Shame of Man (54 page)

Hugh helped Bill set up the two tents. Scevo, for the moment left out because of his sister's distraction with the other youths, approached. “Daddy, want me to find firewood?”

“No fire,” Bill said quickly. “This is a state forest. They're on chronic edge about fire. I don't blame them. They'd be on us in minutes if they spied smoke. We brought food that's good cold.”

“Oh,” Scevo said, disappointed.

“But there's plenty else to do,” Bill said. “We need to make little trenches around the tents, in case it rains in the night. We don't want to get soaked. Can you help me do that?”

“Sure!” Soon the boy was busy with stick and trowel, while Bill dug.

Billie approached, with the girls tittering behind him. “Sing ‘The Frozen Logger,’ Dad,” he said.

“Okay.” And Bill sang, adequately, with his son and then the girls joining in.

“As I sat down one evening, within a small cafe

A forty-year-old waitress to me these words did say:

‘I see that you are a logger, and not just a common bum,

‘Cause nobody but a logger stirs his coffee with his thumb!’ “

They continued the song of her love the logger, who forgot his mackinaw, but didn't miss it, as the temperature was only forty-eight below. The weather grew colder, and at a hundred degrees below zero he buttoned up his vest. But it froze through to China, and to the stars above, and finally managed to freeze him at a thousand degrees below zero. Fortunately he wasn't wasted; they made him into axeheads to chop the Douglas fir. And so the waitress lost her logger, and waited at the cafe for another man who stirred his coffee with his thumb.

Hugh laughed. “But you know, that pays no respect to the trees,” he said. “All over the world the trees have been cut, the land stripped, until it is bare. In England they think it's supposed to be like that, with bald hills, not remembering how Britain was once heavily forested. Now it's happening in America. I think we have something like a tenth of our original forests left, and those are being cut now.”

“Oh, we have a good deal of forest left,” Bill said. “Just not old growth.”

Hugh gestured across the glade. “How much like this?”

“Not a lot,” Bill admitted. “But these trees will last some time.”

Hugh doubted that, but didn't want to argue, so he dropped the subject.

They ate at dusk: army rations Bill had saved, that were indeed good cold. Minnie was sitting contentedly beside Billie, now and then murmuring to him or exchanging a glance. She had his whole attention. Billie's fate was probably already sealed. Faience, increasingly isolated, was making the acquaintance of Scevo, who was glad for the consideration. Indeed, Faience seemed to be a tomboy, itching to climb bull spruce trees or wade in cold water; she would get along with Scevo well enough despite being twice his age.

Then Hugh brought out his clarinet, the special one.

Billie stared, distracted momentarily from Minnie. “What is that thing? I never saw a clarinet like that.”

“Contrabass,” Hugh said with a smile. “Some folk mistake it for a double bassoon, but it's a single reed instrument, not a double reed like the bassoon or oboe. They come in a variety of styles; my kids like this one because they find it weird. It's the extra loop on it. It's a good instrument; I
got it at an auction sale, thinking it would be junk, but was pleasantly surprised. It has became a family favorite.”

Then Hugh played, and the soft, low, round notes wafted out like floating soap bubbles and drifted through the glade to the big trees.

“Oh, there's that sound,” Anne said. “You know what that does to me.” She got up and started to dance before them, her body almost invisible in the closing darkness.

“Oh, I want to see this,” Fay said. She fetched a gas lamp, and set it farther in the glade, to illuminate Anne from behind. Now she appeared in silhouette, resembling a goddess, her motions accentuating her lines.

Then Minnie got up and joined her, matching her move for move, resembling a nature sprite. She was not yet as well fleshed as Anne, but Hugh realized that she had completed her transformation to woman form and was as lovely as any maiden could be. It was past time to stop thinking of her as a child.

“No offense,” Bill murmured, “but I think they both could dance among those trees forever, and no one would know they were mortal.”

“Yeah,” his son agreed, rapt.

“Yeah,” Scevo echoed.

Hugh played several melodies, then let it rest. The women made elegant little concluding bows and left the gladelight.

“That was some show,” Bill said. “And you are some musician.”

“Well, it is my business.” But Hugh was pleased.

Then they retired to their two family tents. “Are you going to marry Billie?” Scevo asked Minnie.

“Maybe,” she said. “But you'll always be my brother.”

“Okay.” He settled down to sleep beside her.

Anne's hand squeezed Hugh's hand as she joined him in their double sleeping bag. They both know that teen romance was apt to be fleeting, but if Minnie got serious, Billie would have no choice. Billie did not seem bad, so far, but there was a good deal yet to be learned about him and his family.

Anne kissed his cheek. She was tantalizingly soft and warm beside him. He was suddenly tempted to make love to her. But of course this wasn't the occasion, with the children so close.

She kissed him again. Then he realized that the idea had originated with her rather than with him. Her dancer's body enabled her to do remarkable things in perfect silence, without miscues. So he turned into her, and soon had such joy as only she could give him. Who needed paradise? It was right here.

They were all up at dawn. The womenfolk went to the stream to wash, sending back chilly screams. Then the menfolk went, taking turns under
poured dipperfuls. The water seemed twice as cold as the day before, but Hugh enjoyed it as a ritual of the outdoors. Then, braced for the day, they returned to the camp, where the women had milk and raisin bread ready.

After breakfast Bill glanced at his son. “It's time,” he said. He turned to Hugh. “This is where we may part company, but you have pledged your silence.”

“Yes,” Hugh agreed, his curiosity burgeoning. Bill's family had seemed quite normal so far; what was this secret? Surely they weren't into ritual animal sacrifice or anything like that.

Bill lifted his heavy knapsack. He brought out a hammer and huge long nails. The hammer had webbing over its head as if to muffle it. Billie got out what looked like a shearing tool. “It's best that we don't speak of this even now,” Bill said. “Just watch, and you should understand.” Then he and Billie crossed the glade to one of the large fir trees. Hugh and Minnie followed, bemused.

Bill lifted a nail to head height and applied it to a crack in the bark. He tapped it with the muffled hammer. As it caught, he hammered harder, driving the nail in. Was he making a hook to hang a sign on? But he kept on hammering until the nail was almost flush with the wood.

Then he stopped, and Billie lifted his tool. He cut the head off the nail. Then Bill resumed hammering, until the nail was entirely embedded in the trunk of the tree.

They walked around the tree and started the process with another nail. Baffled, Hugh and Minnie followed. “What good do buried nails in trees do?” she asked quietly. “They aren't useful for anything, and if anyone tries to saw up that tree for lumber—” She broke off, staring at him with sudden surmise.

“Tree spiking!” Hugh said. “They're tree spiking! So when the sawmill saw cuts that wood, the saw hits the metal and gets dulled or broken.”

“To save the trees,” she agreed. “They're radical environmentalists.”

“I think the operative term is eco-warriors.”

“Eco-warriors,” she echoed. “I like it.”

“But you know it's illegal.”

“What about destroying the environment?” she asked rhetorically. “Isn't that a crime?”

“Not according to the government. Japan pays good money for those trees. It's good for the economy.”

She made a pooping sound with her tongue and lips. “I want a hammer.”

“You'll be breaking a law,” he said warningly.

“So you made an oath not to tell.”

“So I did.” He walked with her back to the camp. “Do you have another hammer?” he asked.

“And some big nails?” Minnie added.

Wordlessly Fay indicated the knapsack. They went to it and got a muffled hammer—the kind that didn't make a lot of noise, he now realized—and some nails, and another shearing tool.

Hugh looked around. “Where are the others?”

“Taking a hike, circling the region,” Fay said.

“Looking out for Forest Service officers,” Minnie said, realizing. “They caught on before we did.”

“Maybe Faience blabbed to Scevo.”

“Yes, I told him to snoop if he could.”

He punched her lightly on the shoulder. “If you had decent looks, you'd be dangerous.” It was another standard family joke.

“Go high,” Fay said, as if describing a path. “Loggers cut low; sawmills cut high.”

They walked back across the glade. “I thought I liked this family,” Minnie remarked. “Now I know I do.”

They chose a tree somewhat removed from the section Bill and Billie were working, but in sight. “High—so it doesn't hurt the logger when it hits,” Hugh said. “So it breaks up an expensive big circular sawmill saw and disrupts business until they get it fixed.”

“Hurt machinery, not people,” she agreed. “Hit them in the pocket-book. That's what corporations understand.”

“They can probably locate the spikes with metal detectors, but it's still expensive.”

They got to work hammering in nails, removing the heads so they couldn't be readily pulled out again. They tried to fix it so that there was no visible evidence of what they had done. They were rapidly learning to be effective criminals.

But it was wearing work, because they were not used to hammering such big nails so deeply. Before long they had to take a break. They sat in the glade, looking around.

Bill and Billie came across. “Just resting,” Hugh said.

Billie looked at Hugh. “Sir—may I kiss your daughter?”

“Watch where your hands go,” Hugh said.

“Oh, shut up, Daddy,” Minnie said. She put her arms around Billie and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

“I guess they're going to get along,” Bill said.

“This—I understand why not much should be said,” Hugh said. “But speaking hypothetically, if there were a—a club that liked a certain type of activity—let's make it something innocent, like doing designer drugs or wife-swapping—how would a person get in touch?”

Bill smiled. “Speaking purely hypothetically, I'd say there probably wouldn't be much organization, because that leads to conformity and lack of change. Have you noticed how many big, established, reasonably wealthy
environmentalist clubs there are—and how the cutting of the last old growth forests continues almost without pause? With the attendant loss of biodiversity and habitat for all plants and creatures mankind thinks he has no use for? Extinctions are occurring at a rate that rivals that of the termination of the dinosaur age. Because nice folk are trying to discuss the issues, without giving offense, while the logging, mining, overgrazing, polluting, river damming, and destruction of wilderness never pause. That's what happened in Europe, and elsewhere, as you mentioned. It occurred to some people that maybe there comes a time when the politeness has to end, and the compromising has to stop. That maybe it's not enough to be socially respectable, it's time to act to save what counts. Time to put Earth first.”

“Earth first,” Hugh repeated, recognizing the name. “No organization?”

“Nothing formal. No membership rolls, no dues, no officers, no constitution. Just folk with a mission. Not even like-minded folk. They come in every color, faith, economic situation, politics, gender, age, and they don't agree on anything. Except that Earth needs to be preserved for its own sake, not for the use of man. And that when the law is against the Earth, the law is an ass.”

“That must be quite a collection of people,” Minnie said.

“Unreasonable people,” Bill agreed. “Because it is time to get angry at what the human cancer is doing to Earth. Time to cry Enough. To make no truce, no cease-fire, no surrender, because there is no other Earth after this one. If the medicine is too strong for one person's taste, let him stand aside and make way for those who can handle it.”

Hugh frowned. “This theoretical club believes that the ends justify the means? That is a treacherous doctrine.”

“No. There are limits to the means. No people should be hurt, just equipment. No shooting with guns—but maybe sand in the gas tanks of the big log haulers. No property destroyed, but maybe road markers removed so trucks get lost or mired. When trees are spiked, a notice goes out, warning the authorities that it has been done. Their sensible course is to leave those trees alone. Just let them grow. And leave the creatures they shelter alone; they have as much of a right to exist as we do. Ethical means to support a single god: Earth. Nothing else. No power trips, no riches, no applause, just getting the job done. Earth first!”

Hugh nodded. “Maybe if you ever hear of a meeting of such a group, let us know.”

“Maybe,” Bill agreed.

Then they went to spike some more trees.

Sunday morning the nails were gone and it was time to go home. They broke camp, erased all evidence of their temporary presence, and began the
trek back, using a different route. Hugh wondered why, as this took more time, but it wasn't long before events demonstrated why deviousness was best.

Suddenly there were men in their way. They were dressed in combat fatigues and carried automatic rifles. “Oh, no,” Bill murmured as the men forged toward them. “Pot commandos.”

“What?” Hugh asked.

“Three years ago the National Forest Drug Enforcement Act of Congress set up a force to combat the cultivation of marijuana on public lands. It was effective; now most of the pot is shipped in from elsewhere. So they beefed up the force and turned it against the radical environmentalists. Naturally we wouldn't know anything about that.”