| 4x A Pacific Tribune writing contest selection ¥ _

Song of a tree

By MARGE DALSKOG

ee DAY long the music haunted me. Restless, dis- turbing, queer melody. Not a half-remembered snatch of song, not something I could under- stand. But it was there. It called, it urged, it tortured me with its questioning. It sug- gested, then evaded.

Suddenly, in the mysterious darkness of the night, it re- turned.

“Come,” it seemed to tell me, “and you shall find the answer to the question in your mind.”

Eager excitement lending wings to my feet, I followed the now lilting strains of the mys- terious refrain. It was a rapsody —I was in a deep wood, and dawn was in the sky. Damp, pungent smell of moss and leaf- mould stung my nostrils. Drip- ping underbrush, nodding ferns —and the music! It had become an overture—full of promise.

My footsteps lingered, while my mind drank in the wonder of an awakening forest. Tall spruce and sturdy hemlock spread their branches to the morning, and the shafts of sun- light sifted through the lace work found the dew-drenched leaves of maple saplings, turn- ing them, in patches here and there, to sparkling, liquid gold.

“Here, all things are per- fect,” sang the music. “Created by nature in beautiful satisfying harmony.”

Now I knew why I had fol- lowed, and a question trembled in my throat. Before me stood a splendid fir tree—straight, proud and tall. Full of wisdom from its patient years of stand- ing; its nurturing roots deep in mother earth; and its tallest branches fraternizing with the winds.

Before I could ask I knew the answer, for the overture was ending. Plainly it conyeyed its meaning in an ecstasy of vib- rant sound.

“You are not wealth,” I told the fir tree, “but you are value. Value of your beauty, of your shade, and of your sanctuary to the creatures of the forest. Value of your cradling arms to winged friends of the air. You purify the air, for you breathe in poisons and turn them into life — and you stand against the threat of drouth for man.”

Dare I ask, then, what is wealth ?

No man stood beside me in that forest glade. But, quiet and clear, I heard a voice, as the magic of the harmonious in- struments was stilled.

“Ask, then, know.”

and you _ shall

“Who are you? What are you ?” I cried in alarm.

“TI am the voice of day and night, of yesterday, today and temorrow.” Clearly I heard it. Clearly it said, “I am the voice of reality.” Nothing could sur- prise me now in the strange and unreal place, and so I asked, “What is wealth ?”

Immediately I heard drum- beats heralding approaching

footsteps; the heavy stomp of caulk-boots bespoke the woods- man, and soon the polished steel of fallers’ saws glinted in the sun.

Bite of axe in sturdy wood, ring of saw, the wedges driven in the stomach of the venerable fir tree.

“You see before you,” said the voice, “‘the value of the tree, be- coming wealth for the use of

”»

man.

And the mysterious orchestra kept time to the rhythmic swing of the crosscut saw, and through their undershirts the muscles of the fallers rippled, and the grey stains of sweat deepened.

~Some distance away stood a sriag, ‘grotesque and lifeless, standing with only its feet in its grave, its tall gaunt body indecently exposed, one boney witch’s arm crookedly pointed to heaven.

Now the cut was nearly through, and the cry of the woodsman rang out, “Timber-r” and the music rasped on the echo. Down came the monarch amid thunderous roar; crash of cymbals, blast of trumpets—and

‘the tree lay full length upon the

forest floor.

Like lightning now, the bucker set to work to saw it into lengths, end the rhythm of the music was the rhythm of its swaying body, while the joking and the lusty laughter of the fallers died away among the trees.

But now I saw a spar-tree with its cables shining silver in the sun, steel rails leading to its base. On’ the rails stood skeleton cars, waiting for the logs, and where the fallers and the buckers had been, was a hook-tender and his crew. The rousic echoed his orders in the tree tops as the logs began to move.

And the snag stood like a

its spectral outline

sentinel, stark against the sky,

“What,” said I, half to myself, “what is the value of the tree now ?”

“The value of the tree,” said the voice, “is now the value of the man-hours of these work- ers.” :

“Yes, oh yes,” sang the strains of the melody, “the value of the tree is the value of the muscles, and the value of the sweat.”

Understanding flooded my mind, for I saw that wealth is the product of strong backs and willing hearts, and never again would I think of it as merely the sign of the dollar.

‘The chokerman hooked onto a log, and the whistlepunk sig- nalled for the engineer to “go ahead,” and the unseen musici- ans heightened their tempo, till the music echoed again and again from the sidehill.

“But what will be the por- tion of these gallant, eager men ? What part of the wealth will be theirs ?”

No sooner had I uttered it than I heard the first sad dis- cord. Had the conductor missed a beat? Something was hap-

pening to the music! It was wistful, it was harsh — it was

-angry, cruel!

And the voice of the chaser, as he unhooked a log boomed out in a ribald song:

“Oh V’ll buy me:a night with a handsome wench

On the skid road at the Bay,

And a bottle of whiskey my

thirst to quench, |.

With my little ol’ wad of

pay 12?

The fireman wiped his sweaty face and joined in with a rueful grin:

“For my old woman a yard of

cloth,

New boots so I’ll be shod,

A tumbler of beer with an

inch of froth,

And that’s all I'll get, God !”

And the hooktender tossed his blond head, and squared his streng shoulders; the violins sang softly for him, for he was thinking of a girl with a sweet red mouth, and of the little hoard he had saved for a house in the

by

“married quarters” of the camp. °

But don’t take a moment to dream, logger, for death rides the mainline and the haulback —and the sudden scream of the wierd uncanny music sounds like a warning for YOU!

It is! It is ! The cable is fouled! God, man! The snag! It’s shaking, it’s tottering — it’s FALLING! Down, down! Crashing to earth ! And the wild, roaring discord split the air like a nightmare explosion ! The brittle, clutching arm reached tor the hooktender, piercing him through the middle like a rabbit on a spit. One devil’s elbow raked off his lower jaw and there the “teeth” biting grotes- quely into the wood. Blood, blood in the woods...

For one stark instant nothing moved, nor made a sound. Only the music. wept’. . . sobbing on a whimpering half-note, like a lost and frightened child.

“To the value of the tree,” said the relentless voice, “you

“may now add the sum total

value of a human life.” .“Yes,” wailed the Violins, “and the value of sons never to be born, and the emptiness in a woman’s eyes.”

But the logging crew had vanished. The spar-tree was fading, and in the distance I could hear the staccato tap of castinets, the deep-toned boom ci an organ,-and the rythmic beat of . . or was it the clack- ing of logging train wheels, the roar of the log-dump, and the chugging of a tugboat with a Davis raft in tow? |

Shaken and bewildered, I thought longingly of home and

be published next week.

- Prizewinning entries Te Pacific Tribune has received a large num-

ber of entries to its writing contest, which closed on May 31. All entries — short stories, poems, reportage, anecdotes — are now being considered by the editorial board and the winning submissions will be published over the next three months. The first of the editorial board's selec- tions, a short story by Marge Dalskog of Whaleton, appears on this page. The second, a piece of re- portage on Scandinavian customs in Canada, will

bed, but I became aware of an ever increasing clamor, rising © in a crescendo of noise and con-

fusion. The unseen orchestra had taken up the “Song of the Sawmill” and before my eyes I saw the tree-log length, com- ing up the slip to the head saw.

Sawdust sat on the shoulders of the workers and filled the creases of their caps. Dust and sweat begrimed their faces, and) on their hands I noted fingers missing.

As the tree pased through the edger, and divided to the gang and re-saws, the ever present music told the story in a ragged, screaming yoice. Devil’s wings of sound—that smashed against the ceiling and bellowed to the

floor like an echo out of hell.

“Why, oh why, can’t it stay on key? What is that jarring, hopeless note?”

Then I knew, for the answer was written in the faces of the mill hands. Like the verses of the loggers, they told the story of the pay cheque, of the wealth, by their labor on the fir tree, pouring in a steady river to

_the coffers of the “owners” —

while their share would buy them food, and a little more for clothing, :

The lumber passed through the trimmer to the markers on the greenchain; from the dry- kiln to the sticker and the planer. I thought I couldn't stand it, for the music beat upon my tortured senses in an agony of pleading.

But in a trice the sawmill was gone, and I stood in a garden, while the music spoke of beauty, even through the discord. All around were landscaped acres, sloping lawns and_lily-pools. Weeping willows dipped their fingers in the cool, smiling water, and on a hillside before me stood a great mansion.

“Why,” thought I, “Oh, why am I here in this place of splendor ?

“The tree,” said the voice, and it startled me, for I had for- gotten its existence — “The tree is in the walls, and in the floor, and in the spacious ban- quet hall.”

"Whose house is this?” I cried, but before the answer came, I knew.

“It is the dwelling of the “owner.” ” 4

: “He can buy it, he can buy it,” sang the sad, discordant music, “for the wealth is in his pockets, while the mill hand doles out pennies for his wife to fill the stew-pot.”

And it mocked me, with its jarring notes, off-key.

“In the name of all that’s holy !” I burst out, “who com- posed this wretched music? wrote this fearful drama?”

“No one man ever wrote the music,” sighed the voice, close to my ear. “It was born long ago, beside a crude machine, and it grew in the pages of history.” The voice was fading, fading. “ | .. By the need of man, and the greed of man.. - and the pen was made of gold.”

Suddenly I sat bolt upright, shouting with relief and joy! “It was a dream! A DREAM! Thank God!” j

"Then I heard it. Just a whis- per, but I recognised the voice !

“If you think it is only a dream, my friend, you are 2 FOO was :

June 8, 1956 — PACIFIC TRIBUNE — PAGE 10