Falling From Grace by Ann Eriksson

roared past, spraying muddy water over the already dejected and sodden troop. The truck screeched to a halt thirty metres away and reversed, careening back and forth across the road, grinding to a stop mere steps from the protesters. The driver, a wiry dark-haired man dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, and work-boots, leaped from the cab, brandishing a wrench.
    â€œCan’t take rain?” he leered.
    Terry stepped forward. “Put the wrench away,” he cautioned. “We have nothing against you.”
    â€œHah.” The man spat on the ground at Terry’s feet. “I don’t know whose welfare you’re sucking off. I work for a living.”
    â€œYou don’t want to work yourself out of a living, do you?” Terry held his ground. “No trees, no loggers.”
    â€œYou’ve already got your trees. Government don’t allow logging in parks.” The logger brushed water angrily from his forehead with his arm. “I got a wife, kids. Who do you think you are, you tree-huggers, coming here, interfering with things that ain’t none of your business.”
    â€œThe public owns these trees,” Cougar yelled. “We have every right, you scab.”
    The logger’s face twisted; he took three steps toward Cougar, wrench raised. Terry blocked his way and cautioned Cougar back.
    â€œWe don’t want any violence. We’re here to protest peacefully against the government and the company. We don’t want anyone hurt.”
    â€œYou better get the hell off this road then.” He threw the wrench in the back of the pick-up, slammed the door shut behind him, and gunned the engine. A shower of gravel flew up from the back tires as he steered for the middle of the crowd. Everyone fled for the water-filled ditches. The truck veered off at the last moment and sped away.
    Paul and I heard the whole story under the kitchen tarp when the protesters fled to camp, shaken, wet, and muddy.
    â€œThe guy’s insane,” Sue declared, wringing water from her socks. “He was this close”—she held up a finger and a thumb—“to cracking Cougar over the head.”
    â€œAt least no one got hurt,” Terry said. “It’s no surprise the loggers aren’t sympathetic. They take us as a threat to their jobs. But the whole upper valley’s a tiny fraction of the company’s tenure.”
    â€œMore jobs are lost to mechanization and raw log exports than to the creation of parks,” Chris added.
    â€œBut big trees,” Marcel countered. “One tree is worth, what, fifty grand?”
    â€œWhat about the trees?” Cougar stood and pointed out into the forest. “They’re fucking out there cutting trees right now.”
    â€œWe have to beat the workers to the road in the morning,” Terry insisted.
    â€œNot adequate. We failed once already. We need people in the trees,” Cougar yelled. “We need a tree-sit. A round-the-clock tree-sit.”
    Silence fell at the new suggestion.
    â€œTwo lines of defence, the road and the trees,” Terry said. “Brilliant.”
    A stir of excitement rippled through the group.
    â€œGreat plan. Who will go up?”
    â€œMe,” Cougar volunteered. “Me and Squirrel. We can do it.” Squirrel raised his eyebrows but didn’t object.
    Jen stood. “I’ll go too,” she said. “We need a strategy. If we spread the tree-sit out they can’t cut within a tree height radius of each tree without hurting us.”
    â€œWe’ll need equipment,” Terry said. “And know-how.”
    All attention shifted to Paul and me.
    â€œWill you help us?” Mary walked over and took Paul’s hand. I nearly gagged, waiting for the woman to flutter her eyelids and pout.
    He hesitated. “Faye?”
    I forced my gaze from the saccharine scene between Paul and Mary to the ragtag gathering, the weight of their hope directed at me. They