused.

  “You haven’t read Mr. Thoreau, I venture.”

  “In fact I have.”

  Gardner ducked his head in recognition. “I am embarrassed by my assumptions and apologize. I should have thought before I spoke.”

  “No one’s harmed.” Charlotte waved her hand as if shooing a fruit fly.

  “I surely hope not. To resume, then. Mr. Thoreau reminds us that in the time it takes you to earn the money to buy a train ticket, you could have walked to your destination and back again. I hold the same is just as true of buying a horse, growing its hay and grain, and boarding it where you ride. Not to mention the burden of possession. So I walk.”

  “Ownership is a burden? Most people think the opposite.”

  “Most people will believe anything if you tell it to them often enough. I own my land and the cabin that sits on it, and that’s enough ownership for any man.”

  “And this estate of yours? What makes it so distinctive?”

  Gardner’s face, which had been animated and expressive, grew still. “I’ll not be teased on this, madam.”

  Charlotte met his look. “I am in earnest.”

  “Very well. It’s a mile square and is mostly hilltop and slope. There’s a bit of bottom where I plant squash, but mainly I leave it alone. Otter and beaver in the river. I trade hides in town whenever I need money, and my brother sends me books and newspapers from back east. In the evening, the wind comes up and I hear it in the pines above me. I have a good working spring, a bee tree, and a dozen maples I tap for sugar. My cabin is on the bluff. I sit on my porch and watch the sun set over the valley below me. And I am at peace.”

  Unexpected tears filled the man’s eyes as he spoke. Charley looked away, embarrassed on his behalf.

  “I should like to see this square mile of yours someday,” Charlotte murmured into the silence.

  Her words brightened Gardner’s mood. “Well, come on over!” he cried. “Perhaps Mr. Pettibone here can give you a ride and serve as chaperone.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Not everyone lives on locusts and honey like you. We have a farm to maintain. And at my age, I certainly don’t need a chaperone.”

  “Good enough,” Gardner said.

  The tables had emptied as families finished their meals and drifted out into the evening. The only ones left were Adam and Penelope, the week’s assigned cleanup crew. Charley felt a little sorry for the two of them, cleaning up alone. When he and Jenny had their week they put the children to work and finished in half an hour, but young Turner and his wife, childless, would take twice as long. Still, they seemed happy, whispering and laughing as they scrubbed. Perhaps his sympathy was misplaced.

  As the dining hall emptied, Charley felt out of place and a bit lonesome in the sudden quiet. He felt an overwhelming urge to rush home to the noise and clatter of his family. He and Jenny had expanded the old Webb place as the children came, now five of them, until the house rambled up the hillside like a mouse nest, zigging this way and that as need demanded. Without the hum of their conversation around him, he felt hollow. He understood why the old man’s eyes had teared up in speaking of his home, but it wasn’t the peaceful sunsets that Charley needed. It was the racket of young arguments, the jangle of little Jeff as he practiced on the banjo that Charley had made for him, the range of Jenny’s voice from moment to moment, from whisper to blast as she spoke to him, sang to the chickens, and corralled the children. Odd, how quiet made him nervous now. In younger decades he would have prized it.

  Charley stood up abruptly and walked to the door. Charlotte and Gardner followed him into the dusk.

  “I expect we’d better get ourselves settled,” Charley said to Gardner. “Full dark soon.”

  “Mr. Gardner, I have enjoyed our conversation,” Charlotte told him, extending her hand. “We need to talk more.”

  “About our grand lumber and mining interests,” Gardner said lightly, shaking her hand.

  “Yes, and about life in general,” said Charlotte. “I have a feeling I would find your views interesting on a variety of subjects.”

  They parted, and as Charley led Gardner down the road to his house, he could see light streaming from his windows and knew all was well. “I’m afraid my house won’t be as peaceful as you’re used to,” he said.

  Gardner chuckled. “My place isn’t so quiet when I get a possum under my floorboards.”

  In the fading light Charley glanced over his shoulder and saw the evening star wink into existence.

  Chapter 6

  “During this trip, I had listened to frequent recitals of the details of hunting the bear, beaver, deer, and other animals, the quality of dogs, the secret of baits, &c.—a species of forest lectures, the details of which, at the moment, were new to me, and had the charm of novelty, and the merit of information; but which it is unimportant, at this length of time, to repeat.”

  J. M. Bridges closed the book and rubbed his eyes. This man Schoolcraft may have been writing in an earlier era, but he certainly had captured the character of these hillfolk—their knowledge of nature, their disregard for the needs of their employer, their maddening habit of disappearing whenever the urge struck them, their endless talk about their dogs. They worked hard when it suited them, but it didn’t suit them nearly often enough. Bridges had had to replace his mill whistle twice already. First it had been mysteriously damaged by a flying cable that had somehow knocked it from the roof when no one was around, and the other time it had disappeared altogether. He’d had it mounted on the roof of his own house the last time, and though its blast nearly shook him from his chair in the morning, at least no one had disturbed it.

  But he didn’t have time to think about the whistle. Daylight was coming, and his weekly cable to Mr. Crecelius needed to be sent within the next couple of hours. Mr. Crecelius wasn’t interested in the details of life at the mill camp. He cared about board feet and lumber grade, and neither of those had been especially good this week. Complaining about the workers would not help matters.

  More trees, more trees. The easy tracts had already been logged. They would have to push out into rougher country, maybe even pay a premium for better logs as a last resort. He would
have to check with Mason on that.

  A soft tap on the door signaled Mason’s arrival, as if he had been summoned by the thought. “Ready?” he called through the door. “I’ve got the telegraph operator.”

  “Not quite,” Bridges said. He tucked his book into the desk drawer—no pleasure reading for him today—and re-examined his daily notes. Not a bad week, really. Only one accident, a man who lost his thumb to the circular saw, and no fights or incidents that he was aware of. But stasis was not progress, and Mr. Crecelius wanted progress.

  He rose from his desk and opened the door for Mason and the telegraph operator, a young man who came down from Ironton and clearly considered the trip his week’s highlight. Bridges sometimes doubted the man’s accuracy, but New York hadn’t complained. Not a bad line of work, to show up, tap out a few signals, and then sit around waiting for Mr. Crecelius’ reply, which sometimes didn’t come at all.

  Mason studied his face. “What’s the problem?”

  Bridges shrugged. “Not a whole lot to say this week. Same amount of lumber, but the payroll is up a little.”

  Mason frowned. “He won’t like that squeeze.”

  “I know. I’m trying to think of something good to balance it out.”

  “Don’t bother. He can see through that kind of smoke, you know that.”

  Bridges knew it, but didn’t like the feeling anyway. “Monday was our downfall. Just like last Monday, slow and sloppy.”

  “Drunkards,” Mason said with a sniff. “Saturday night runs all the way through Monday morning.”

  “Well, let’s get to it,” Bridges said.

  They walked in the predawn dimness to the railroad, where a table had been set up with the telegraph machine on it, and wires trailing down from the pole. The operator settled into his chair, adjusted his headset, and tapped the key a few times to check the signal.

  “All right,” he said.

  Bridges handed him his message, then took it back and scribbled a few lines about the workers and their Monday habits. What the hell, it sounded like pushing blame but it was the truth.