McKean S03 The Ghost Trees Read Online Free PDF Page B

the second tree and loosened the branch, which later fell on Olafsen. Then Sturgis, who faced prison time if he reported the death, simply loaded up the wood and left the dead man where he lay.”
    After a thoughtful pause McKean went on, “Perhaps some good will come of this case. Maybe we’ve started something that will satisfy Grandmother Tree just a little. If poachers are killing cedar trees all over this land then the new tests Janet and I are devising will someday help convict them by tying the DNA of individual trees to the wood sold to the shingle mills.”
    “One good thing,” George muttered. “Those pahstuds who killed Grandmother Tree’s child are dead and gone.”
    “Nobody’s death is a good thing,” I said. “But what exactly is the meaning of the term, ‘pahstud’? When I first heard you say it, I thought you were calling us bastards.”
    “That’s about right.” George gave a gap-toothed grin.
    “It’s the Duwamish pronunciation of the word, ‘Boston,’” Franky explained. “The first Americans to visit us here were whalers out of Boston, so we called you Bostons, but the Lushootseed language doesn’t make much use of the letter ‘B’ or the letter ‘N’, so pahstud is the closest we could come.”
    “Bastards would be just as good,” George mocked. “None of you had any family history here like we did, or any love of this land.”
    “But it’s our homeland now, too,” I resisted.
    “See it how you like,” George retorted. “I know how Chief Seattle saw it. You remember his famous quote? He said, ‘You will never be alone in our land. Our ghosts will be watching you, no matter what you do.’ ‘
    “Including, it would seem, the ghosts of trees,” McKean reflected.
    George smiled and for once that smile seemed friendly. “Look around. Where so many trees died in the old times, a whole new grove is growing.”
    McKean patted the stump. “Time will heal even this wound.”
    “Listen!” George said. “The crows’s done chatting. Hear who’s talking now?” From high in the trees came an unfamiliar birdcall that spiraled upward through a series of flute-like notes.
    “Ah, the inspiring sound of Swainson’s thrush,” McKean murmured.
    “My grandmothers taught me it was called pareeji,” George said.
    “Pareeji.” McKean savored the word. “Named in onomatopoetic consonance with its call.”
    “Ono-what?”
    “Never mind. I only meant that your name matches its fabulous sound better than our dry term, Swainson’s thrush.”
    “Hear him?” the old man said, his eyes alight with joy. “He sings, pah-pareeji-reeji-reeji-ree!”
    “Beautiful!” McKean agreed. “Furthermore his presence affirms the high quality of the environment in these woods. Swainson’s thrushes - pareejis - are fastidious birds. They only nest where there is clean running water, a healthy high canopy of trees and dense undergrowth - all of which is true in this canyon. Hear how the call echoes off the ceiling of big maple leaves and returns from a hundred directions at once? That’s a sound one can only hear in a healthy Pacific Northwest forest environment.”
    “It’s like a whole chorus of flutes,” I remarked.
    George led us up his little path to the center of the cedar grove. The spicy aroma of live cedar foliage scented the air. Standing before Grandmother Tree, George held out his staff to the giant stump. “Grandmother,” he said, “the last of those tree poachers is gone, thanks to these guys. No more killing your children for money. I hope your spirit rests easier, knowing those bad men will never come around here again.”
    High above us the loftiest boughs swayed. A light breeze soughed through them like a gentle sigh.