April Fool by William Deverell Page B

What is my reaction, my dear? She puckers her lips and pops him a kiss. He feels a thump, message received, her need to do this. I can’t live with surrender.
    â€œPride is my reaction. Pride in my wife and in my community. What you are witnessing is the brave and predictable response of the good, honest, caring folk of Garibaldi Island,angered by the prospect of the rape of a virgin forest. It ought to be added to the national park system, a gift of nature for all the people of Canada.”
    This brings applause from the Gwendolers. Arthur is a little amazed by what he has just said, but the words came naturally, unforced, unrehearsed. He hopes the press won’t assume he’s a spokesman for the protesters.
    Nelson Forbish is at his ear, tugging his arm. “Save some for me, Mr. Beauchamp.”
    â€œIn your next headline, Nelson, you might call it the Battle of the Gap.”
    Nelson jots that down. A reporter asks, “Mr. Beauchamp, how do you feel about your wife being up there?”
    â€œI love her deeply, naturally I have a concern for her well-being. Of significant, though lesser concern is my stomach. Margaret is a cook of unparalleled artistry.” He gets his laugh. He’s playing to the jury, it’s an ingrained habit.
    The microphones swing away, seeking an alternative point of view. Zoller puts a comb to his hair. He has positioned himself well, but is being ignored in favour of Corporal Al.
    â€œOfficer, what do you see as your role?”
    â€œWell, I see my job as keeping a low energy level.” Todd Clearihue is on the move, but Corporal Al spots him. “Todd, I understand there’s dynamite in one of those trucks by the road, and I’d like it parked at the quarry until you can drive it off the island.”
    â€œLet’s see what the courts have to say about that.” His ire is starting to show.
    â€œTodd, I’m taking responsibility for lives here, you ought to be too.”
    â€œSure, you’re right, I’ll look after it.”
    And Clearihue strides off, past Reverend Al, past the pixie, who taunts him: “Speaking of lives, Clearihue, get one.” That provokes no response, and she hollers after him, “Thanks for the ride, sorry I couldn’t fulfill your fantasies.”
    The media avoid her, sensing, like Arthur, that danger lurks here, a left-wing crank, a loose and libellous tongue. A reporter asks Corporal Al, “Will you be calling for reinforcements?”
    â€œNo, that’s just going to raise the energy level. No need to, as long as everyone acts responsibly.”
    Reverend Al engages the press, a tutorial on saving green spaces, a list of species harboured in Gwendolyn, the Garry Oak, the Phantom Orchid. He ends with a touch of rhetoric about the eagles: “the national symbol of our friends and neighbours in the United States of America.”
    A land not far. Arthur can see the San Juan Islands of Washington from his farm, the white pinnacles of the Olympics. This story could wedge its way into the news there, human interest to stir the patriotic heart. In design, in timing, this has been a well-orchestrated media event that somehow seems beyond the production skills of his fellow Garibaldians. There was outside help.
    Felicity Jones calls from above. “I would now like to read a poem I wrote.” She shoves Cud playfully. “Without any help from you . It’s called ‘I Am a Tree.’” The imagery is priapic, the tree as penis, stately, wedded to the earth, sap rising from its roots. Arthur endures–the poem is too simple to be banal.
    As the recital ends, Felicity’s mother strides into the clearing, looks about, and whacks Nelson’s camera away when he attempts to catch her grim expression.
    â€œFelicity Jones, I want you down from there right now. You are not repeating another year of school.”
    Tabatha is a weaver, a single mother, fiercely protective. Her