Song of the Trees (3 page)

“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 way. 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

“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.

“You keep it up and make us late for school, Mama’s gonna wear you out,” I threatened, pulling with exasperation at the high collar of the Sunday dress Mama had made me wear for the first day of school—as if that event were something special. It seemed to me that showing up at school at all on a bright August-like October morning made for running the cool forest trails and wading barefoot in the forest pond was concession enough; Sunday clothing was asking too much. Christopher-John and Stacey were not too pleased about the clothing or school either. Only Little Man, just beginning his school career, found the prospects of both intriguing.

“Y’all go ahead and get dirty if y’all wanna,” he replied without even looking up from his studied steps. “Me, I’m gonna stay clean.”

“I betcha Mama’s gonna ‘clean’ you, you keep it up,” I grumbled.

“Ah, Cassie, leave him be,” Stacey admonished, frowning and kicking testily at the road.

“I ain’t said nothing but—”

Stacey cut me a wicked look and I grew silent. His disposition had been irritatingly sour lately. If I hadn’t known the cause of it, I could have forgotten very easily that he was, at twelve, bigger than I, and that I had promised Mama to arrive at school looking clean and ladylike. “Shoot,” I mumbled finally, unable to restrain myself from further
comment, “it ain’t my fault you gotta be in Mama’s class this year.”

Stacey’s frown deepened and he jammed his fists into his pockets, but said nothing.

Christopher-John, walking between Stacey and me, glanced uneasily at both of us but did not interfere. A short, round boy of seven, he took little interest in troublesome things, preferring to remain on good terms with everyone. Yet he was always sensitive to others and now, shifting the handle of his lunch can from his right hand to his right wrist and his smudged notebook from his left hand to his left armpit, he stuffed his free hands into his pockets and attempted to make his face as moody as Stacey’s and as cranky as mine. But after a few moments he seemed to forget that he was supposed to be grouchy and began whistling cheerfully. There was little that could make Christopher-John unhappy for very long, not even the thought of school.

I tugged again at my collar and dragged my feet in the dust, allowing it to sift back onto my socks and shoes like gritty red snow. I hated the dress. And the shoes. There was little I could do in a dress, and as for shoes, they imprisoned freedom-loving feet accustomed to the feel of the warm earth.

“Cassie, stop that,” Stacey snapped as the dust billowed in swirling clouds around my feet. I looked up sharply, ready to protest. Christopher-John’s whistling increased to a raucous, nervous shrill, and grudgingly I let the matter
drop and trudged along in moody silence, my brothers growing as pensively quiet as I.