The Five Pearls

by Barry James Hickey

  “Kids all got video games and the mall on Saturdays,” Matt Golden had said.

  Battle realized a vast change in the American landscape since his incarceration. He read it in the papers, saw it on the morning news with Mrs. Powell. America was slowly pulling itself apart. Neighbors moved every few years, children didn’t play on the streets anymore, and the faraway super mall had obliterated the local hangout. Trust was lost and nobody felt safe. But the Tadpoles were an exception to the new rule. They were a throwback to the old ways. They stayed in the neighborhood and looked out for things in their own small way. Of course, as soon as some of them found jobs, things would change for them, too.

  Mr. Battle saw a thick line of trees two hundred yards in the distance. Cottonwoods and elms mostly, with a few tall pine trees interspersed. There was a break in the line where a path began. A bike trail. He grabbed his cane from the back seat and headed across the baseball field towards it. The trees seemed short at first, but as he approached them he realized they were all growing out of the gully down below along the creek bed.

  Matt and Toby appeared from the break in the trees. They had been on the lookout for his SUV. They hurried across the open space to him.

  “Need some help with anything, Mr. B?”

  Mr. Battle tossed them his keys. “I have a cooler and folding chairs in the back, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Right on,” said Matt, snagging the car keys from the teacher.

  ‘Don’t take it for a joyride, Matthew!”

  “Just once around the state?” his student joked.

  “Just follow the bike trail ahead, Mr. B,” Toby instructed. “It takes you to the bridge.”

  “And then?”

  “Hike down to the stream. We’re all here.”

  The boys ran off towards the Toyota.

  Mr. Battle hobbled towards the bridge, grateful for the flat ground. Even with his cane, long walks were becoming difficult. His breathing was irregular, strained. As he neared the bridge, the kid named Speed Racer darted out from the woods on his bike towards him.

  “Careful Mister,” warned the eager boy. “They got punks up ahead.”

  “Punks?”

  “A whole gang of ‘em. They throw rocks at people, too!”

  Battle passed the kid and tapped him on the helmet. “Thanks for the notice.”

  Speed Racer became unfrayed as Battle kept walking. “I’m serious, Mister! They could even kill you!”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Mr. Battle smiled.

  Speed Racer felt sick to his stomach. A man with a cane was a sucker for trouble with that bunch! He saw Toby and Matt coming his way, using the folding chairs as a stretcher to carry the cooler. The boy sped away on his bike before they could get close enough to catch him.

  By the time Battle reached the bridge, Toby and Matt had caught up to him with their bundle still intact.

  “Follow us,” Toby called to the teacher as they passed him.

  The boys practically slid down the hill with their cargo without missing a step. Mr. Battle found the gradual downhill climb easy enough. He could see Amber and Marie by the stream, picking up trash and stuffing it into plastic grocery bags. The girls dumped the collected trash onto a pile of other bags. They had spent over an hour policing the area.

  “Incoming,” Toby yelled out.

  Julio sat on the community log nearby. He had a long stick in his hands with a string attached to it. He pretended he was fishing.

  “Any luck yet?” Battle asked.

  “Not today,” Julio said. Yesterday’s black eye was now a dark purplish blue.

  Mr. Battle sat on the log next to Julio, took a deep breath and looked around. “An excellent place for a powwow,” he said.

  “We mostly just sit around and chill here,” said Julio.

  “Then I’ll chill, too,” Mr. Battle said. “Did you have a chance to talk to your dad about why he hit you?”

  “Hell no,” Julio said. “I’m avoiding him like the plague!”

  The teacher laid his cane on the log. “So this is Shooks Run? Your spot for now!”

  “I guess.”

  Matt unfolded a chair and offered it to Mr. Battle. “You might want a chair, teach. After a few minutes on the log, it gets to your back.”

  Mr. Battle rose from the log and sat on the chair. “Imagine,” he said with a bright smile, “a hundred and thirty years ago, there might have been Indians here!”

  “I’ll bet they couldn’t find any fish, either,” said Julio.

  “Back then there weren’t any signs of modern civilization around here,” said Battle. “No houses, no streets, no lights, no people, no town - just the foothills that divided the mountains and plains. Then one day, a small wagon arrived from back east and in that wagon – a man, a woman, their children. They had nothing but each other to rely on back when this was a true wilderness…. And these trees? Hardly a one was here then.”

  “What about this big one?” Amber said. “It’s got to be two hundred years old.”

  Mr. Battle examined the tree. “Ah. That old black Cottonwood?”

  “How do you know it’s a Cottonwood?” asked Marie.

  “Shape of the leaves, the bark. Funny thing is, this black Cottonwood shouldn’t even be here. It’s indigenous to the Northwest part of the country. Around here are mostly Plains Cottonwoods.”

  He pointed at a gray squirrel climbing up the tree’s trunk. “That’s an Albert’s squirrel,” he told the students. “Cottonwoods make nice homes for squirrels and birds.”

  A blue bird whistled into the woods above them and landed on the old tree.

  “That is a Stellers Jay.” He glanced around the forest. “Plenty of magpies here, too. Trees like birds in their hair.”

  He tilted his head back, studying the branches of trees all around for other signs of wildlife.

  “You like trees, don’t you?” Amber said.

  “Yes, I do. The history and life of trees coexists with humans.”

  “How so?” Matt asked, pulling a folding chair up next to the teacher.

  “They need water and earth to survive. Like us they crave companionship. Some tree types such as the firs…”

  “Christmas trees are firs,” Marie said.

  “Very good, Marie! Some fir trees need to be grouped close together to survive.”

  “Like people in cities,” Matt suggested.

  “Others naturally space themselves from each other to receive enough rainfall. Look up at that pine tree across the creek. Notice that it’s shaped like a giant triangle. That makes it more efficient for the tree to collect sunlight since it grows close to other trees. And by its shape, with other trees, enough light is let in through the group canopy to allow the young seeds and sapling pines to grow beneath. Even though the fir trees compete for sunlight, they also share it to continue the species.”

  “So for the small trees, it’s like living in the shade of a parent,” said Amber.

  “Just like people. Maybe some trees live better lives than others,” Julio said. “Look at those sad little trees across the creek. They’re just hanging on, rubbing and poking at each other like crazy.”

  Mr. Battle studied the stand of runts. “Now other species of trees, they want a little space. The ones in that stand, for instance. A competition between cottonwoods and elms crammed together, their taproots burrowing in the soil, trying to figure out who will live and who will die among the species. Those varieties of trees can develop root systems longer than the tree is tall.”

  “Why are there so many types of trees around here?” Matt asked.

  “To reduce the possibility of extinction. Too many of one variety grouped together can’t withstand the spread of insects and disease from root to root. Mix them up with other kinds of trees and it increases their chances of survival.”

  “I see what you mean about trees being like people,” Amber said. “Look at us here. Not one alike in any way, shape, or form.”

  �
��And just like the fir trees, you think you need each other to survive. But I don’t see it that way. I think you’re each a Cottonwood, waiting to set your own taproot and make a stand as an individual. But you hold yourselves and each other back from your true potential.”

  “What are you saying, Mr. B? That we’re no good for each other?” Matt asked.

  “Sometimes, a peer can be your worst enemy. Maybe you share the same dilemma as these trees. Who of you will survive and who will perish?” Mr. Battle asked. “Who wants to be the big proud Cottonwood hovering over the rest? That one enormous tree? The one that grows through the sidewalk and breaks up concrete? Who prefers to be the small ponderosa or the stubborn scrub oak clutched to a bare gravel hill? What kind of tree do you want to be? The good tree preserving the species and planting seeds? Or the bad tree with shallow roots spreading fungus and hoarding water?”

  None of the Tadpoles spoke. They just sat there, looking between each other and the teacher. What was Mr. Battle getting at? That the little group, their gang wasn’t working out for any of them? That they weren’t good for each other? That they were lousy friends? What?

  “Break time,” announced Mr. Battle. “Matthew, want to pass out the food and sodas?”

  Matt popped open the cooler. Inside were cold sodas and foot long sandwiches. He dished them out. After everyone started eating, the conversation started again

  “How can you tell how old a tree is?” Matt asked.

  “Trees are like people. While we’re babies, adolescents, teenagers and adults, trees are three-foot seedlings, then tenfoot saplings, before maturity. You can estimate the age of seedling and sapling trees by counting the spaces in between the whorls of branches they produce each summer. With adult trees, they’re considered pole size - between six and ten inches - then standard size up to two feet. After that, we get the veterans with trunks over two feet in diameter. Once again, trees are like people. This veteran Cottonwood tree that protects us typically lives to age seventy, but with a little nurturing, some luck, a few less hail storms, a few extra sunny days and no bad neighbors eating away at his roots, who is to say the tree can’t live two hundred years?”

  The students munched on their food, hungry for knowledge.

  “Why do you like trees, Amber?”

  “They make me feel good. Something about their constant movement from the wind.”

  “I dig the shadows they create.” Toby stood up and used his hands to speak. “And I dig the way they sound when lightning hits them and they crash to the ground.”

  “Because of their stature, strength and longevity, some people plant trees as living memorials to those they love,” Battle said.

  “So the memory of the dead person lives on every time you sit under the tree?” Amber liked the notion. She looked at all the trees around her, then pointed at the Cottonwood. “Mr. Battle, if we ever graduate from high school, I officially nominate this Cottonwood tree as a living memorial in your honor. Those opposed raise your hands.”

  All hands stayed down.

  “Those who approve say ‘aye’.”

  “Aye,” said the other teenagers.

  “It’s official then, teacher. You help us get through school…”

  “And the tree is yours,” finished Toby.

  Everyone attacked his or her sandwich again. Afterwards, they took turns rinsing their hands in the cold, clear, creek water.

  “Is it true that Jesus didn’t write the Bible?” Marie asked as she wiped her hands on her skirt.

  Mr. Battle answered, “Jesus never wrote anything. Like Socrates, it was left to oral historians and later writers to interpret his life.”

  “So how do we know the Bible’s even true?”

  “You have to have faith.”

  “I’m curious, Mr. Battle. Do you believe in God?”

  “Yes. How else can you explain all this magic around us?”

  “Evolution,” said Matt.

  “Prove to me that you can create something from nothing, then we’ll talk,” Toby spoke.

  “Does your belief in God come from faith or fear?” Amber asked Mr. Battle.

  “Hmmm. What is faith?”

  “Blind optimism,” Amber said.

  “What is fear?

  “Blind ignorance.”

  “I suppose I can safely say that my god comes from the great wonder.” He picked up a rock for demonstration. “You and I, we live our lives in the human day to day. This rock, it has its own life, a different sense of time. If left alone, it will still be here for thousands of years. These trees, that sky above... Everything lives on its own calendar. This body of mine, this vessel that carries my thoughts and spirit around, soon it will shrivel and die and poof! I will have been just a wrinkle in your time.”

  Amber shook her head, disagreeing. “That’s not true Mr. Battle! You will have this tree as a memorial. You’ll have us to remember you.”

  “For a time, perhaps. But you can’t hide in these woods forever. Some day, sooner than later, you have to move on.”

  “You mean, grow up?”

  “Yes.”

  The conversation drifted into silence as the wind blew quiet serenity through the woods.

  Suddenly, a spasm grabbed Mr. Battle. It sent a shock from his brain to his arms and legs like a bolt of lightning. It quickly disappeared. He closed his eyes with a tight squint and tried to concentrate on his breathing.

  “You okay, Mr. B?” Matt knelt at his feet.

  “Too much talking.”

  Battle reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of pills and ate them, chasing them down with water.

  “What’s with the pills?” Julio said.

  “I get migraines sometimes.”

  “Is that why you walk with a cane?”

  “Sure.” Mr. Battle took a deep breath, trying to savor the moment with the kids. “This place. You chose it well. Like a secret garden. This tree - this great learning tree. That bridge

  - a threshold to other worlds that await you all someday!”

  The Tadpoles studied their surroundings like they’d never seen them before. There was magic and power here.

  “This isn’t a hideout, it’s a retreat,” Mr. Battle announced.

  The students nodded.

  “So…” Battle changed the subject. “Christmas is coming. Shall we attend the dance?”

  “Our school’s too cheap to have a dance.”

  “Then we'll find another. Suits for the boys and gowns for the girls. Maybe even a limousine! I'm rich enough. Right, Matt?”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. B.”

  The teacher stood without his cane and danced in place, swaying at the hips. “I was quite the two-stepper in my day!”

  The five Tadpoles looked on.

  “Dude’s whacked,” Julio said.

  “I wish I could dance like that,” Matt said.

  “Then we'd have two crazies on our hands,” Julio slapped Matt on the back.

  Now the mad teacher wrapped his right arm around an imaginary partner and held up an invisible arm with his left. He slowly swooned with his ghost partner along the edge of the creek, twirling round and round, in and out of shadows and light.

  Amber’s imagination allowed her to see a beautiful woman in his arms. All was good in the world that afternoon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The next day was a Sunday.

  Mrs. Powell had asked John if he cared to go to church with her, but John declined. “I have something I need to do,” he decided.

  Thirty minutes later, he was driving the Toyota south on Cresta Avenue, keeping the foothills on his right. Clear directions that Mrs. Powell had written for him were on his lap. He remembered her instructions to the tee. “Follow the sign towards the zoo. When you reach North Cheyenne Canyon Road, turn right. It’s a nice seven-mile drive through the canyon. Further up the canyon, after you pass the waterfall, there are several trails to choose from with views of Mount Cutler and South Cheyenne Canyon and
Colorado Springs below. Watch out for teenagers hanging out on rocks or shooting downhill on their skateboards. Watch out for mountain lions and black bears too! The mule deer are harmless.”

  “And the birds, Mrs. Powell? The kingfishers and hummingbirds? Do they swarm when they attack?” he asked playfully.

  She set her dead husband’s old rimmed hunting hat on his head. “And please don’t come back with any poison ivy or oak.”

  “Anything else, Mrs. Powell?”

  “Don’t overexert yourself. Even though the canyon is close by, the area is fairly isolated.”

  “Anything else, Mrs. Powell?”

  “Enjoy the scenery. And remember - if the road turns to gravel or you find any decrepit tunnels on the road, then you’re on the old Gold Camp Road. I think it has been closed for years, but I could be wrong. If you see a tunnel, you’ve gone too far.” She was becoming quite the mother hen.

  John turned the Toyota west on the pink granite canyon road. As he followed along Cheyenne Creek the land rose abruptly. Steep granite walls hundreds of feet high embraced both sides of the steep canyon.

  “Where the mountains meet the foothills and plains,” John mused, rolling down his side window for some fresh air.

  The Toyota took the winding, looping canyon road higher and higher. It was a sunny day. Speeding cyclists sped past him downhill from the mountain followed by a Forest Service truck hauling garbage and a van of sightseeing tourists from a local hotel returning from a photo shoot at a local waterfall.

  The wind whistled along the adjacent running stream. Stuck to the canyon walls were canopies of Douglas, White Fir, Ponderosa, and Aspen trees growing in moist, rocky pockets. John understood the impact of weather on the high-country forest; an extreme of freezing temperatures, snows, heavy rains and flash flooding. And in the summer came the everpresent fear of drought and fires.

  After driving several miles, wheeling left and right and left again on a dozen ascending switchbacks, the SUV suddenly rolled onto gravel road.