Song of the Trees Read Free

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 missyou 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 theirsad 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,