The Language of Trees

by Steve Wiegenstein

  “Today, yes. Tomorrow, who knows. The struggle for existence is continuous. Someone is always coming up to take your place.”

  “And a community such as ours, which operates on the principle of cooperation?”

  Crecelius’ chin jutted out. “I engage in cooperation almost daily. There’s nothing wrong with cooperation. I don’t claim it as a principle.”

  Josephine took the dipper back and set it in its place. “Shall we tour our village?” she asked. As they walked, she sensed Bridges behind her, stirring nervously, and understood his anxiousness. An argument was brewing, and he could not intervene against his boss, but he didn’t want to offend her either. Fine, then. If he wanted to court her, he needed to learn that she did not bend her knee. So he was uncomfortable. People learned from discomfort. But then she caught a glimpse of his pained face, and felt pity for him. She turned to Dr. Kessler.

  “Our man of science, then. The law of nature is also the law of man?”

  Kessler cleared his throat. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Man is an animal that needs sustenance to survive, and the competitive sense is innate in the animal kingdom. But of course man has the moral sense, which no other creature possesses.”

  At this Crecelius laughed. “Keep your moral sense out of my business affairs, that’s all I ask. I have a hard enough time making a profit as it is.” To their silence, he added, “The amount of money I give to charities every year would stagger the imagination.”

  She inclined her head, just a nod to acknowledge his assertion. “I have no doubt of that, and I have no wish to argue or accuse. You wish to learn about us, and I wish to learn about you.”

  “Bully for you, girl!” Crecelius exploded. “That’s the spirit! Every day I hear from people who want to tell me that making money is immoral.”

  “I’m not saying it is or isn’t,” she said. “Even here in Daybreak, we make money for our community. We buy and sell like anyone else. Where we differ is what we do with the money we earn.”

  “But you must admit, that by those terms, I am the more successful.”

  “You make more money than we. I don’t see that as success. We have made different choices about what to do with our labor and efforts.” She spoke to Kessler again. “How long can a person expect to live in New York? Or Chicago?”

  “I don’t know, miss.” Kessler shrugged. “About the same as here, I suppose. Fifty years, perhaps.”

  “So I am just as successful as either of you, by that measure. And I get to drink the best water in the world as well.”

  By now they had reached the south end of the village. In the distance they could see a wagon approaching, the one Bridges had mentioned, no doubt.

  “I make it a policy never to quarrel with a pretty girl,” Crecelius said. “Come to New York sometime, and we’ll see if my oysters and wine beat out your fine cold water.”

  They shook hands, and the men walked toward the crossroad to meet the wagon. Josephine caught an appreciative glance from Bridges as she turned. She smiled to herself, hiding it from the others by a quick turn of her head, but pleased nonetheless at his relieved expression. So she was capable of diplomacy after all, yet without the simpering eagerness to please that she despised. Perhaps there was a middle ground to be discovered between the oafs of her experience and the dreamlike creatures in the novels she read. Certainly that middle ground was not to be found in Crecelius’ clumsy invitation. Wine and oysters indeed. She would have to tease Mr. Bridges about that the next time he came calling.

  And as she turned toward the village, and Rose Rain and Lily Breeze warmed up to their argument again, she overheard Crecelius’ voice. “Bridges, get me those trees.”

  Chapter 19

  When Adam Turner opened the letter from Scribner’s Monthly accepting some of his poems, he began to cry in relief that his long-delayed recognition might finally be arriving. And when he saw that payment had been enclosed as well, he stopped crying and began to calculate. Could a man make a living from poetry? Not likely. The men he admired all used their poetry as a base, and brought in their real income from speaking and other writing. So he’d need to work on his speaking skills, just like his father had done.

  But what to do with the money? He ran his finger along the edge of the banknote, so crisp and new. He had decided to hold back whatever he made from his writing from the common treasury. But how to do it? He had no bank account of his own, and could think of no hiding place that wasn’t accessible to the others in the community. Penelope, bless her heart, was enough of a true believer that he didn’t dare tell her about his idea. She’d insist on throwing his ten dollars in with everyone else’s.

  So he needed a hiding place. The barn and other buildings would never do. Too many people in and out at all times, not to mention the mice that could eat away at his money. The only place that made sense was the mountain.

  And then, Adam realized he knew just what to do. He’d noticed an old flint-and-steel tinder box on a shelf in the community barn, forgotten who knows how long ago by some unmindful hunter back in the muzzle-loading days, covered in dust to the point that it looked more like a flat rock than a manmade object. He returned to the barn and found the tinder box, wiping off the dust on the back of his trousers. The spring clasp on the lid still held firm. He popped it open, shook out the moldy tinder, and replaced it with his banknote, tightly rolled. He could fit plenty more banknotes in this tight little box.

  At the south end of the valley, behind the Pettibones’ house, an intermittent spring filled a muddy basin with slightly sulfurous water, unused for anything except the occasional poultice that his mother placed on the chests of croupy children. Adam made his way there from the barn, crossing through the fields to avoid meeting anyone. At the spring he studied his choices. A ring of rocks surrounded the mouth of the spring; he pried one up, but the indentation quickly filled with water. He would need to climb higher up.

  Adam remembered that above the spring was a cave, where the settlers before Daybreak had dug out mud to work into saltpeter. He climbed the slope to the cave entrance and squatted in front of it. The air from the cave, which in the winter seemed so warm, now felt cool and earthy in the late summer air.

  Only a few rotted pillars and a rusted bucket remained from the saltpeter works. Adam located a flat rock a few feet from the cave’s entrance, pried it up, and scooped out a small hole beneath it. He dropped in the tinder box, replaced the rock, and set the bucket on top of it to help him remember.

  A long time had passed since he had come up here. They had played around the cave entrance as children, but he had never liked the place. The smell reminded him of open graves, and the smell of open graves reminded him of an unpleasant memory, the death of his father, being brought to the bedside as he was dying, the dry mustiness of his breath and the rattle of his voice as he stammered out a few words, and the sickening sense that all things good were now gone forever. Of course that hadn’t been true, they had carried on and prospered, but at the time Adam had felt as if it was his life coming to an end along with his father’s. He had never understood why his mother liked to visit the cemetery. For Adam, the cemetery was the place where good things went away.

  There was a fine view from the cave entrance, a hundred feet above the valley floor. He could see up to the main part of the village, and from there his gaze swept southward to his mother’s house, the Pettibones’, and the road out toward French Mills, where to his surprise, his brother Newton was walking toward Daybreak in his usual posture, leaning ahead as if into a stiff wind. Now where had he been, out in the middle of the day?

  Might as well find out. Newton was one to skulk. So although Adam knew he had no room to judge at this moment, he scrambled down the hillside, retraced his steps behind the barn, and strolled down the road to intercept him. He slowed as they came near, so as not to seem intent.

  “Hello, brother,” Adam said. “Out and about of an afternoon?”

  “More or less,” s
aid Newton. He had a sour look on his face that Adam first thought was a cover for his real feelings, but then realized was his habitual expression these days. Newton so felt the burden of being the leader, the man of the house as he had declared himself after Father’s death, the president of the community at an early age, that his expression had permanently clamped itself into a pinched and unhappy look that he probably thought made him look serious. Adam reminded himself not to assume ill.

  “I’ve been down with Barton Braswell and his flock,” Newton continued. “Since they’re provisional members, I thought it a good idea to keep them informed. I go down there once or twice a week.”

  “Well, fry me for breakfast, “Adam said. “That old fraud’s not trying to convert you, is he?”

  Newton’s expression dropped another degree. “I don’t know who’s trying to convert whom,” he said. “They all seem receptive to our community’s principles, but I have to spend half the afternoon hearing about the Old Testament and the unbroken line of history from Egyptian times to the present day.”

  “Maybe it’s the pretty girls down there that draw you week after week,” Adam said with a nudge. To his surprise, Newton didn’t joke back, but pulled away with an angry look.

  “I’ll not have this leering,” he said. “These are future citizens of Daybreak you’re talking about. What are you doing out wandering around, anyway?”

  “Same as you,” said Adam. “Spreading my benevolent influence. Actually, I am out wandering around because I feel good today. I had some of my poems accepted by Scribner’s.”

  Newton lost his angry look in a flash, and Adam regretted his smart remark. “Congratulations, little brother,” Newton said. “Have you told Mama yet? She’ll be proud.”

  “Just got the letter,” Adam said. “Haven’t seen anyone to tell until you.” They shook hands. “Sorry for teasing you about the girls.”

  Newton took a breath but paused on the edge of saying something. “That’s all right,” he said. “Forgive my spleen.”

  He walked on, leaving Adam to wonder what to do next. Perhaps he should stop by his mother’s house. He owed her a visit, and perhaps this news would ease the strain that had come between them lately.

  Still—

  His mood was good and he felt no need to risk it. Why not enjoy the day a little more? He would be needed to help with the harvest, but he could get there late. If Newton could wander about chatting with all and sundry, he could do the same. Besides, the artistic life needed free leisure for creative thought.

  Which way to go? Up the road or down? Up the road meant passing through Daybreak, with all its eyes and questions. Down the road was Bras-well and his odd crew, people he didn’t particularly care to engage with. He decided to do neither. He would go to the river instead and enjoy the peace and beauty.

  At the edge of the river was the immense sloping rock where his mother liked to sit. Adam usually avoided that spot. It was his mother’s private place, and she didn’t like to be disturbed. But this morning he followed the path through the brush. He felt in his pocket for his notebook. This would be a good place to gather thoughts.

  But he was not alone. His father-in-law, John Wesley Wickman, squatted at the far edge, splashing his hands in the water, his clothes disheveled and his face unshaven. Adam didn’t want to startle him, so he called from a distance.

  “Good morning, John Wesley,” he said. The elder man turned without haste and waved a silent greeting. “You’re out and about,” Adam added.

  “I had to shit,” Wickman said.

  Adam didn’t know what to say in return. “Well, here you are,” he said finally, joining him at the end of the rock.

  “Trying to wash my hands,” Wickman said. “Not so easy.”

  “Here, let me steady you.” Adam knelt and gripped him around the waist so he could bend closer to the stream and dip his hands in.

  “You bring a towel?”

  “No,” Adam said. “You can wipe your hands on the back of my shirt.”

  Wickman did so. “Lucy’s going to kill me,” he said. “That girl watches me like a hawk, bless her. She doesn’t like me to go out by myself. But sometimes a man’s just got to be alone.”

  Adam was about to say, “You mean Sarah,” when he realized that John Wesley was talking about his oldest daughter, who had died in the last big cholera outbreak before Sarah or Penelope were even born, ‘57 or ‘58 or so. He kept his peace.

  “Good day for the harvest,” he ventured.

  Wickman looked up at the sky. “If you say so,” he said. “I was never one to read the weather signs. I always let your father and Mr. Webb do that. They could usually tell when it would rain or be clear. Me, I kept the books.”

  “That’s just as important.”

  “Damn right it is! These hilltoppers, they look all homespun, but they’ll skeeve you out of the true weight on a load of grain just as quick as a city man. You’ve got to keep a tight watch on the books.”

  Adam made as if to stand. “Suppose we’d better get back,” he said.

  “No!” said Wickman. “I came down here to watch the birds. I want to watch the birds a while.”

  “All right.”

  “That one there, that dips and dives along the water so. That one’s my favorite. See how she skims! Right along the water, and dips to snatch a bug without so much as slowing down. I wish I knew its name.”

  “That’s a kingfisher.”

  “Kingfisher! I knew that! I just forgot it.”

  Adam stayed quiet.

  “Kingfisher,” Wickman repeated. “Have you got a piece of paper? I want to write that down.”

  “I do,” said Adam. “I keep a notebook with me.” He handed it to Wickman along with the stub of a pencil he kept in his shirt pocket.

  “Kingfisher,” Wickman repeated, jotting it down. “Beautiful bird, very fast, flies along the water.” He flipped through the pages of the notebook. “Why look here, boy, you copy out poems! I used to do that. I should do that again. These are fine.”

  “Thank you,” Adam said. “Actually, I’m not copying these out. I’m writing them. These are mine.”

  “They are? Good for you. I love a good poem.” He handed the notebook to Adam and stood up. “‘By the shores of Gitche Gumee, by the shining Big-Sea-Water, stood the wigwam of Nokomis, daughter of the Moon, Nokomis,’” he declaimed. “‘Dark behind it rose the forest, rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, rose the firs with cones upon them; bright before it beat the water, beat the clear and sunny water, beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.’ Now there’s a good poem. I used to recite it to the missus. Hours at a time. She liked it too, or at least she put up with me reciting it. Made me think of our little cottage, forest behind and water before.”

  Adam took his elbow and gently turned him toward the village. “Won’t be long till lunch,” he said.

  “It won’t? My, how the time goes. We’d better get back, then.”

  They walked in single file up the gentle slope until they reached the road. Then Adam matched his pace to Wickman’s as he guided him toward Daybreak, where he could see a knot of people clustered at the door of Sarah and the old man’s house, with Sarah on the doorstep and Penelope beside her. Organizing a search party, he supposed.

  “How’d you come by John Wesley for a name, anyway?” he asked as they neared the village. He knew that once they were noticed, there would be a rush and a great fuss, and he hoped to keep Wickman distracted as long as possible before that happened. “Methodist family?”

  “Oh, yes,” Wickman said. “Mother and Dad were great Methodists. Baltimore was a hotbed of Methodism, you know. But Frances’ parents were Catholic, so when we came out here we let that all drift off. I don’t think our parents have forgiven us yet. Haven’t heard from them in ever so long.”

  Adam didn’t try to correct him. It seemed pointless. Another few yards, and someone noticed them. Penelope’s “where have you been?” glare changed instantly to one of relief w
hen she saw who was accompanying him, and the daughters came toward them at a fast walk, trying to conceal their fright.

  “Kingfisher,” said Wickman.

  Chapter 20

  Sarah Wickman had faced the worst fear of her life and now felt strangely lightheaded, as a dozen contradictory emotions swept through her. She was happy beyond words that Papa had been found, safe, not drowned in the river as she had feared or drifting up the road as had been Penelope’s nightmare. But she was also furious at him for wandering off, and at herself for having let him. And although she knew the feeling was probably all in her mind, she couldn’t help wondering if the villagers were thinking less of her for the incident, and resenting them for those imagined thoughts. And for the hero of the day to be Adam Turner, an amiable enough creature to be sure, but who had shown no more interest in her father than he did in a passing butterfly. Another sign of the unfairness of the world.

  Sarah knew she wasn’t as sharp as Penelope or Josephine Mercadier, and she didn’t have the instinct for leadership of Mrs. Turner, but she made up for those deficiencies with simple hard work. Maybe she didn’t talk as fast or sprightly as the others, but no one could ever say they saw her sitting down while there was a task uncompleted. Everyone told her that caring for Papa was its own sort of work, and it was, but she never felt right staying at home when everyone was out in the fields.

  But now she saw that maybe there was truth in what everyone said. She had slipped out to work while Papa was reading his book, and the result had been panic, everyone called in from the fields, and half a day’s work lost while they all chased around the valley. Adam Turner had probably been out looking for his magical silver mine like a Spanish conquistador when he came across him. He had a guilty look on his face, the face of a man who had been somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.

  Sarah stopped herself and took a breath. She should be grateful to Adam. She shuddered to think of Papa down at the river, confused, capable of anything, prey to whatever impulse came to his mind. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks that Adam Turner, whatever his reasons for being there, had come across him.