Kelly

Roots

With the warm brown trunk of the tree at my back, I can escape. Outside-that’s where I’m most comfortable. My mother tells me all the time that I was born a forest sprite, and secretly I believe her. Through the canopy of green leaves, I gaze at the sky. The clearest I’ve seen in a while. Usually the normal azure colour is clouded with murky pollutants that billow from the factories in the city, turning it a greenish gray. But today, no, today it’s perfectly clear. I trace patterns on the rough bark with my finger, peace spreading through me. I breathe deep, inhaling the scents that blossom around me. The air is cleaner here, in the heart of the forest that lies outside my house. The heady aroma of a fresh breeze, juicy leaves and overturned soil lulls me into a trance. I may not have many material possessions, and at school I’m more a wallflower than anything else, but I have this glorious forest that is more like home to me than anywhere else in the entire world. A noise to my left startles me out of my thoughts. My eyes fly open, and I hold my breath. Tiny claws scrape against the tree, and the whiskered face of a squirrel pops into my range of vision.

“Well hello you,” I say, and exhale. Its beady black eyes seem intelligent to me, and it chatters for a bit, waving its little claws around. If I didn’t know better, I swear this squirrel is talking to me, and it sounds urgent.

“Sorry, forest-sister, I don’t speak squirrel,” I tell it-her-and close my eyes. The chatter is incessant though, so I sigh and wait patiently for whatever is going to be said. I find that if I wait long enough, the forest tells me things. Seeing it has my attention, the squirrel races up the tree. I shake my head. Maybe there is something in the water. I make a mental note to check the stream which stems from the city’s pond. I know; if it’s from the city, it’s got to be bad. We are surrounded by the city on one side, the forest on the other. We are pocketed in a valley with only the ancient trees as our neighbour. I like to consider myself, when I get home from school, free of the whir and hum of city life, but no one is ever free of the city.
Mayor Brand makes sure of that.

Angry chatter bursts at me. The squirrel. I scrutinize the squirrel, waiting for an explanation, but it darts up the tree gain. I crane my neck just in time to see its red bushy tail to disappear into the swaying green miasma above me. Shrugging my shoulder, I reach for a branch close to my head and pull myself up. Reach, grab, pull. The stretch of my muscles feels good, and soon I am racing up the tree to catch

up with the squirrel. She glances
back only once and makes a happy noise, obviously glad that I am following her. The rough bark tugs at my clothing and short black hair. Soon I acquire small cuts on the palms of my hands, cheeks and bare legs, because I am wearing shortshorts. For all the time I spend outside, my skin is surprisingly pale and I look, to society, a fragile child. If only everyone could see me now! I feel so free, euphoria rising though my chest. I smile wide and make a final haul to the top of the tree. I peak my head out the leaves, the squirrel just a few branches away. What I see makes me cry out in horror.

Approaching us are rows of trucks, bearing heavy looking machinery. Men.
From the city. Coming to take away. My
forest. My beloved forest, with its ancient
trees, copious wildlife, feeling of safety and welcome. My forest which I have spent numerous nights in, watching the
blue-black twilight fade into a cloak of ebony, spattered with stars. My forest which I have greeted at peach-pink dawn, waiting for the sun to make its grand appearance. The scattered thought registers in my mind. It doesn’t make sense. Why would they want to do this? Why would they need to take away my forest, my home? Don’t they have enough manufactured stuff to keep themselves busy forever?

Apparently not.

“No,” I gasp. “No, they can’t be doing this! NO!” I look around wildly, and the squirrel is watching me.

I shake my head, trying to quash the growing terror. “They can’t do this. Look, squirrel, they are just going to the other city. Don’t worry. We will be fine,” I say, as much to reassure the creature as to reassure myself. “They couldn’t take this forest away.”

But I am losing confidence. The vehicles are approaching, ever closer, and even from way up in my perch I can smell the hideous fumes from the trucks. The loud banter of the men and the radio reaches my ears as cacophony, and I shake uncontrollably.

The trucks have come to a stop in front of my cabin. My mom steps out, drying her hands on her jeans. I watch her shake her head, refusing to let the men to tear down the forest. I see the men laugh it off, and I know they had come only to warn my mother they were doing this. She turns away in disgust, and the hopelessness of
everything hurts. The chainsaws start
coughing and sputtering, and I suddenly realize the danger I’m in.

“NO!” I scream, my voice echoing over the treetops. “NO! DON’T START CUTTING!”

The men look up, shading their eyes with their hands, and mutter to each other, clearly perplexed. What was a girl doing in the trees they were to cut? I shake my head indignantly at their attempts to call me down. My mother approaches the forest, and sees me at the top. I know she’s not worried-I’ve climbed down safely from trees larger than this.

It all happens so fast then. As I turn, my
foot slips. Suddenly I am crashing down
from the treetop, the branches grabbing at me. I shriek, covering my head with my hands. Luckily, the branches get thicker, and instead of gaining speed, I hit each arm of the tree with a thump. I land on the ground, my muscles protesting movement. Several cuts bleed freely, but I hardly notice. The vicious growling of the chainsaws spurs me on, and I start running through the dappled light. I can see men prowling through the forest, machinery in hand. I burst out of the woods and collide
into my mother.

“Don’t let them do this,” I beg. “Don’t let them take my forest!”

My mother, her eyes kind, says, “There’s
nothing we can do sweetling. Mayor Brand ordered it without telling us. He’s just that kind of man, to do such a thing…” She trails off, shaking her head.

“No!” I cry, protesting this. “NO! They can’t!” I storm towards the forest. “You can’t do this!” I yell, but my voice is spent. I collapse into a heap. Shrieks. I hear the wildly confused calling of the wild animals as they flee the forest and the dreadful sounds of the machinery. As the first of the machinery bites into the trees, I feel like I’m being ripped apart. As if hundreds of metal teeth are digging into me, severing me from my roots, displacing me.

“No,” I say. “Don’t take this from me.” Tears cascade down my cheeks. For one chaotic moment, the forest animals surround me. Chipmunks, squirrels, rabbits, deer, foxes, raccoons and other creatures try to escape, and the birds take frightened flight to the sky.

They have nowhere to go, just like me.
Ripped from all that ever mattered to
them. The moss-covered trees crash to the ground, creating a disharmonic song. Wood splinters fly at me, and I know this is the end.

“It’s gone,” I whisper, and the finality of
it hurts. “It’s all gone.”

I have written to the city’s newspaper, and my letter is going to be published. I want, no, I need someone to care, someone to share this ache at watching my forest die, crash to the ground to be hauled away. I know they won’t care, but at least they will know. They know how wrong it is to destroy natural habitats, the last for a wide radius. They know that beauty is nature. They know that by felling the forest, they are destroying what little timeless mystery we have left in the world. They will learn all that, and I know that it’s never too late to make a difference. Because with the ruination of my forest came my chance to show the world that I care.

But the real question, however, is do
you?