Song of the Trees Page 2

  Big Ma’s soft brown eyes clouded over with fear as she looked first at Mr. Andersen, then at Mama. But Mama clenched her fists and said, “In Mississippi, black men do not have accidents.”

  “Hush, child, hush,” Big Ma said hurriedly. “How many trees for the sixty-five dollars, Mr. Andersen?”

  “Enough ’til I figure I got my sixty-five dollars’ worth.”

  “And how many would that be?” Mama persisted.

  Mr. Andersen looked haughtily at Mama. “I said I’d be the judge of that, Mary.”

  “I think not,” Mama said.

  Mr. Andersen stared at Mama. And Mama stared back at him. I knew Mr. Andersen didn’t like that, but Mama did it anyway. Mr. Andersen soon grew uneasy under that piercing gaze, and when his eyes swiftly shifted from Mama to Big Ma, his face was beet-red.

  “Caroline,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “you’re the head of this family and you’ve got a decision to make. Now, I need them trees and I mean to have them. I’ve offered you a good price for them and I ain’t gonna haggle over it. I know y’all can use the money. Doc Thomas tells me that Mary’s not well.” He hesitated a moment, then hissed venomously, “And if something should happen to David . . .”

  “All right,” Big Ma said, her voice trembling. “All right, Mr. Andersen.”

  “No, Big Ma!” I cried, leaping onto the porch. “You can’t let him cut our trees!”

  Mr. Andersen grasped the arms of the rocker, his knuckles chalk white. “You certainly ain’t taught none of your younguns how to behave, Caroline,” he said curtly.

  “You children go on to the back,” Mama said, shooing us away.

  “No, Mama,” Stacey said. “He’s gonna cut them all down. Me and Cassie heard him say so in the woods.”

  “I won’t let him cut them,” I threatened. “I won’t let him! The trees are my friends and ain’t no mean ole white man gonna touch my trees ——”

  Mama’s hands went roughly around my body as she carried me off to my room.

  “Now, hush,” she said, her dark eyes flashing wildly. “I’ve told you how dangerous it is . . .” She broke off in midsentence. She stared at me a moment, then hugged me tightly and went back to the porch.

  Stacey joined me a few seconds later, and we sat there in the heat of the quiet room, listening miserably as the first whack of an ax echoed against the trees.

  That night I was awakened by soft sounds outside my window. I reached for Big Ma, but she wasn’t there. Hurrying to the window, I saw Mama and Big Ma standing in the yard in their night clothes and Stacey, fully dressed, sitting atop Lady, our golden mare. By the time I got outside, Stacey was gone.

  “Mama, where’s Stacey?” I cried.

  “Be quiet, Cassie. You’ll wake Christopher-John and Little Man.”

  “But where’s he going?”

  “He’s going to get Papa,” Mama said. “Now be quiet.”

  “Go on Stacey, boy,” I whispered. “Ride for me, too.”

  As the dust billowed after him, Mama said, “I should’ve gone myself. He’s so young.”

  Big Ma put her arm around Mama. “Now, Mary, you know you couldn’t ’ve gone. Mr. Andersen would miss you if he come by and see you ain’t here. You done right, now. Don’t worry, that boy’ll be just fine.”

  Three days passed, hot and windless.

  Mama forbade any of us to go into the forest, so Christopher-John, Little Man and I spent the slow, restless days hovering as close to the dusty road as we dared, listening to the foreign sounds of steel against the trees and the thunderous roar of those ancient loved ones as they crashed upon the earth. Sometimes Mama would scold us and tell us to come back to the house, but even she could not ignore the continuous pounding of the axes against the trees. Or the sight of the loaded lumber wagons rolling out of the forest. In the middle of washing or ironing or hoeing, she would look up sorrowfully and listen, then turn toward the road, searching for some sign of Papa and Stacey.

  On the fourth day, before the sun had risen bringing its cloak of miserable heat, I saw her walking alone toward the woods. I ran after her.

  She did not send me back.

  “Mama,” I said, “how sick are you?”

  Mama took my hand. “Remember when you had the flu and felt so sick?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “And when I gave you some medicine, you got well soon afterward?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Well, that’s how sick I am. As soon as I get my medicine, I’ll be all well again. And that’ll be soon now that Papa’s coming home,” she said, giving my hand a gentle little squeeze.

  The quiet surrounded us as we entered the forest. Mama clicked on the flashlight and we walked silently along the cow path to the pond. There, just beyond the pond, pockets of open space loomed before us.

  “Mama!”

  “I know, baby, I know.”

  On the ground lay countless trees. Trees that had once been such strong, tall things. So strong that I could fling my arms partially around one of them and feel safe and secure. So tall and leafy green that their boughs had formed a forest temple.

  And old.

  So old that Indians had once built fires at their feet and had sung happy songs of happy days. So old, they had hidden fleeing black men in the night and listened to their sad tales of a foreign land.

  In the cold of winter when the ground lay frozen, they had sung their frosty ballads of years gone by. Or on a muggy, sweat-drenched day, their leaves had rippled softly, lazily, like restless green fingers strumming at a guitar, echoing their epic tales.

  But now they would sing no more. They lay forever silent upon the ground.

  Those trees that remained standing were like defeated warriors mourning their fallen dead. But soon they, too, would fall, for the white X’s had been placed on nearly every one.

  “Oh, dear, dear trees,” I cried as the gray light of the rising sun fell in ghostly shadows over the land. The tears rolled hot down my cheeks. Mama held me close, and when I felt her body tremble, I knew she was crying too.

  When our tears eased, we turned sadly toward the house. As we emerged from the forest, we could see two small figures waiting impatiently on the other side of the road. As soon as they spied us, they hurried across to meet us.

  “Mama! You and Cassie was in the forest,” Little Man accused. “Big Ma told us!”

  “How was it?” asked Christopher-John, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Was it spooky?”

  “Spooky and empty,” I said listlessly.

  “Mama, me and Christopher-John wanna see too,” Little Man declared.

  “No, baby,” Mama said softly as we crossed the road. “The men’ll be down there soon, and I don’t want y’all underfoot.”

  “But, Mama ——” Little Man started to protest.

  “When Papa comes home and the men are gone, then you can go. But until then, you stay out of there. You hear me, Little Man Logan?”

  “Yes’m,” Little Man reluctantly replied.

  But the sun had been up only an hour when Little Man decided that he could not wait for Papa to return.

  “Mama said we wasn’t to go down there,” Christopher-John warned.

  “Cassie did,” Little Man cried.

  “But she was with Mama. Wasn’t you, Cassie?”

  “Well, I’m going too,” said Little Man. “Everybody’s always going someplace ’cepting me.” And off he went.

  Christopher-John and I ran after him. Down the narrow cow path and around the pond we chased. But neither of us was fast enough to overtake Little Man before he reached the lumbermen.

  “Hey, you kids, get away from here,” Mr. Andersen shouted when he saw us. “Now, y’all go on back home,” he said, stopping in front of Little Man.

  “We are home,” I said. “You’re the one who’s on our land.”

  “Claude,” Mr. Andersen said to one of the black lumbermen, “take these kids home.” Then he pushed Little Man out of his wa
y. Little Man pushed back. Mr. Andersen looked down, startled that a little black boy would do such a thing. He shoved Little Man a second time, and Little Man fell into the dirt.

  Little Man looked down at his clothing covered with sawdust and dirt, and wailed, “You got my clothes dirty!”

  I rushed toward Mr. Andersen, my fist in a mighty hammer, shouting, “You ain’t got no right to push on Little Man. Why don’t you push on somebody your own size—like me, you ole ——”

  The man called Claude put his hand over my mouth and carried me away. Christopher-John trailed behind us, tugging on the man’s shirt.

  “Put her down. Hey, mister, put Cassie down.”

  The man carried me all the way to the pond. “Now,” he said, “you and your brothers get on home before y’all get hurt. Go on, get!”

  As the man walked away, I looked around. “Where’s Little Man?”

  Christopher-John looked around too.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I thought he was behind me.”

  Back we ran toward the lumbermen.

  We found Little Man’s clothing first, folded neatly by a tree. Then we saw Little Man, dragging a huge stick, and headed straight for Mr. Andersen.

  “Little Man, come back here,” I called.

  But Little Man did not stop.

  Mr. Andersen stood alone, barking orders, unaware of the oncoming Little Man.

  “Little Man! Oh, Little Man, don’t!”

  It was too late.

  Little Man swung the stick as hard as he could against Mr. Andersen’s leg.

  Mr. Andersen let out a howl and reached to where he thought Little Man’s collar was. But, of course, Little Man had no collar.

  “Run, Man!” Christopher-John and I shouted. “Run!”

  “Why, you little . . .” Mr. Andersen cried, grabbing at Little Man. But Little Man was too quick for him. He slid right through Mr. Andersen’s legs. Tom stood nearby, his face crinkling into an amused grin.

  “Hey, y’all!” Mr. Andersen yelled to the lumbermen. “Claude! Get that kid!”

  But sure-footed Little Man dodged the groping hands of the lumbermen as easily as if he were skirting mud puddles. Over tree stumps, around legs and through legs he dashed. But in the end, there were too many lumbermen for him, and he was handed over to Mr. Andersen.

  For the second time, Christopher-John and I went to Little Man’s rescue.

  “Put him down!” we ordered, charging the lumbermen.

  I was captured much too quickly, though not before I had landed several stinging blows. But Christopher-John, furious at seeing Little Man handled so roughly by Mr. Andersen, managed to elude the clutches of the lumbermen until he was fully upon Mr. Andersen. Then, with his mightiest thrust, he kicked Mr. Andersen solidly in the shins, not once, but twice, before the lumbermen pulled him away.

  Mr. Andersen was fuming. He slowly took off his wide leather belt. Christopher-John, Little Man and I looked woefully at the belt, then at each other. Little Man and Christopher-John fought to escape, but I closed my eyes and awaited the whining of the heavy belt and its painful bite against my skin.

  What was he waiting for? I started to open my eyes, but then the zinging whirl of the belt began and I tensed, awaiting its fearful sting. But just as the leather tip lashed into my leg, a deep familiar voice said, “Put the belt down, Andersen.”

  I opened my eyes.

  “Papa!”

  “Let the children go,” Papa said. He was standing on a nearby ridge with a strange black box in his hands. Stacey was behind him holding the reins to Lady.

  The chopping stopped as all eyes turned to Papa.

  “They been right meddlesome,” Mr. Andersen said. “They need teaching how to act.”

  “Any teaching, I’ll do it. Now, let them go.”

  Mr. Andersen looked down at Little Man struggling to get away. Smiling broadly, he motioned our release. “Okay, David,” he said.

  As we ran up the ridge to Papa, Mr. Andersen said, “It’s good to have you home, boy.”

  Papa said nothing until we were safely behind him. “Take them home, Stacey.”

  “But, Papa ——”

  “Do like I say, son.”

  Stacey herded us away from the men. When we were far enough away so Papa couldn’t see us, Stacey stopped and handed me Lady’s reins.

  “Y’all go on home now,” he said. “I gotta go help Papa.”

  “Papa don’t need no help,” I said. “He told you to come with us.”

  “But you don’t know what he’s gonna do.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “He’s gonna blow up the forest if they don’t get out of here. So go on home where y’all be safe.”

  “How’s he gonna do that?” asked Little Man.

  “We been setting sticks of dynamite since the middle of the night. We ain’t even been up to the house cause Papa wanted the sticks planted and covered over before the men came. Now, Cassie, take them on back to the house. Do like I tell you for once, will ya?” Then, without waiting for another word, he was gone.

  “I wanna see,” Little Man announced.

  “I don’t,” protested Christopher-John.

  “Come on,” I said.

  We tied the mare to a tree, then belly-crawled back to where we could see Papa and joined Stacey in the brush.

  “Cassie, I told you . . .”

  “What’s Papa doing?”

  The black box was now set upon a sawed-off tree stump, and Papa’s hands were tightly grasping a T-shaped instrument which went into it.

  “What’s that thing?” asked Little Man.

  “It’s a plunger,” Stacey whispered. “If Papa presses down on it, the whole forest will go pfffff!”

  Our mouths went dry and our eyes went wide. Mr. Andersen’s eyes were wide, too.

  “You’re bluffing, David,” he said. “You ain’t gonna push that plunger.”

  “One thing you can’t seem to understand, Andersen,” Papa said, “is that a black man’s always gotta be ready to die. And it don’t make me any difference if I die today or tomorrow. Just as long as I die right.”

  Mr. Andersen laughed uneasily. The lumbermen moved nervously away.

  “I mean what I say,” Papa said. “Ask anyone. I always mean what I say.”

  “He sure do, Mr. Andersen,” Claude said, eyeing the black box. “He always do.”

  “Shut up!” Mr. Andersen snapped. “And the rest of y’all stay put.” Then turning back to Papa, he smiled cunningly. “I’m sure you and me can work something out, David.”

  “Ain’t nothing to be worked out,” said Papa.

  “Now, look here, David, your mama and me, we got us a contract . . .”

  “There ain’t no more contract,” Papa replied coldly. “Now, either you get out or I blow it up. That’s it.”

  “He means it, Mr. Andersen,” another frightened lumberman ventured. “He’s crazy and he sure ’nough means it.”

  “You know what could happen to you, boy?” Mr. Andersen exploded, his face beet-red again. “Threatening a white man like this?”

  Papa said nothing. He just stood there, his hands firmly on the plunger, staring down at Mr. Andersen.

  Mr. Andersen could not bear the stare. He turned away, cursing Papa. “You’re a fool, David. A crazy fool.” Then he looked around at the lumbermen. They shifted their eyes and would not look at him.

  “Maybe we better leave, Mr. Andersen,” Tom said quietly.

  Mr. Andersen glanced at Tom, then turned back to Papa and said as lightly as he could, “All right, David, all right. It’s your land. We’ll just take the logs we got cut and get out.” He motioned to the men. “Hey, let’s get moving and get these logs out of here before this crazy fool gets us all killed.”

  “No,” Papa said.

  Mr. Andersen stopped, knowing that he could not have heard correctly. “What you say?”

  “You ain’t taking one more stick out of this forest.”

 
“Now, look here ——”

  “You heard me.”

  “But you can’t sell all these logs, David,” Mr. Andersen exclaimed incredulously.

  Papa said nothing. Just cast that piercing look on Mr. Andersen.

  “Look, I’m a fair man. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you another thirty-five dollars. An even hundred dollars. Now, that’s fair, ain’t it?”

  “I’ll see them rot first.”

  “But ——”

  “That’s my last word,” Papa said, tightening his grip on the plunger.

  Mr. Andersen swallowed hard. “You won’t always have that black box, David,” he warned. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “That may be. But it won’t matter none. Cause I’ll always have my self-respect.”

  Mr. Andersen opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Tom and the lumbermen were quietly moving away, putting their gear in the empty lumber wagons. Mr. Andersen looked again at the black box. Finally, his face ashen, he too walked away.

  Papa stood unmoving until the wagons and the men were gone. Then, when the sound of the last wagon rolling over the dry leaves could no longer be heard and a hollow silence filled the air, he slowly removed his hands from the plunger and looked up at the remaining trees standing like lonely sentries in the morning.

  “Dear, dear old trees,” I heard him call softly, “will you ever sing again?”

  I waited. But the trees gave no answer.

  Text copyright © 1976 by Mildred D. Taylor

  1

  “Little Man, would you come on? You keep it up and you’re gonna make us late.”

  My youngest brother paid no attention to me. Grasping more firmly his newspaper-wrapped notebook and his tin-can lunch of cornbread and oil sausages, he continued to concentrate on the dusty road. He lagged several feet behind my other brothers, Stacey and Christopher-John, and me, attempting to keep the rusty Mississippi dust from swelling with each step and drifting back upon his shiny black shoes and the cuffs of his corduroy pants by lifting each foot high before setting it gently down again. Always meticulously neat, six-year-old Little Man never allowed dirt or tears or stains to mar anything he owned. Today was no exception.