“A good point, Abraxas,” put in Levi Samson.
Ajax asked for a consensus, but only a few voices responded. This is where rule by consensus sucks, thought Oberon, and then he announced that perhaps the issue should be tabled for the time being. “You may take comfort in the statue quo, Abraxas.”
“So it seems. But I wish we could agree on a warm welcome instead.”
“Oberon, may I speak?” It was Mary’s voice, nervous but firm.
“Of course, Mary.”
Anticipation buzzed like the deerflies that sought to get up their robes. “Jesus, it is true, became the man-god of one large group of sects,” Mary began. “But he was also a pacifist and a pantheist—a Jew by birth, a healer by grace, Messiah by conscription—but a man for all that, in sympathy with all life. A true lover of nature.”
At that, a dull roar of surprise rose up to greet the songs of juncos and tanagers above. “A pantheist? Christ?” “Who—Jesus Christ?” “What about dominion of nature?” “I know some Baptist birders—but I never thought of Jesus as a naturalist.”
Oberon banged his stick for order.
Now Polyxenes spoke up. “Oberon, I may be able to cast some light on this topic. I brought another poem today, which I found in a neo-pagan rag out of Glastonbury.”
Oberon nodded for him to continue.
“It’s called ‘Pan’s Dance,’ and it includes these lines: ‘Dearest Pan, brother of Christ, / we lay claim to the crown of summer— / together.’ Apparently Mary is not alone in holding such thoughts.”
“Is Mary a biblical scholar?” Abraxas whispered to Oberon.
“Of a sort,” he replied. “Maybe self-taught.”
“Thank you, Polyxenes. Furthermore,” Mary went on, “of all the male characters in the New Testament, Jesus was the least bigoted toward women. You could almost call him a feminist, in the context of the times—in contrast to his apostles, especially Paul, and many later leaders in his name. Abraxas, you said that Jesus spoke to all men of peace—but he spoke to the women as well, and loved them as much.”
“Lying witch!” Attalus hissed. “Heretic!”
Oberon spoke with controlled rage. “I’ll accept that as opinion, Attalus, if ungenerous.” He pinioned Attalus with his iron eyes. “Now, that’s it. Leave, and abide by our decisions, or shut up—unless you have something temperate to say. Any more acid like that and we’ll next see you in court.”
Attalus began to rise, thought better of it, and ground back into the grus.
“Please go on, Mary,” said Oberon.
“You are partly right, Attalus. I am a witch—of the old kind. One of the matrons of the Old Religion—the peaceful handmaidens to Diana and Demeter, the knowers of knowledge, the keepers of the green and the herbs. Too bad you and I can’t compare notes on lichens as medicinals and dyestuffs. But no witch of Satan, there being no Satan. The twisting of the horned one into the devil, the switching of witches into black-magic bitches, was accomplished by the same bureaucrats of the early church who edited the biblical canon to leave out some of the best bits—including certain passages that confirm what I have to say. Jesus knew that all life was intimately related and must be respected as such. Why do you think he went to the wilderness for revelation? It seems to me that he belongs here, right among Pan and the rest of his retinue.”
Consensus came quickly after that. Ajax laughed, shaking his head. “Well spoken, Mary—so he stays. Does the lightning rod remain as well?”
“Damn right it does,” a hitherto quiet brother named Homerus supplied. “Gaia plays no favorites, and Thor is an equal opportunity slinger of thunderbolts. But let’s hear your story, Mary. How did you come by your knowledge?”
“Not now,” Oberon insisted. “We’ve got to finish our business so Catherine can get back to Golden when her sisters are released from jail.” Attalus began to mutter about that being where they belonged, but an eye-arrow from Oberon hushed him cold. Then he said, “I am humbled, Mary. Now, on to an even pricklier point. How should we respond to the pine bark beetle and spruce budworm infestations that are killing many conifers in Colorado? Some say that left alone, they’ll turn the mountains brown and gray. They might threaten this very Grove. So what shall it be? Spray, or let them be?”
They all looked around them; dead red branches or rusty crowns signaled trees that would sooner or later perish before their time. “Oberon, what are our options?” asked Menelaus, a thickly bearded, thick-bodied beetle of a man, a former farrier.
“Well, aerial spraying has been attempted for both organisms, especially the budworm. They even tried DDT in Oregon until a bunch of students showed that it did more harm than good, shutting them down. The spraying has had little effect on the target insects, which are cyclical in any case, but it’s killed many other life-forms and sold a lot of chemicals. Sometimes individual trees can be successfully treated, but it’s expensive.”
“Does the National Park Service spray?” Menelaus asked.
“No. Essentially, they treat it as a natural phenomenon, although public pressure is rising to ‘do something’ up in certain scenic areas such as Forest Canyon in RMNP.”
“How about the Forest Service?”
“They’re equivocal, and in a tizzy about it. Lately, for the budworm, they’ve been blanketing whole forests with a bacterium that kills the larvae. Problem is, it kills butterflies and beneficial moths as well as the budworm.”
“Nukes ’em all, eh?”
“More than intended, anyway, as usual.”
“And what do private foresters do?” Menelaus concluded.
“Oh, they recommend clear-cutting forests at risk in order to halt the beetles’ spread. Which it does—at the loss of the forest. Clearly a case of the cure being worse, et cetera.”
And so it went, the nature monks debating questions of natural succession, the role of fire, insect population fluctuation and control, and whether it was appropriate to use biocides in a Pan-Pacific Grove. Oberon suggested that between cost, growing resistance, and the great acreage involved, eradication was impossible even if it were desirable. “The sooner we let things adjust to their own regime, the better. The so-called pests will crash, and the forest eventually regenerate. We’ve got to look at nature holistically, over the long term, and realize that death is not always a bad thing.”
“But brothers and sisters,” rebutted Sylvanus, who affected his idea of old-time monk’s talk, “I chose my name because I venerate trees. What will befall us, or avail us, if the Grove itself dies? Haven’t we a duty to these trees at least?”
“We all cherish trees, Sylvanus,” replied Xerxes. “But what do you love more? The trees or the forest? The nozzleheads believe in a chemical fix for everything, and the loggers can’t see the forest for the fees. But we wouldn’t think of paying off our mortgage with timber money.” He let this sink in. “Of course it’s sad when a beloved tree dies. Spray, you might save it; cut, you might save its neighbor. If these trees die, woodpeckers and nuthatches will join our meetings. And in time, aspens will take their place.”
“Oberon, let me speak.” Every eye looked toward Attalus.
“Go ahead,” said Oberon, thinking it had damned well better be on topic.
“I would only add,” he began, “that a forest with dead and dying trees supports a much more interesting and diverse flora of lichens and greater ecological complexity. Some foresters refer to such a dynamic forest as ‘overmature,’ in support of their clear-cutting agenda. It is folly to manage forests solely for profit. They’ll have their way at the forests’ peril. We must protect the trees from people more than from beetles.”
Shocked silence filled the Grove. His speech reminded them all of this brother’s worth, and why he was among them in the first place, and made them wish that he could somehow be reconciled to their common cause. Consensus followed for a watchful but tolerant stance toward the insects in question.
The air in th
e pine grove took on a new flavor and feel as the sun passed below the highest needles. A coolness arose, so that some members who had doffed their robes in favor of T-shirts and shorts now gathered the heavier garments around them again. Mary Glanville, in a long, plain cotton dress that Annie had lent her, pulled a shawl around her shoulders and drew in her sandaled feet. Catherine brought out a woolen sweater from her daypack. Annie felt a shiver beneath her chambray, more than the sweat of the earlier afternoon wicking off. The three women squeezed one another’s hands.
“Finally,” said Oberon, “we come to that matter of our joining households and peaceful forces with the Rocky Flats women’s encampment. We have already agreed in principle. Now, the actual union will take some doing, but I have no doubt it can happen if we decide that is the right end to pursue. Catherine, will you please say a word?” Then, “This is our guest, Catherine Greenland. She’ll tell us about the camp, and what she and her sisters hope to gain, and bring, by coming here to join us this winter—and perhaps beyond.”
Catherine’s sneakers crunched on the mix of gravel and pine needles underfoot. “Hello, everyone, good afternoon. I’m impressed by how you arrive at decisions, without the bitter factionalism that frustrates so many well-intended movements. I hope that will continue after you hear what I have to say.” She went on to tell the story of her band of women resisters. “And so we aim to advertise daily,” she summarized, “by our own presence, arrest, and commitment, that both preparation for nuclear holocaust and plutonium poisoning are going on in Colorado right now.”
“Catherine,” asked Bacchus, who’d so far been silent, “we admire your dedication to people. But what are your attitudes toward the rest of nature?”
“Most of us are unsophisticated in natural history, but we care about the countryside, the air, and the water; a lot of us feed and watch birds, and we garden. You can teach us a lot, and I hope we’ll have something to teach in return.”
“I have no doubt of that. But what conflicts do you foresee?” asked Levi Samson, a fair and slender autumn aspen of a man.
“None, if you will respect our privacy and our equality in all matters, and if we can manage the same. There may be, of course, some personality differences. But in a place where ego is kept in check and civility is respected”—she paused for a moment—“there should be no big problems.”
“Are all the members much like you?” asked Ajax.
“Not at all. We number among us radical feminists, lesbians, even two marginal misanthropes who have both been abused by men, but also mothers such as myself, a grown daughter or two, nurses, teachers, and clergy. If any among us can’t handle your lot, they need not come along, as a small presence will remain in Golden all winter.”
“And I daresay,” inserted Abraxas, “some of us will join you on the demonstration line if we are welcome.”
“You are most welcome,” Catherine replied. “But I know that at least one among you opposes this whole thing. Oberon, may we hear from the one who bears us ill will?”
“I bear no man ill will!” thundered Attalus. “Oberon! May I speak?”
“Carry on, Attalus. But be mindful of Catherine’s word: be civil!”
“It is difficult, when the Grove of Peace is invaded by evil in the flesh. I repeat: I bear no man ill will. And I include women, as long as they keep their own peace, apart from men of faith who would carry out their business—our business—away from sin and temptation. I may have rejected Rome in favor of an older Roman pantheon, but the early church got it right about women, as exemplified by Eve and Mary Magdalene. They carry the stain of sin and the capacity to corrupt good men. The Virgin alone—if only a metaphor, biologically speaking—was free of it. My brothers—you must see this! If we allow women in here, our fraternal comity will corrode, we will be tempted, we will fight, and the harridans will prevail. Why else do you think they want to intrude?”
“Attalus, I believe the invitation came from here, not from Golden. Anyway, aren’t you simply admitting the weakness of your own flesh, and your fear of it?”
“Miss Greenland. I respect you and your friends’ convictions. But you are wrong to leave your homes to confront men. If you win, it will be through corruption of those you oppose. These are matters for men to work out.”
“You think we’re trying to lay the boys from Rockwell?” she asked, astonished.
“This is plain nuts!” howled Xerxes.
“You too be civil, Xerxes,” said Oberon. “We must at least hear the man out.”
“Listen to yourselves,” Attalus implored. “You’re all bewitched already, or besotted with the prospects of the flesh.”
Menelaus turned to Ajax: “It’s worse than I thought; he’s completely mad.”
“Stark, raving,” agreed Ajax.
“That is fucked up,” came from the rear, and similar opinions flicked around the glade.
Contempt crackled like ozone before a storm, and a storm was indeed arising. Mary, Annie, and Catherine silently quaked in anger, too abashed to speak. Oberon was dying to quash Attalus, but resolved to let him cook his own goose a little longer.
“If you persist in this gambit,” Attalus continued, “then the order will fall. But you cannot do it without my approval; nor will you be able to achieve the necessary consensus, since I will never agree . . . and I daresay I may have won two or three adherents to my view.” He looked around, but found no takers.
“Attalus,” Sylvanus said with exquisite restraint, “we all love you as a brother of peace and Pan. We respect your knowledge, experience, and oratory, a lost art. But listen to yourself: you are severely misguided in the way of female human beings, not to mention wildly out of date. Don’t you know that that such notions have long been repudiated in all but the most benighted quarters?”
“But—”
“Besides,” Mary intervened, “are you equally deaf to Gaia and Mother Nature herself? Don’t you realize the essential femininity of the Old Ways? The preeminence of the female organism in biology? In evolution itself? No pistil, no stamen.”
“And many of the best botanists have been women,” Annie added.
“These women botanists of whom you speak,” Atallus answered, “they’re all right as amateurs, but they should confine their field of interest to the dooryard and the kitchen garden. As for those female earth deities, they are metaphors, nothing more, mythically expressing the fecundity and profligacy of the earth. Even you, Oberon, are a metaphor—you’re no unbiased founder. You’re a fanatical feminist, bent on shoving Titania down our throats.”
“Not the most felicitous way to put it,” said Oberon. “Look, Attalus, metaphor though I may be, I beg you to exercise the same sound judgment you displayed in the matter of the pine beetles. If for no other reason, consider the Grove! You said we must protect it. Well, if we fail, the Mormons are just waiting to pick up the mortgage and develop the place as a resort and conference center. Remember how you hated the new Dillon, the night we found Mary? This could be worse. Would you willingly sacrifice the Mountain Monastery as the thin edge of the wedge for the whole Peak to Peak under asphalt, plastic, and profit? All in the name of your narrow prejudices?”
Attalus stood dumb, like a stone.
“So. I call for a consensus on merger with the women’s encampment. If you dissent, you may walk the razor and fall on either side. Abide, or leave us!”
“But my veto . . .” whined Attalus through tears of rage. “The trusteeship . . .”
“Damn the trusteeship! If it holds up in court, which I doubt, there are plenty of other places we can go. The YMCA camp at Estes Park is going broke, we could get it for a song. The Lutherans are looking for an out from Twin Sisters Ranch. Since the Boy Scouts’ legal suit went against them, Camp Tahosa has been on the block. Any of these would do for us. You exercise your veto, and we will not only expel you from Magdalena Mountain, we too will likely leave. Then, if it’s developed, the fault will all
be yours.”
Oberon was bluffing his socks off, but he knew the ruse was necessary as his only tool against the veto. No one wanted to leave this place, least of all him.
“And then, Attalus, you’ll be out of the only home you’ve known for forty years; out of the brotherhood; out of the habitats you know and love; out of your lichen lab, library, and collections. And out of favor with the archbishop for blowing the deal. If they let you back in, you’ll be lucky to find yourself frying with the Franciscans down in Alamosa, where, by the way, I hear they have loose nuns as well. We would prefer to have you with us—if you can swallow your pride, your venom, and your ludicrous misconceptions about our sisters. Now chew on that, my friend, and make up your mind. I call for consensus.”
Lips tight like oysters all around, all hands went up but one. “And one abstention. Now”—Oberon could scarcely be heard—“will the trustee exercise his veto?” A single ponderosa needle fell onto Mary’s lap, and everyone heard it land.
Attalus, his fallen face smeared, rose and withdrew into the forest. And as the pines closed around the dark, departing form, Mary just watched.
30
In the morning, pulling apart was harder for James and Noni than splitting a geode with a rubber mallet. But knowing they had to, after one more sweet merger, they disconnected. Not risking another leisured soak in the hot springs, they washed the sex and sweat from their sore parts and limbs, dressed, kissed, and set out in separate directions. Each had a heck of a hike ahead, though Noni’s was mostly uphill before she could drop again to Gothic, while Mead’s was almost all downhill for fifteen miles. “Some Gothic people do the whole thing in a day,” Noni had told him. “Gothic to Conundrum to Aspen.”
“Now that would be a day hike and a half,” Mead told the aspens as he brachiated downslope between them. The scent of Noni hadn’t all washed off, especially on his mustache; every little while he curled his upper lip to his nostrils and smiled.
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