Speak to the Earth (18 page)

The premier stood helpless, swatting dust from his suit as the melee swirled around him. Ben shouted into the car phone; Aide Two remained fixed to the spot, his mouth opening and closing like a bewildered bass. Linda Hobbs shook her head, capped her pen and got back in the car.

In the distance, sirens. At the bridge, cameras whirred as reporters snapped pictures. Cellular phones appeared and writers read from hastily scribbled notes. Framed by the Betacam, the TV woman buttoned her orange blazer and began to talk into the mike.

The camera operator began with Megan, medium close-up, then zoomed back to take in the yellow nylon tent fly lashed between the bridge abutment and a massive
cedar stump, fluttering in the breeze, intermittently revealing the words SAVE THE TREES. As Megan spoke, the camera panned to the spectacle on the bridge. Zoom in on the boy who sat on a blue backpack, dead centre in the middle of the bridge, a thermos beside him. Zoom out to take in the entire bridge again. Pan left to the concrete railing, where a chain was doubled around one of the uprights. Tight shot of the chain, hardware-store variety, lightweight. Pan right, tight on the chain, following it to the boy’s chest, where it encircled him, secured by a combination lock. Follow the chain, slowly, to the right side of the bridge, secured to a concrete upright. Zoom out to establish the scene again, reporters and cops milling around. Medium close-up of Megan as she winds up.

“Megan Sutton,
CBC
News, Orca Sound. That’s a wrap,” she added, lowering the mike. “Where’s Harrington? He’s next.”

Although by now the sun was high enough to burn off the remains of the morning mist and flood warmth over the treetops and into the river valley, Bryan trembled. He tucked his hands in his armpits, the chain cold on his fingers.

Earlier the insistent
beep! beep!
of his alarm clock had wakened him to the rich damp odours of the forest and the drip of moisture on the fly above him. Quickly he had pulled on his clammy clothes and, as the morning light crept down the trunks of the spruce that stood
around him like giant sentinels, he packed up his gear. After gulping down a cup of lukewarm coffee — he was too nervous to eat — he had set off. Through the chilly ground mist he hiked up the ridge, followed it for a few hundred metres and descended to break out of the trees and onto the logging road. The entire river valley was filled with fog as thick as cream. Behind it he heard the Big Bear rushing to the sea.

While invisible ravens squabbled in the trees around him, Bryan had spread the yellow fly on the ground and printed his sign. The black ink had bled into the wet nylon, but the letters were big and easily visible. It had taken just a few moments to set up the sign and the chains. While he waited he sipped the tepid coffee and rehearsed in his mind what he would do, psyching himself up for the confrontation that he knew would probably terrify him. When he had heard the sound of motors, he had locked himself in.

Bryan had not known what to expect, but never would he have imagined the chaos before him, cars and people everywhere. The moan of sirens swelled to a climax, then abruptly died when two more police cars arrived.

Bryan shut his eyes against the incessant flashing of cameras. It seemed the reporters couldn’t get enough pictures of him. He ignored the questions they shouted at him.

“What’s your name?”

“Are you part of a bigger protest?”

“Where do you go to school?”

“How old are you?”

“Who put you up to this?”

“Where are the rest of them?”

He looked at the ground when the TV man trained the Betacam on him.

Bryan felt like the only sane person in a lunatic asylum.

To no one in particular the premier shouted, “This is a goddamn fiasco!” To the cops he snarled, “Couldn’t you even control a logging road? Isn’t that your job?” To Aide One: “Ben, get the car turned around!” To Linda Hobbs: “Get out of the car. Here comes that bitch from CBC!”

“We can’t move,” Ben said. “The van’s blocking the car.”

“I’ll need to fill out an accident report on that van,” one of the cops said.

“Premier Harrington, would you care to make a statement?” asked the TV reporter icily. She had apparently heard the premier’s description of her.

“Get her out of here,” demanded the premier. “Why the hell haven’t they arrested that little creep on the bridge?”

“The premier is not,” Aide One said evenly, “prepared to make a statement at this time.”

Undeterred, the newswoman stepped closer to the limo. She buttoned her blazer. “Premier Harrington, I’m going on record in ten seconds.” She turned to her camera
operator. “Ned, get ready.”

Aide Two grabbed her arm. “Move out, Megan. You heard the prem —”

The reporter called, “Ned, are you rolling? Let go, buddy, or I’ll charge you with assault. Premier Harrington,” she said into her mike as the aide quickly released her, “what is the reason for such heavy security on this public bush road this morning?”

The premier drew himself up. His face became a mask of calm reasonableness, lit by a broad smile. “The Orca Sound Ecological Preservation Plan is a fair compromise between the demands of environmental activists and legitimate forestry management.” He gave the self-deprecating shrug for which he was famous. “I am fully aware,” he continued, his voice heavy with sincerity, “that this plan will not satisfy the more … ah … vociferous elements on either side of the issue. But the government thinks that this compromise is a fair and reasonable one that will create thousands of jobs and add to the prosperity of all citizens in our beautiful province.”

“If the plan is fair, Premier, why have more than six hundred people been arrested trying to oppose it?”

Harrington’s face became serious. “If people break the law, they must be prepared to take the consequences. Vigilante actions have no place in this country.”

“Does that mean you are in agreement with what many across Canada feel are overly punitive sentences handed down by the courts?”

“It would be inappropriate for me to comment on
decisions made by our learned and hard-working judges. Now, if you’ll excuse me —”

The reporter lowered the mike. “Thank you, Mr. Premier,” she said stiffly.

“Why isn’t that little sonofabitch arrested yet?” Harrington screamed.

“Megan Sutton,
CBC
News, Orca Sound.” She had lowered her mike but hadn’t switched it off.

Inside the Betacam, the tape rolled.

Bryan felt the cold clutch of fear as three RCMP officers approached him — a sergeant and two constables. One of the cops carried a pair of bolt cutters. The other was Zeke Wilson.

Bryan stared at the six shiny black boots in front of him, the six navy blue legs, each with a broad yellow stripe down the outside. Swallowing on a dry throat, he looked up at three navy blue bomber jackets and three stern faces.

“What’s your name, son?” the sergeant asked.

Bryan looked through the legs at the reporters who had formed a semicircle behind the cops. Cameras clicked. Pens flew across steno pads.

“I asked your name, son.” When he got no reply the sergeant said, “Either of you two officers know this lad?”

“His name is Bryan Troupe.” It was Zeke.

Bryan looked up at him. Anger clouded Zeke’s dark face, filling Bryan with doubt and a deep loneliness. He pressed his eyes closed, determined to control himself and his fear.

Hooking his thick thumbs in his belt, the sergeant demanded, “What’s the combination to that lock?”

Bryan looked at his hands, fingers linked together in his lap, knuckles white. He took a deep breath and fought to control his voice. “I forget.”

Sensing something, the reporters pressed closer. The man with the Betacam stood to the side; the tiny red light on the front of the camera glowed.

“Constable Briggs, move those reporters back,” the sergeant growled. A shuffle of feet followed. “Now, son, I don’t know if you realize the seriousness of what you’re about here, but I want you to undo that lock. What’s the combination?”

“I forget.”

“All right, son, we’ll play it out your way. Constable Wilson, place this young man under arrest.”

“No.”

Bryan’s frightened eyes snapped up to Zeke’s face, and his heart soared as he realized that Zeke’s anger was not directed at him.

The sergeant glared at Zeke but directed his order to the other cop. “Briggs, cut the boy loose.”

“Yessir.” The chain to Bryan’s left parted in the jaws of the bolt cutters and clinked to the ground. Moving behind him, the constable cut the chain on Bryan’s right. The cop stepped back. Bryan remained where he was.

“Wilson, do your duty,” the sergeant commanded.

“My duty, Sergeant, as I see it, does not include

Thanks to John Pearce and Ting-xing Ye for support and encouragement in the writing of this book.