Falling From Grace by Ann Eriksson Page A

attention?”
    â€œI thought you were on my side.”
    He was quiet for a moment. “I am,” he answered, then paused. “The protesters are too.”
    â€œWe rely on co-operation with the company.”
    â€œA deal with the devil?”
    I rolled away from him. “I’m a scientist, Paul,” I said. “I can’t get political. Good night.”
    Paul was right, Mary wouldn’t leave. I managed to get an email out to PCF from the clear-cut early in the morning. We spent the day in the canopy, returning late, hungry and tired after hours of climbing, to discover another twenty protesters and a dozen more tents crowding both sides of the stream. A line of cardboard signs propped against a log bore slogans painted in a rainbow of colours. Trees Not Pulp. Stop the Greed, Save the Ancient Giants. A Tree Farm Is Not a Forest. Big Trees Not Big Stumps . The group was gathered in a circle under the kitchen tarp, Terry pacing, talking into an expensive-looking radiophone. We stopped and stood at the back of the crowd, unable to reach our food or cooking supplies on the other side of the gathering.
    Terry slipped the phone into his backpack and surveyed the waiting group. “I got the word,” he announced. “We’re to have the blockade up by dawn tomorrow. They’re sending in a half-dozen loggers, a couple of yarders and of course the trucks later in the day.”
    â€œWill we get arrested?” a red-haired woman dressed all in lime green Gore-Tex asked.
    â€œNot yet,” Terry answered. “The company needs a court injunction against us. Our lawyers in Victoria will deal with that. Our goal is to stop the trees coming down, one day at a time.”
    Paul nudged me and whispered, “See, they have lawyers.”
    â€œHow about tree spiking?” a young man in dreadlocks, standing not far from us, addressed the crowd. A piercing glinted in his eyebrow. “How about monkey wrenching? It’s all they’ll listen to.” A current of discord surged over the crowd and a few people yelled out their agreement. I didn’t like the way this meeting was going.
    A huge man rose to his feet, big shouldered and well over six feet. “No. No tree spiking. No harming people or property,” he said in a booming Québécois accent. ‘I’m here for peaceful protest, eh. I am against logging, not loggers.”
    â€œMarcel’s right,” Terry said. “No reason to think the blockade won’t work. It has in the past. Remember Clayoquot.”
    Several people nodded. One woman yelled out, “I was there!” Excited chatter broke out.
    Terry raised his hand for silence. “Remember, our group advocates non-violent civil disobedience. Violence of any kind will not be tolerated”—he addressed the speaker with the head of dreadlocks—“Cougar, if you feel you can’t abide by the rules, I will have to ask you to leave.”
    Cougar scowled and crossed his arms. I could see his right hand tucked in his armpit, middle finger extended. An involuntary shiver ran down my spine.
    â€œAnd”—Terry turned to the group—“in case you didn’t read our conduct policy before you left Victoria, no alcohol and no illicit drugs. Tread with respect on this park. Be a credit to us, not a liability. Okay.” He raised his voice and his arm in the air. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”
    â€œYes,” they cheered in response. The whistles and clapping that followed reminded me of a pep rally at a high school football game.
    Terry called for silence. “Unless you have questions, get a sound sleep and see you at five AM. We have trees to save.”
    After dinner I carried a cup of hot chocolate to the edge of the clearing and settled on a log. Paul was off with Mary and the children to find space, I hoped, in one of the new tents. The camp bustled with activity like a nest of ants. People