T. Boyle - A Friend of the Earth

"That's what we were trying to do here, Mac and me," I say, and I'm pleading with him, I can't help myself, "save the animals. It's too late for the earth. Or for us. But the animals, if only we can keep them from extinction until we're gone — they'll adapt, they will, and something new will come up in our place. That's our hope. Our only hope!'

I guess by this point I've got to my feet and I'm trying to marshal my thoughts to tell him about extinction, about how we're at the very end of the sixth great extinction to hit this planet, caused by us, by man, by progress, and how speciation will occur after we're gone, an explosion of new forms springing up to fill all the vacated niches, a transformation like nothing we've known since the Cambrian explosion of five hundred seventy million years ago, but he's not listening. It's 9:15 A. M., He's come all the way from New York and he's stifling a yawn on Mac's couch beneath the undulating portrait of the Four Tops in the Motown Room. He doesn't want to hear about the environment — the environment is all indoors now anyway, right on down to the domed fields that produce the arugula for his salads and the four-walled space he calls home. The environment is a bore. And nobody wants to read about it-nobody wants to hear about it — and, for all April Wind's machinations (and Andrea's), nobody wants to hear about Sierra either. Or me. No, what they want — and it comes to me with a clarity I can only attribute to the neurobooster cap I popped earlier this morning-what they want is to know if the weather will ever go back to normal and what Maclovio Pulchris' sex life was like.

And here, right on cue, is tiny, cute little not-so-young April Wind, baby-stepping across the room like some idol of the Ituri pygmies, to tell all.

If Ronnie Bott and Bertelsmann West don't give two shits about my daughter and the sacrifices she made or the world beyond their computer screens, I do, I still do, and I can't help myself. Call it the intransigence of age. Call it nostalgia. But after skirting April Wind for five months and resenting the hell out of her wheedling questions and the whole idea of a Sierra Tierwater biography, now that it's gone I want it back more desperately than I wanted it to disappear in the first place. Does that make sense? All right, call it senility, then. Call it hope, resentment, despair, call it anything you like, but I want to testify, and I will, even if I have to slip into April Wind's room, filch the manuscript and finish the thing myself.

Sierra gave up everything for an ideal, and if that isn't the very definition of heroism I don't know what is. Once she was up in her tree, that was it, her life was over, She never had children, never had a house, a pet, an apartment even, she never again went shopping, bought something on impulse, watched TV or a movie, never had a friend or a lover. She was separated from her father by six hundred and thirteen horizontal miles and one hundred and eighty vertical feet, and she might as well have been in prison too. For three years, through the refrigerated winter and the kiln that was summer, she never bathed. Her clothes stank, her skin burned, she ate rice and vegetables six days a week and lentil soup on Sundays. She squatted over a bucket to move her bowels. Her fingers and toes felt as if they were going to fall off, her back ached worse than her father's, she had a cavity in one of her upper molars and it threatened to bore right through her head. She never went to Paris. Never went to grad school. Never stretched out on a couch in front of a fire and listened to the rain on the roof.

Coast Lumber tried to ignore her at first, but after El Nirio failed to dislodge her, she became an embarrassment — and, worse, a liability. Because the longer she held out, the more people began to take notice. No one had been up a tree more than twenty days before Sierra climbed up into Artemis, and as she reached the one-month mark the press started to converge on her dwindling grove in the Headwaters Forest. Teo, never one to miss an opportunity, led them to the base of the tree himself, and even helped hoist some of the hardier ones up to the lower platform (she had two by then, one at a hundred feet, which she used for interviews and cooking; the other at one eighty, which was her private space, for meditation and sleep). Andrea gave her a cell phone too, and by the end of the second month, she was spending two or three hours a day on it, chatting with her father and stepmother sometimes, sure, but mainly giving interviews, educating the public, throwing down a gauntlet in the duff.

The other two tree-sitters — a skinny girl with a buzz cut and a sad-eyed, bearded nineteen-year-old known only as Leaf, each perched in a neighboring grove-had given up after the first week of unappeasable rain and fifty-mile-perhour gusts, and Coast Lumber, I'm sure, felt vindicated. Sit on your hands, that was their policy. Avoid force. Squelch bad press before it can poke its ugly head out of its hole, and bite you in the foot. But my daughter was something they hadn't reckoned with. She wasn't your ordinary body-piercing neo-hippie college kid chanting slogans and chaining herself to the bumpers of corporate town-cars on her summer vacation, she was a shining symbol high up in the tower of her tree, she was immovable, unshakable, Joan of Arc leading her troops into battle, with nothing to lose but the bones of her flesh. They had to get rid of her. They had no choice.

Pick a morning, midway through the second month. Seven A. M. A light rain falling with the slow, shifting rhythm of the infinite, the serried trees, the sky so close it seems illuminated from within. Sierra is asleep. Encased in her thermals, wrapped in her mummy bag, stretched out on her insulated mat beneath the roof of her Popsicle — orange tent on her cramped wooden platform one hundred and eighty feet above the ground. The forest breathes in and out. A marbled murrelet perches on a branch fifty feet below her. She's dreaming of flying. Not of falling-that's a dream she refuses to entertain up here in a bed this high above the earth, even in her unconscious — but of sprouting wings and diving off the platform to swoop low over the lumber mill and then rise up aloft until the forest falls away and then the hills and even the ocean, higher and higher until she's dodging satellites in the glittering metallic bands of their orbits and can gaze down on the earth unobstructed. The blue planet. It's there in her half-waking mind, right there behind her eyelids, sustained in nothing but the cold black reaches, when, suddenly, the platform shudders.

She wakes. Looks through the aperture at the south end of her tent. And sees a hand, a human hand, tensed there on the corner of the platform like a bird-eating spider hatched in the forests of the Amazon. She's dreaming. Surely she's still dreaming, asleep and awake at the same time. There's a grunt, and then another hand appears — and in the next instant a head pops into view, presumptive eyes, the sliver of a mouth, a face framed in a beard the color of used coffee grounds. It is a face of insinuation, and it belongs to Climber Deke, a twenty-eight-year-old employee of Coast Lumber who specializes in ascending trees and escorting trespassers to the ground, where they can be duly arrested and charged.

One hundred and eighty feet above the ground. From that height, looking down, it might as well be three hundred feet. People are the size of puppets, the squirrels and chipmunks rocketing through the duff all but invisible, downed branches, manzanita bushes and boulders like the pattern in a tribal carpet. Sierra disdains ropes, harnesses or any other sort of safety devices. She goes barefoot, the better to grip the bark, and she relies on Artemis-her tree, the spirit of her tree-to sustain her. "Who-?" She says, and can't get the rest of it out.