The Language of Trees

by Steve Wiegenstein

  “Where we are standing was once a seabed,” he said. “You can tell that from the fossils. Beneath it, volcanic activity that never reached the surface, but pushed up the layers of the rock above it. In a later era, the sea receded and exposed this uplifted rock.”

  Bridges had never heard him speak so simply and directly before. Surprised by Kessler’s swift description, he gazed back at the hillside with enhanced appreciation. Until now, it had only been a simple hill, a large, rocky mass with trees and bushes, a hindrance to travel and a site for labor. But now it was the scene of an ancient drama, a seabed teeming with life, underwater volcanoes boiling the water, mighty forces engaged in world-creation in a distant era.

  “And the silver?” Mr. Crecelius asked.

  “The silver is found at the boundary between the granite and the limestone,” Kessler said. “It runs on a horizontal axis, basically north to south, anywhere from ten to two hundred feet from the surface. Once we hit the granite there’s no point continuing. So we tunnel along the seam, up or down depending on where it leads us. We may be running out of it at the north end.”

  “And to the south?” They all gazed southward, past the dam and the mine tailings, as if they could somehow see the silver beneath the ground.

  “Ah,” said Kessler, warming to his lecture. “The south is less certain. As you can see, the river bends in here to form a bluff that runs a few miles downstream. But after that, the vein may pick up again. I’ve collected specimens.” He waved in the direction of the mine office on the hilltop, where his unappreciated specimens lay waiting.

  “Have you sunk any exploratory shafts?”

  Kessler tugged at his lip again. “Ah. We don’t own the land.”

  All eyes turned to Bridges. “That’s the little town I’ve written you about. Daybreak. They own all the way up to our line.”

  Mr. Crecelius’ eyes narrowed and his enormous mustache billowed. “I want to see this,” he said. “Let’s get going.”

  Mason, who had been quiet all this time, spoke up. “Easier said than done, sir. We could cross the river here at the dam, but then we’d be on the wrong side, and it’s a hard day’s chopping to reach the ford at Daybreak, not to mention the copperheads along the way. We’re better off backtracking.”

  “Not if we travel by boat,” Bridges said. “The men here have flat-bottomed boats they use for fishing on Sundays. They hold three or four people. We can send word back and have a wagon waiting for us at Daybreak for the trip to the railcar.”

  Mr. Crecelius nodded, and ten minutes later he was sitting in the prow of a johnboat as it slid quietly downstream. Bridges and Dr. Kessler occupied the middle seats and one of the miners poled from the stern. Mason and Ramsey had been left behind to settle the books at the mine and then ride to town to wire ahead for their pickup.

  “Interesting,” Mr. Crecelius said, inspecting the craft. “Makes me think of the sandoli of Venice, but with a blunt bow instead of a pointed one.”

  Dr. Kessler gripped the rough wooden sides of the johnboat, less interested in the boat’s design than its gentle rocking as the miner poled it across the current. Bridges understood his distraction but knew he needed to keep alert to Mr. Crecelius, whose seat at the front was far more perilous should they hit a snag. But the man appeared indifferent to his wobbly spot.

  “Seabed, eh?” Mr. Crecelius said to Kessler. “You’re one of those evolutionists then, I take it.”

  “I—ah—”

  “That’s all right. I don’t mind a man who holds controversial ideas.”

  “Honestly, sir, I’ve not addressed the subject. I study geology, not biology.”

  Mr. Crecelius chuckled. “I’ve never liked to hedge bets. I’ll tell you this, I haven’t studied it either, but I like the idea. It makes sense to me. All my life has been spent in search of competitive advantage to better my position against my adversaries, and as a result I have thrived.”

  The talk of struggle for survival sent a pensive look across Mr. Crecelius’ face, and he sat silent for a while. Then he roused himself. “Bridges, that man who played the fiddle instead of coming to inspection.”

  “Sir?”

  “Send his name down to J. B. White in Grandin. I want him blacklisted from every mill in the state. The American Lumber and Minerals Company is not to be trifled with.”

  Bridges wanted to tell him not to worry, that Bodark Wilfong had declared himself for the berry patch, but held his peace. The miner poling their johnboat would soon be repeating their entire conversation around the bunkhouses. No need to fuel any more talk than necessary.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Their boat parted the water with the slightest of ripples, and as they rounded a bend the sound of the mine’s ore crusher faded into silence. For a few minutes, coasting quietly in a smooth stretch of water, Bridges could imagine himself to be the author of Scenes and Adventures, traversing virgin territory from outpost to outpost, crossing Indian trails, killing elk and bear, though he knew it was a momentary fantasy.

  “Looky there,” said the miner, pointing with his pole.

  A fat copperhead was swimming the river, its body flat across the surface of the water, leaving a low ripple that matched the johnboat’s wake on a smaller scale.

  “Pole over there,” Mr. Crecelius said. “I want to take a closer look.”

  “That’s a poisonous snake, sir,” Kessler said.

  “I know it’s a poisonous snake! Pole behind it, man. I’m not going to try to pick it up. I just want a better look.”

  The miner poled as directed, and soon the boat was following the copperhead as it swam toward the east bank, its body moving with mesmerizing grace.

  “I didn’t know copperheads were swimmers,” Bridges said.

  “Oh yeah,” said the miner. “They fill up their lungs so they float. That’s why they stay on top like that.”

  “Damn, I wish I had my pistol,” Mr. Crecelius said. “I’d have a damn fine skin. Beautiful animal.” He was leaning over the bow of the boat, his nose halfway to the surface of the water, confident in his nearness as the snake had no ground from which to strike. It swam on.

  “Your regular water snake,” the miner said, “will swim with just his head above water. He’s a better swimmer than this boy, not that we could outswim either one of ’em. But you’ll excuse me, I have to send us back the other way before we run up on that sandbar.” And with a few sharp pushes, he steered the johnboat into the current as the copperhead reached the far bank, resting its head on land and letting its body rest beneath the surface.

  The river bent to the left as the bluff on their right gradually angled away from them. Bridges pointed toward the narrow valley that widened as they floated southward. “Here’s where the Daybreak property starts.”

  They drifted downstream into the shadow of the mountain. Bridges remembered when he had stumbled off that mountain into the Daybreak cemetery—and smack into Josephine Mercadier and her mother. It seemed a lifetime ago, but in reality had been only a few months. Had he been as big an ignoramus as he recalled? And had he progressed in his understanding since then? It was hard to know.

  “By God, those are some fine trees,” Mr. Crecelius said. “Two thousand board feet in a single one of those beauties, I’ll wager.” Bridges didn’t doubt it. The pines along the ridgetop were forty feet to the first branch. If they ever persuaded the Daybreak folks to sell, they’d need to skid the logs down here, to the river, and raft them to the rail spur at Greenville. They’d be too big to take overland any distance.

  Mr. Crecelius jolted him from his musing. “And why is it that we haven’t harvested these trees yet?”

  “They haven’t made their minds up about selling.”

  “Ha! People who haven’t made up their minds are just waiting to hear the figure they want.” He looked at Kessler. “And the silver?”

  “If the vein picks up again on this side of the bluff—and I’m not saying it does—it should be along
that stratal boundary, fifteen or twenty feet above the river level. How far back into the hillside, we have no way of knowing.”

  One more push of the steersman’s pole and they were past the undergrowth along the riverbank and coasting toward the river crossing. “I’ll give them this, it’s a pretty spot,” Mr. Crecelius said.

  And so it was, Bridges thought. The ferry sitting quietly at the landing, a hayfield with a team pulling a Deering sickle mower, and behind the hayfield rows of crops, fenced in to keep out roving hogs and cattle. In the distance he could see children playing in front of the big stone building where they held their community meetings.

  “Doesn’t look like the wagon from the mill has made it this far yet,” Bridges said as the johnboat ran ashore with a gentle scrape. “We can walk to meet it.” To the miner, he asked, “Can you pole this boat back upstream to the mine?”

  “Sure,” the miner said. “Ain’t no current in the summer.”

  The three men disembarked, and in a couple of minutes they had reached the fork where the road into Daybreak branched off. The hay-cutter had already noticed them.

  “The wagon will come up from that way,” Bridges said, pointing down the main road.

  “I guessed that,” Mr. Crecelius said. “Let’s walk into this village. Our men will find us, and I want to get a look at these miraculous creatures who are not motivated by money. Perhaps I’ll learn their secrets.”

  There was no way to say no, and as they took the turn into Daybreak Bridges saw that the children had caught sight of them now and were running toward them for a better look. So they were to be the day’s novelty. A moment later, he realized that some of the women of the village had been keeping watch on the children and were on their way to see what the commotion was about. He didn’t like where this was headed. And to his dismay, he saw in the group of women advancing toward him the unmistakable form of Josephine Mercadier.

  Chapter 18

  Josephine had already about had her fill of Rose Rain and Lily Breeze, and they weren’t even full members yet. Their constant bickering had a theatrical quality, barely connected to whatever they were bickering about, more to keep attention than to make a point. The motto in the community was to appreciate each other’s differences and build harmony out of them, but these two turned differences into distinctions, comparing and complaining, until Josephine began to wonder if she would need to call them out in front of everyone.

  Perhaps the problem would sort itself out as more people got to see this pair in action, but for now, Josephine bore the brunt, as they had taken child care duty this week. She had listened to them snipe for four days and was ready to pass them to someone else, take on field work, cook work, anything to break the drone of their voices and their lack of restraint. And when the children spotted the strangers walking up the road and dashed to see them, Rose Rain and Lily Breeze ran too, like a couple of nine-year-olds off to see the monkey show.

  Except they weren’t strangers, at least two of them weren’t, anyway. She recognized Bridges easily, and the gent with the mane of white hair was the geologist from the mine. The third was an older man, mostly bald, with a bristly mustache and an air of determination as he walked, as if he planned to make twenty miles today. Josephine waited for the whole group to approach.

  “An odd day for a stroll, Mr. Bridges,” she said, smiling, as they arrived.

  Bridges tipped his hat, revealing a band of sweaty hair stuck to his forehead. “It is indeed,” he said. “I believe you’ve met Dr. Kessler.”

  “I have.” Josephine extended her hand. “But I’m afraid I don’t remember your first name.”

  “Adolphus.” Kessler gave her a slight bow. “Adolphus Augustus.”

  She gave him a smile. “Now there’s a name to fill your plate. I feel sorry for your tombstone carver.”

  “And this is Mr. Crecelius, my employer.”

  So this was the celebrated millionaire. Josephine noticed Bridges’ nervousness and held her peace. She shook the man’s proffered hand and turned to Rose Rain and Lily Breeze, both of whom hovered near Bridges. “I believe you’ve met our two new provisional members, Rose Rain and Lily Breeze, but I doubt you’ve been properly introduced.”

  “Provisional members, eh?” Crecelius looked at the two young women. “Postulants to the order.”

  “What’s a postulant?” Rose Rain asked.

  “A new recruit, as it were.” Crecelius looked the girls up and down.

  “Oh yes, that’s us,” Rose Rain exclaimed. “New recruits all the way.”

  “Tell me,” Crecelius said, warming to his subject. “What drew you to this community? A couple of pretty young things like you, I’ll imagine you have plenty of choices in life.”

  Rose Rain was about to speak again, but Lily Breeze interrupted her. “What’s an old crank like you know about the choices of young women?”

  Crecelius waved his hand, unfazed by the choice of words. “Not enough, I’ll grant you. But I’d venture to say there are swains about.”

  “That’s what I’d like,” Rose Rain said. “To lie on the sofa and fan myself while I choose from the boys.”

  “You’ve certainly picked the wrong location for that,” Josephine said, trying to keep the tone light. But Lily Breeze didn’t share her sister’s flirtatious mood.

  “In answer to your question,” she said, “we were led here by Brother Braswell.”

  “So it’s a religious matter, then.”

  “You could say that. Brother Braswell leads, and we follow.”

  Tired of the adults standing and talking, the children had scattered, leaving them in the dusty road. “Let’s get out of the sun, anyway,” Josephine said. “You can tell us what brought you all the way from town on such a hot August day.”

  She led them past the houses at the north end of the village, past the Temple of Community, toward the springhouse at the community’s center. She noticed that Bridges kept himself between Crecelius and the talkative girls, but she wasn’t sure who was being shielded from whom.

  “We’ve been inspecting the mine and decided to come down here by boat,” Bridges said to her over his shoulder. A wagon is on its way to meet us.”

  “So you didn’t come to see us. We are just a turnstile along your way.” To his confused look she added. “I’m teasing you.”

  “Oh, good.” Bridges gave her a tentative smile. As Crecelius was occupied with the Rose Rain and Lily Breeze, he fell back to walk alongside her. “I didn’t know you teased. You are so often serious.”

  “Perhaps you should write it down.” They exchanged glances, and he saw she was still teasing. “I’ve been reading the book you gave me,” she added.

  “And?”

  “It’s rather boring so far, I’m afraid.”

  He laughed. “I haven’t finished it myself. I kept falling asleep.”

  “My dear girl,” Crecelius interjected, “we actually did come to see you. Not you personally, although I can certainly understand that motive.” He bowed in what she took to be an attempt at gallantry. “But your community is the object of my curiosity.”

  “Well, here we are,” Josephine said with a wave of her arm that took in the scope of the community. “Look around and ask whatever you want. We’re used to it.” At the springhouse, she took the dipper off the hook and drew out a draft of the spring water, handing it to Crecelius. He drank it down and smacked his lips.

  “By Gad, that is fine tasting water!” he exclaimed. “Take a drink, Kessler. My New York water tastes like mud and fish, and I’ll venture your Chicago water does too. That’s why I only drink wine.”

  Kessler drank as well. “Quite right, sir. The wise man’s drink, water. I believe it’s the temperature and perhaps some dissolved minerals that make this specimen so refreshing.”

  “Always the man of science, eh, Kessler? We murder to dissect. Cease from analysis and simply enjoy.”

  “Can’t do it, I’m afraid,” Kessler said, holding the dipper t
o the window to see the water better. “A slight blue tint here, I think. Perhaps the presence of magnesium. But where is your spring?”

  “The spring is farther up the hill,” Josephine told him. “In the early days the settlers built a box sluice to carry the water down here, and it served the whole community. Nowadays we all have wells, but I still like the spring water for drinking and washing.”

  “Ingenious!” Kessler cried as they walked behind the springhouse to see the sluice. “Your old settlers were a crafty lot.”

  “Considering what they had to work with,” Crecelius said with a sniff. “Primitive times back then.”

  “And how would you do it differently today?” Josephine asked, a little miffed although she was determined not to antagonize the old man.

  “Run it into a holding tank up there,” Crecelius said, pointing up the hill. “Then pipe it down to the houses. Why should every house need a well and a pump? Centralize the whole system.”

  Josephine had to admit it wasn’t a bad idea. The spring ran nonstop and could surely outpace their drinking and cooking needs. But the outlay for pipes and apparatus would be more than they could spend in a dozen years. “You’re a big thinker, I’ll give you that,” she said.

  “Big is the only way to think,” he replied. “In New York, we’re putting out electricity to the whole city. Streets lit up to where you can’t tell day from night. That’s what thinking big gets you.”

  “I would think it desirable to be able to tell day from night.”

  “Just a figure of speech, Miss Pert. One thing I can tell about this community, the women are a free-talking lot.”

  “I’m sure life is fine in New York, daytime or night.”

  “It is if you’ve got the will to seize it, miss. It’s a fierce place, and not for the timid.”

  “Red in tooth and claw, eh?”

  Crecelius gave her an appreciative look. “You’re not unlettered. I like that. Yes, the city is like nature itself. It rewards the fit and punishes the weak.”

  “And you take yourself to be one of the fit.”