The Language of Trees

by Steve Wiegenstein

  Josephine stood up from her chair and joined him on the steps. “I know it is,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to be over-sharp. I understand what you are saying, I truly do. If you tell everyone about this before we vote, it’ll look like you’re trying to spoil it. And if you wait till afterward, it’ll look like you held back the knowledge to help the company. You’ll be in for blame either way.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But don’t worry about my feelings, or Mr. Bridges, or anyone else. I can take whatever opinions are thrown my way, and if he can’t, then that’s his concern. I’d be shocked if he had anything to do with this man’s death, though.”

  “When we went by the mine, Mason said he wasn’t there. He was over at the sawmill.”

  “Well, there you have it.”

  Newton nodded and turned to leave. A man could be involved in a killing without being present. He didn’t have to point out that obvious conclusion, she’d be there soon enough. Probably already was.

  She took his arm, and her look was earnest. “You’ll manage this fine,” she said. “People trust you. Just ask yourself what our father would say.”

  Our father. Now there was a phrase he’d never dreamed he’d hear from her. She had never spoken to him of their clouded kinship, not that he could remember.

  “Thank you,” he said. Then he remembered. “Oh, heck! I need to get over to my mother’s house. They’re waiting on me.”

  “Family gathering?”

  “I doubt if I’m supposed to let the cat out of the bag yet, but it’s a celebration. Penelope is in the family way.”

  Josephine showed neither surprise nor joy. “I can see why she would want to hold that news close. A lot of bad things can happen along the way. I’ll keep this to myself until I hear it from Penelope.”

  Her somber response caught him off guard, and he walked away into the drizzle with his head down. But by the time he reached his mother’s house, he had resumed a cheerful look.

  Charlotte had opened a bottle of dandelion wine from her springtime harvest and had a glass waiting for him. Newton sipped it gratefully, still shaky from the events of the day, and enjoyed its syrupy kick. Sarah and Penelope were both there; he gave each a hug and kissed his mother on the cheek.

  “Grand occasion,” Newton said, lifting his glass to the group.

  Adam’s face still radiated excitement. “Grand occasion indeed!” he said. “The next generation carries on, eh, mother? Must be quite the thrill.”

  Charlotte’s quiet sigh gave Newton the impression that they had listened to plenty of his carrying-on already. He couldn’t fault Adam’s excitement, but what he’d heard from Josephine reminded him that a long road stretched from that first urge of nature to the safe delivery of a healthy child. Penelope herself, with her ungainly walk from hips that had been malformed since birth, was her own best example. He could appreciate her caution.

  But it was impossible not to feel optimistic as they sipped their wine in quiet satisfaction, impossible not to share Adam’s joy. For all their odd corners, they were a family, a family rooted in a place, and not everyone could say that. “I wish Papa was here,” he blurted out. He didn’t know why. It had been so many years since his father had died that he rarely thought of him, but all at once a wave of sadness swept over him at the absence. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to spoil the mood.”

  “That’s all right,” Charlotte said. “I wish he were here, too.” She smiled at him. “He’s here in bloodline, anyway. You boys make me think of him every day.”

  “It’s our smashing looks, isn’t it?” Adam said. Their shared laugh restored the good humor momentarily lost.

  Newton thought about bringing up his other news, but decided to keep it to himself. Moments of quiet happiness were uncommon enough. No point in disturbing that any further.

  Sarah Wickman, who had been perched quietly on the edge of her chair, stood up and took her coat off the peg by the door. “Speaking of papas, I’d better go check on ours. I’ll need to get him ready for tonight’s meeting.”

  “He’s coming, then?” said Newton.

  “Of course. Thursday night meetings are the highlight of his week. He always likes to critique your performance afterward,” she added with a smile.

  “Glad to provide some amusement. I need to prepare for the meeting myself. I’ll walk back with you.”

  She took his arm and they walked, heads bent to the light rain, toward the main part of the village.

  “How do you think the vote’s going to come out?” she said.

  Newton shook his head. “No idea. I’ve stopped talking to people about it. I just want to get it done and move on.”

  Sarah let out a muffled “hmph” and sped up. “I don’t even see why we’re having a vote. That’s not the way we do things. We talk things out until we come to agreement. It’s that woman, always wanting to push things.” Newton had no doubt about whom she meant. “I mean, it’s just trees we’re talking about.”

  “Not quite,” Newton said. “The land was part of the original grant for Daybreak. We’ve got history to consider too.”

  “History!” she spat. “You sound like my father. All he wants to talk about is the old days. We can’t afford to be owned by our history, you know.”

  “I know. I’m the man who has been trying to move us forward the last few years.”

  “I’m sorry. I just get frustrated sometimes. It’s a new world out there, but we seem determined not to live in it.”

  Her vehemence surprised him. “I didn’t realize you were so unhappy here.”

  “It’s not unhappiness,” she said. “It’s readiness to move on to whatever the next part of my life is going to be. I’m tired of waiting for it to begin.”

  Newton thought about old John Wesley Wickman, quietly losing his faculties in the stillness of their house. “I understand.”

  She cast a sharp look in his direction. “I doubt you do,” she said. “But thanks for the thought anyway.”

  They had reached her door, and she stepped inside without looking back. “Sarah,” he said, his voice drawing her back. “I believe I have offended you somehow, and I am sorry. Please forgive me.”

  “You haven’t offended me, no more than the world in general,” she said, and her voice was softer. “You’ve done nothing that needs forgiving, and even if you did, you’d always have it without asking. I guess that’s part of the problem.” She stepped inside and closed the door.

  Newton didn’t know what to make of her comments but didn’t have time to ponder them. People would be strolling to the Temple soon, and he hadn’t yet decided how to conduct the vote. Not to mention whatever routine business might come up.

  The mood at dinner was subdued, as families sat quietly at their tables and talked among themselves. Dathan and Cedeh, who rarely crossed the river these days from their hilltop home, appeared as the meal was ending, as did Braswell and his contingent. Braswell’s group, still provisional members, stood in the back while the others arranged the tables for the meeting.

  Josephine Mercadier’s advice to think about how their father would handle the situation echoed in his mind as he took the lectern. He remembered him well enough, and had heard enough stories from the old-timers, to know that he would have used his oratorical gifts to move the community in whatever direction he thought best. But come down to it, he was not his father, so he might as well follow his own inclinations.

  “I don’t need to tell you our task for this evening,” he said. “Our committee has been trying to reach a unified answer to the proposal from the lumber company, but we have not succeeded. So it’s time to take a vote. I ask anyone who would like to speak on this matter to please stand, and we’ll hear all thoughts in turn.”

  He waited. Sell the land, don’t sell the land, the question had engaged them all for too long. Surely by now everyone had expressed an opinion to everyone else.

  As he suspected, everyo
ne shifted in their seats, unwilling to be the first to start the argument. He gave them all another moment.

  “All right, then, we’re all familiar with the pros and cons. To be clear, a ‘yes’ vote here instructs the committee to pursue a sale. The exact terms will be brought back to the community for approval, but the instruction is to sell. A ‘no’ vote instructs them to stop negotiations. No sale will take place.”

  One more moment.

  “Then will everyone who wants to vote ‘yes’ please signify by standing up?”

  Slowly, about a quarter of the group stood. Although they were clearly a minority, Newton took a careful count for the sake of propriety. Adam was among the standing; he supposed he should have guessed. And Sarah. He couldn’t say he hadn’t seen that coming.

  “Nineteen,” he said. “Thank you. All opposed, please stand.”

  The rest of the group stood, Dathan and Cedeh, his mother, John Wesley with a glare at Sarah sitting beside him, three dozen or more in all. As he walked through them, counting heads, he saw Charley Pettibone slip in, dripping from his long walk through the rain.

  “The nays have it. We’ll not sell the land. Does anyone else have anything to bring to the meeting?” No one spoke. “Meeting adjourned.”

  As the villagers filed out of the meeting, Newton caught Charley by the back wall. “What happened?”

  Charley grimaced. “Sheriff showed up around two and pulled out half a dozen mine workers for his coroner’s jury. They poked on our boy for a minute or two and declared it ‘undetermined.’”

  “He doesn’t sound particularly interested.”

  “I think I got him up from his meal. He don’t like that one bit. But you’re right, the passing of a scrubby roughneck who’s not even from around here is not something that will hold his attention for more than half a day.”

  “So what now?”

  “Now,” said Charley, “We go look through his things and see if we can find some family to notify, and you can tell me about your suspicions of foul play. And since I told Pomeroy that we’d be willing to take this fellow in our graveyard, we’ll walk up there tomorrow and pick him out a likely spot. They were loading him in a wagon when I left, and to judge by their eagerness at that task, I’d say they’ll be here by half morning at the latest.”

  And with a cheerful smile he flapped his hat to throw off some more of the water clinging to it and held open the door for Newton.

  Chapter 28

  Two days passed before news reached Bridges of the death of Reuben Pierce. He hadn’t known the man well, though he had signed off on his hiring; he had seemed vulgar and indifferent to work, but they needed hands. They’d lost a couple of men in rockfalls underground, but this one seemed strange, and he questioned Mason, who had shown up at the sawmill with the news.

  “He fell off the dam?”

  “Possibly,” Mason said. “Nobody saw it happen. He was in the water on the downstream side, anyway.”

  “But what would he have been doing on the dam in the first place? If the man was walking to Daybreak he wouldn’t have been out there.”

  “Can’t say. He might have fallen into the water from the hill on the west side. It’s rough terrain.”

  Bridges tried to picture it in his mind, having walked that path himself. Not hard to imagine falling off the hill, as rocky and uneven as that slope was. A mountain goat could lose its footing up there, particular on the granite, which became impossibly slick when it was wet. But to end up in the deep hole below the turbine? He couldn’t work that out. “Did he have any family? We should send them his pay.”

  Mason laughed. “You would think of such a thing, soft-hearted soul. I’ll check his records.”

  They stood at the window of the headquarters overlooking the town. Mason gazed out to the mill, the railroad, and the valley beyond. “Won’t be long till Mr. Crecelius visits,” he said. “Last thing we want is controversy dogging us.”

  “Why? Is there some controversy?”

  “That deputy, Pettibone, hung around half a day trying to get something out of the miners. He seemed to think that somebody might have put Pierce into the river.”

  “What do you think?”

  Mason snorted. “Every time somebody dies, somebody else throws out a theory. The world is full of unfortunate incidents as it is, without us adding to them.”

  Bridges let the subject pass. He didn’t expect to get a straight yes or no from Mason anyway. “We’ll be ready for Mr. Crecelius, I’m sure.” Through quiet inquiries, he had learned that Mr. Crecelius’ intended was named Lucinda, and after a couple of days of rumination, he’d discarded “Lucindaville,” “Lucindopolis,” and all other variations for the simple town name of “Lucinda.” He hoped a reply to his letter to the Postmaster General would arrive in time for the visit. But if Charley Pettibone thought something was amiss about this man’s death, then it could very well be true, and there would be no celebration at all. But no sense in borrowing trouble. He’d worry about that if it ever happened. “So did Pettibone say why he thought Pierce didn’t die by accident?”

  “No. But he spent a couple of hours trying to get something out of those Bohemians.”

  “Good luck with that. The only thing I ever understood from them was ‘That no right, boss. That weight short.’”

  Mason laughed. “You’ve got that right. Their English improves remarkably when you’re counting up their tonnage.”

  The thought of troublesome people jogged Bridges’ memory. “What did you think of that letter I sent over to you? The one from Ambrose Gardner?”

  “He’ll sell,” Mason said with a shrug. “He’s just playing tough. I’ll send Yancey over one last time to talk to him. I bet they’ll strike a deal.”

  “But he said he had spiked his trees.”

  Mason sniffed. “Not a chance. Old birds like him are too smart to kick out their nest egg.”

  “Where is your man Yancey, anyway?”

  “No idea,” Mason murmured. “Haven’t seen him in a while. He’ll turn up, though. Always does.” He turned from the window and settled himself at his desk, flipping through the account books from the past week. “We’re averaging better than a hundred thousand board feet a day. Damn fine.”

  Bridges could have told him that, if he’d asked, but by now he’d learned that Mason was not the asking sort. No matter. For now, he was content to run his side of affairs and let Mason tend his own.

  The southbound train, right on time, whistled to a stop on the siding. Two cars of supplies and eight empty flatbeds to be loaded for the return, just as they’d specified. He watched as they unloaded the boxcars. “Think I’ll walk down and supervise,” he said. “Ackhurst seems trustworthy enough, but another pair of eyes never hurts.” Perhaps this was the day his letter from Washington would arrive.

  Mason stood up and put on his coat, a bit of a surprise. He didn’t usually engage with the workmen day to day, preferring instead to keep to the office and mind the books. “You may be right about Ackhurst,” he said. “But even the best man will steal when handed the opportunity. I’ll check the bill of lading against his inventory.” They walked down the hill together.

  A crew of men loading goods onto wagons paused as they approached. Bridges waved at them to continue as Mason climbed into the railcars to inspect. He spied Ackhurst with the mail pouch and strolled over. Until he had a positive answer from the government, he wanted to keep this business private.

  “What have we got today?” he said.

  Ackhurst riffled through the letters. “Not much. A few letters to the men. I’ll sort those out at the store. Here’s something addressed to you.”

  Bridges reached eagerly for the letter, but was dismayed to see that it didn’t come from the Postmaster General, but instead had a local address: Newton Turner from the Daybreak community.

  Now why would this man Turner write him? He passed through Daybreak a couple of times a week. Bridges turned his back for some privacy and br
oke the seal.

  He should have guessed. “Here’s news,” he said as Mason stepped down from the train. “Daybreak’s not selling.”

  “Let me see that,” Mason said. He studied the letter with a frown. “Damnation. Think they can be made to change their minds?”

  “I doubt it. Those people are all about the democratic process. You’ve seen them at work.”

  “Yes, and I told this son of a bitch that there’d be a fine bonus in it for him if he led them to the right decision. So what is it, he doesn’t need money?”

  “You’ll have to ask him. Obviously I’m not as keen on the scent of what goes on with them as I thought.”

  “Damn it, man, you’re the one who’s supposed to be charming these villagers and smoothing our path! How could you let a fish this size get away!”

  His haughty tone irritated Bridges, who was already feeling sensitive. He knew he had no right to expect a tip from Josephine that the community’s vote was not going his way, but it would have been nice to receive one as a courtesy. Mason’s words stung because they mirrored his own thoughts. “Those ‘fish’ you are talking about are people with the right to vote however they please. I hope you remember that.”

  Mason snorted. “Keep that precious right to vote in mind when it comes layoff time. That land could keep eighty men working for four or five months.”

  The thought pained Bridges. He had buried the realization that someday, maybe someday soon, they would run out of nearby timber and would have to relocate the mill. Maybe farther south, deeper toward Arkansas, maybe west, leapfrogging the big operations at Grandin and Mountain View. What would that mean for his men? Would they be brought along? Not likely—there were always local boys hungry for work. So it would be back to the farm for them, or scratching out a living somehow else. And for him? Just when he had begun to soften the armor of Josephine Mercadier, to be drawn off to a new location far away, too far to make his drop-by visits, anyway. To traipse off now, having fallen this much in love with her, felt monumentally unfair, although he wasn’t sure if it was him being unfair to her or the gods being unfair to them both. “Nothing to do about that now,” he said to Mason, and his sigh was more for himself than for the workers.