Barkskins (90 page)

Jeanne said nothing.

“Onehube's okay. He got us going.”

“Wonder why they split up.”

•  •  •

They descended the hill, passed assemblages of motley boards and corrugated roofing, one with a hopeless
FOR SALE
sign. Abruptly the clouds began to rip open like rotten cloth, showing bright blue underskirts. As a slice of sunlight painted the drenched countryside, touched the sea, a flight of migrating birds cut the sky like crazy little scissors.

“We'll get there pretty soon,” said Felix. “But I don't know where we are.”

Jeanne began tracing her finger over the GPS touch screen. A tiny red dot on a crumpled string of a road appeared. “Look, Felix! It shows us on this road!”

“All right!” said Felix. Jeanne promised herself she would buy this model of car if she ever had the money. Suddenly a loud female voice said, “In a half kilometer turn right.” Jeanne shrieked.

“You don't get out into the world enough,” said Felix, swinging onto the wet highway. The sun changed the macadam surface to black lacquer and in a few kilometers they passed the lighthouse.

•  •  •

There was Sapatisia Sel's red pickup, beside it a rust-blotched sedan and a jeep so muddy it had no other color. Felix parked next to the jeep. At the lee side of the house they saw two large tents. A sign on one read
MEN
.

“The other one must be for women,” said Jeanne. “Are they toilets?”

“Now
you
sound like a tourist. The outhouse is over there,” he told her and jerked his thumb toward the unmistakable small building on the cliff. The northern harrier sat on its branch, eyeing them. “I say the tents are for sleeping.”

“Let's go in.” The harrier rattled a loud
tektektektek.

•  •  •

The room looked different, richer in a homely way. The stolen picnic table was cluttered with papers, two laptops, a carton of almond milk and some plastic plates. Sapatisia, two young women—one with elaborately coiffed black hair, the other white-blond—and a sun-darkened man in a checked lumberjack shirt sat at the table drinking tea—wintergreen, thought Jeanne, catching the sprightly aroma—and eating take-out fried chicken legs.

“You made it,” said Sapatisia. She was still in dirty jeans and the heavy grey sweater. “Sit down and have something. The coleslaw—where is it—” She half-rose.

“I've got it,” said the man. His eyes looked bruised. He was older than the others, tall and thin, with a scar that torqued his mouth into a crooked slant. He stretched out a long arm and pushed the coleslaw bowl down the table. He looked at Jeanne and Felix.

“That's Tom Paulin,” said Sapatisia, and she made sketchy introductions: “Jeanne Sel, Felix Sel, Tom Paulin, Hugdis Sigurdsson and Charlene Lopez. Let's eat now and then talk about the project.” Her knotty dark hair was held back in a ponytail that resembled a Percheron's fly whisk; her eyes reflected the window light with a pale flash. Felix repeated “Tom Paulin” to himself, Tom Paulin the coleslaw passer. There was something about the man's straight back and the way he moved that indicated tension.

•  •  •

They tossed the gnawed chicken bones into the stove; Jeanne smelled them scorching.

Sapatisia said, “So then. Briefly, the Breitsprecher Tree Project does forest replanting. We have ties with as many as thirty conservation groups and we often work within their programs. The six of us make a work group. We like to have ten, but this time we have six. A few more might come later. We will be the only team working in Nova Scotia this season and there is a lot to do. We'll plant trees and monitor several test plots outplanted three years ago. We keep detailed notes on how well they are doing for up to ten years. One particular plot was showing a lot of chlorosis last year. Dozens of variables. I have a pet site where we're looking for the effects of mycorrhizal fungi on seedling growth. Burned soil is deficient in mycorrhizae and seedlings do not do well without them—their presence increases nutrient and mineral intake.”

Sapatisia looked down the table at Jeanne and Felix scribbling notes, Charlene staring back at her, Tom Paulin in his private distance. She said, “Come back to us, Tom.” She spoke softly. She knew a little about him: that he had been through deadly experiences in Afghanistan years earlier, and that after he came home, somehow trees had saved him. He looked at her, cracked out a blink of a smile like someone working a mirror against the sun. She went on.

“Whenever we can we'll visit the province's ecoregions, starting tomorrow with the highland plateau. It's useful to have a grasp of small areas, to know what is special about each. Once you understand how to assess different geographies, soils and hydrologies, sizing up new places will become second nature.”

Felix said, “You mentioned different countries—will we go to other places or just stay here?” Tom Paulin nodded, poured more tea into his personal cup marked with
mù
, the Chinese ideogram for tree.

“For this three-month session you stay here. Next year you may work in a tropical rain forest.” Jeanne noticed that Sapatisia's hands were dark, the nails broken. She looked at her own white, useless hands. The room was quiet and they could faintly hear the relentless cry of the harrier.

“If you like a particular kind of work you might specialize—Tom knows about wildfires and deforestation. Charlene is our expert on planting techniques.” She nodded at the handsome hawk-nosed woman whose hair was twisted into an intricate knot at the back of her head. Jeanne wondered how she managed it in a tent.

Sapatisia said, “So. Essential information for our newcomers. The Tree Project will supply you with room and board and pay for your travel and all equipment and tools. Sometimes you will be living in tents, sometimes in hotels or with a host family. This month it's tents. The team will work together on the same plot. The work is hard and dirty. Next week Charlene will show Jeanne, Felix and Hugdis how we plant trees—we'll be doing spruce, birch, fir, maples, hemlock on several cutover degraded plots—and the burned plots—all near enough so we can use this place for our camp. We'll share the cooking, kitchen and cleanup chores.”

“Then this project is not about medicinal plants?” asked Felix. He had noticed that Sapatisia often glanced at Charlene. What was that about?

“It can be medicinal plants where they are natural constituents of an area. Don't jump to the conclusion that medicinal plants only benefit humans—animals and other plants also use natural medicines. We often have to guess what understory plants belong in the mix because on badly degraded land we are not entirely sure what was there before the cut. You'll see as we go along.” The male harrier flew from the tree and his shadow crossed the window.

Sapatisia said, “Tomorrow we will be on the plateau to examine the mixed-wood forests.” From the red cupboard she took a stack of notebooks stamped
BREITSPRECHER TREE PROJECT.
“For field notes. Don't forget to consult the project's online library. A huge amount of information is available.” She took up a sheaf of papers.

“Here are thumbnail descriptions of the geology and soils we'll see tomorrow. Add your personal observations to these notes. And remember that where there are highlands, there must be lowlands with bogs and marshes—they are not discrete.”

“And moose,” murmured Felix. He was here. He'd welcome anything he could learn.

“Yes, and otters and beaver, muskrats and dragonflies, mosquitoes, beetles and worms, and how do they all fit into the forest's life? Try to approach questions from the viewpoint of the forest.” She looked at Tom Paulin as she said this. Then, more briskly, “If you have questions about fires and soils, ask Tom. Always share your knowledge.”

On the pages she passed out Felix saw a jumble of new words—glacial till, ferro-humic podzols, Proterozoic intrusives, gleysols, fibrisols. He was excited by the names of the soils. This was real knowledge.

Jeanne had a question that had plagued her since she opened the envelope and saw the check fall out. “Why us?” she asked. “Why do you think Mi'kmaw people should do this?” Tom Paulin looked at Jeanne as if he were on a voyage of discovery and seeing a new land for the first time.

“It is not just Mi'kmaw people working on the project. Some are Mi'kmaw, we are even related as I'm sure you know, but Hugdis comes from Iceland and Charlene from Mexico. Tom is from the American south. In Brazil, Peru, Colombia, Cambodia, Sumatra, Vietnam, United States West Coast, many of the people working to replant forests and resurrect damaged rivers are the children of indigenous forest residents. Dispossessed people who lived in forests for millennia until recently are the ones who step forward to do the repair work. They are the ones who best understand how to heal the forest.

“It will take thousands of years for great ancient forests to return. None of us here will see the mature results of our work, but we must try, even if it is only one or two people with buckets of seedlings working to put forest pieces back together. It is terribly important to all of us humans—I can't find the words to say how important—to help the earth regain its vital diversity of tree cover. And the forests will help us. They are old hands at restoring themselves.

“Now I'm going out to Sobeys market. Let's try for supper at five thirty?” She left and they heard the red pickup charge up the hill.

•  •  •

“When she mentioned forest people,” said Jeanne to Hugdis, “I was going to ask if that idea of idyllic tribes living in wild forestland isn't a myth, like the myth of pristine primeval forest before the whitemen came. And actually isn't it a favor to bring those people into modern life now?”

“Jeanne!” cried Felix. “You don't think it was a
favor
for the French and English to ‘bring' the Mi'kmaq into their idea of modern life. I know you don't.”

Jeanne blushed and tensed in embarrassment. “That was different.”

Hugdis changed the subject by telling the bizarre story of how the crazy Nazis tried to make the Bialowieza forest in Poland into the great primeval wilderness, about their efforts in back-breeding cattle to something they imagined was the extinct aurochs. And that started Tom on the sadness of Afghan people chopping down their last pitiful trees to sell for firewood; they talked until they heard the red truck come down the hill. One thing about this group, thought Felix, they really like talking about trees.

•  •  •

“Spaghetti tonight,” said Sapatisia, coming in with bags of food and bottles of wine. “If you don't like the food you get to be the next cook.”

Tom Paulin refilled the woodbox, stoked the stove, Charlene put a great pot of water on to boil, Jeanne and Hugdis chopped onions and green peppers, Felix sliced a large wrinkled pepperoni sausage into near-translucent disks and found bowls and forks. When Sapatisia mixed the sauce into the pasta she set the pot directly on the table.

As they ate they talked of their lives and families, but everyone kept looking at Sapatisia. To Jeanne, who had become an instant disciple, she seemed to stand for all that was good.

It was almost dark when they finished. Tom Paulin went outside while the rest of them cleared the table and Sapatisia rinsed out the teapot. Jeanne began to wash the dishes. Tom came back in and said, “The moon is coming up.” In the window they all saw the red moon, made ragged by sea fog, rising swiftly out of the ocean, paling as it climbed. It looked close enough to hit with a harpoon and seemed to draw farther away as it rose. Jeanne knew the moon's apparent recession was only its rise above the distorting atmosphere, but suppose, she thought, that this time it kept going, becoming smaller and more distant like the waving hand of someone on a ferry.

•  •  •

The old stove radiated heat as they sat with their cups of tea and talked on, picking up on their earlier conversation about the tropics.

“It seems,” said Sapatisia, “you are all more interested in tropical than boreal woodlands?”

“They are more endangered, aren't they? I keep reading that the forests of Sumatra will be gone in twenty years,” said Jeanne. “There is a sense of urgency.”

“And you think boreal forests are less threatened? A misapprehension. You are attracted to the romance of the tropics. There has been a lot of media attention lately—Disney Company roasted for using wood pulp from poached tropical trees to make children's books. Hardwood floor companies suddenly swearing that they only use ecologically sound plantation-grown trees.”

She went on. “Charlene, you've spent time in Brazil and Colombia. How many trees and how many tree species would you say grow in Amazonia?”

“My God, who knows! The diversity is so great and the different species so scattered—”

Tom interrupted. “I read the Field Museum's report last year that said
sixteen thousand species
and I don't remember how many million trees.”

Sapatisia nodded. “And they estimate around three hundred and ninety billion individual trees in the Amazon basin.”

Tom looked at her. “How the hell can we understand those numbers? North America only has one thousand species. Sixteen thousand!”

Sapatisia crooked her mouth in a wry smile. “Yes, how
do
we grasp these enormous diverse numbers? But the report also said that half the trees actually belong to a much smaller count of two hundred twenty-seven species—the predominants, including cacao, rubber, açai berries, Brazil nuts.”

Charlene poured more tea. “Those are the trees humans have been growing for centuries. Aren't there more of those species because human have nurtured them?”

Sapatisia shrugged. “Possibly. We just don't know. Some people are sure those hyperdominants were in the catbird seat because preconquest indigenous people grew them. On the other hand, some think they were always dominant and are in a naturally stable state. Quite a nice little puzzle.