The Chief of Rally Tree Read online

  For Ian and Gavia

  and in memory of my father, Thomas Oakes—

  planters of trees, all.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Boyden

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-3269-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3270-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  Winter returned. The first time he’d appeared in national consciousness was eighteen years ago, after he spent the decade of his twenties living as a member of a wolf pack whose territory ran from British Columbia to the Yaak River Valley. When he entered the spotlight then, no one had yet heard of him or missed him while he ran the miles, pissed the boundaries, howled the moon, attacked the elk, slept the afternoons. Then he stepped out of the woods, muscled, wary, and sharp, and fame was an umbrella that opened over him. First, the book of his wolfdom caused a sensation. Then the movie, a foraging cookbook, and an endorsement of a low-impact footwear line whose launch he didn’t care about enough to stick around for. By the time it was released, his farewell letter was in the hands of the press. They reported its contents: he had a date with isolation. He needed to save himself so he’d have something left to give his new secret project.

  And he was gone.

  The world moved quickly on. It met the grizzly bear man, the horse woman, a crocodile wrestler, the migration simulators, and the cat woman with whisker implants. It was crowded. The goat walker, the hyena trainer, the man who orchestrated braying.

  They had to move over when Winter reemerged after spending ten years on his secret project. The shine-producing light of the studios made him glow. His hair scattered light like a new season. The world held its breath and adjusted the volume to hear him better.

  But what he said made no sense. Syllables of mandates and urgings, coalescences of them until they became long strings of ideas that had nothing to do with wolves. There were no mammals anywhere in his new project. Now it was all about people being numbed by overdependence. Enfeebled by outsourced memory. Adopted by corporations. He was asked for a sound bite, but produced a critique.

  So what if people had “lost the fluency that had once positioned them as highly sensitive receptors of earth consciousness, capable of reading tiny vibrations, wind shifts, and bark flakes as a language which held deep personal significance?” Wind shifts? Bark flakes? Why was he talking about the feelings of trees? People turned their television channels back to the grizzlies. They were feeding on something large and steaming.

  People no longer spoke bark flake. So they weren’t good at living without a store nearby and should turn off their lights earlier, get some sleep, try dreaming in the languages of other species. When Winter said such things to the interviewers, they usually responded with blinking, a repurposing of attention as their eyes wandered off to consider his moss-toned shirt, what the fiber was, who made it, if there were more in stock.

  But Winter said one thing that stuck, a name: Lin Strickland. She had written the book that called him away from his project; indeed, away from himself. He needed to talk to her: Lin Strickland.

  The moment Winter said her name, Lin’s books sold and sold, the presses of them suddenly churning out piles that dwindled and reappeared each day. Few people had heard of her before, but in Winter’s wake, she was said to be a writers’ writer, a readers’ writer, a writer of the ages, a benchmark writer, a writer who carried a compass that pointed to truth’s perfect north, a writer of internal calamity and certain recognition. A writer Winter had read, though it had nearly destroyed him to do so.

  That, from a man who had endured years of winters naked, worked among his pack to take down grown elk and deliver the death press to the flexion of their necks, torn mouth-first and ravenously into the body, run miles of territory daily, and been swept down a mountain in a landslide. He woke up to darkness which gradually sifted into a slow tunnel of brighter and brighter white as his pack dug him out, curled around him and licked him until he understood that to stand on your own is to die. That the man who stands most firmly is the one who has died of darkness and been restored by belonging.

  “But Lin’s book,” he said, “it left me uncertain. My plan is to meet with her to see if I can regain my confidence and so become whole again. I need to assess whether I truly know myself or not.”

  He wouldn’t say what his new project was, but it demanded such self-knowing. Whatever it was, he was willing to say that it involved entering realms of a once-foreign dimension, which one could only do if one were truly and only oneself. His agent revealed a bit more, if one understood what it meant to be “dedicated to accessing ancient consciousness.” Winter believed most humans had a buried capacity to do what he was doing, but lacked the proper channels to access the ability. It was like a room with no doors, a sky in a box of sky.

  Nevertheless, the project was going well. Or had been, he said. Until Lin Strickland’s book.

  And now Lin was invited to her students’ parents’ time-share islands, to deliver keynote speeches, and to spend weekends on sunny coastlines teaching workshops for the ecology and arts centers. Talk shows, guest appearances, cook-offs, ESP posters, international conferences dedicated to consciousness in the age of the corporation.

  Lin was available, her schedule one of possibility, large and small. If someone crossed campus with a soccer ball, Lin had time to kick it, her inexperience made adorable by how just getting close to the ball increased her joy, her usually steady gait becoming a feisty pitch of elbows as she closed in on the ball. If a student brought a dog to campus, she’d teach it to stay. When students stopped by her office, they’d chat for hours about—what? Recipes for steamed pumpkin. The recurrence of teeth in a dream. The how-do-you-say I feel awakened in Urdu. Her door was always open, so from his office next door Roal Bowman heard it all.

  She and her students talked as if the afternoon clock were a field of sky, nothing beyond those hands but the everness of atmosphere, an amnesia of numbers, no purpose in its pointing. Her office glinted with bright voices. When the reporters came everyon
e wondered how much longer Braddock College could keep Lin, how much longer she would stay before moving toward greater prestige.

  By then, the award stickers crowded the cover of her book and her interviewers asked where she’d go next. It could be anywhere. But instead of moving to watch the sunrise of her next ambition, she paid the rent on her house and helped the neighbor repair the fence between their yards. She returned from a reading tour, adopted a fish for her office, framed a tapestry, and stayed at Braddock.

  She stayed through the winter and into spring as if she didn’t know that Braddock was so remote, so immodest with overwatered green in contrast to the dusty wheat fields around the town best known for its onion festival.

  Everyone waited for her announcement, waited until the last minute of the last week of classes when the students climbed the enormous limbs of the Rally Tree to call out for their causes, dropping down their last postcards of the year to urge summer action for their favorite causes. Meatless Weekdays. Ride a Bike. Lose the Lipstick. Recycle Your Life. Get Fertile with Farmers.

  But here it was, the end of the year, the Rally Tree cards spent, and Lin with no indication of a plan to go. Instead she shared one of her favorite letters from a local reader:

  Lin—

  I am wondering if any of the other letters you’ve received have told you joy makes an actual sound? It sounds like cobwebs snapping. But perhaps it’s not the cobweb, but the sound of light breaking, one end of it being separated from the other. I would make that sound if the experience of your book were removed from me. It is one light that connects to my own. People say your book redefines what a book is, but I think that misses the point. A book is only always a book. I hope it redefines focus into fractals, and fractals into tessellations, and tessellations into waves. Because we hear in waves but think we understand in focus. Anyway, congratulations. And thank you for the filaments of light.

  Even after receiving letters like that, it was as though Lin didn’t know that Braddock College was where people stayed only when their wilt of ambition revealed the flower of relief.

  Margi Wright in sociology stayed, Margi with her mother who pretended to remember.

  Or brilliant Dick Lockham in his elegant suits and arrogant beard who could be counted on to be sober during most of the weekday morning classes.

  Or Jean Tellar whose decades-old analysis of stuffed animals as porn for children could not find the traction she knew it deserved.

  And Roal. Of course Roal stayed too.

  Though lately, there had been changes. A few others had begun to stay long enough to pass the stories from one year to those who arrived the next. Quentin Hoover improbably stayed after recalculating the distribution rate of dust-borne viruses. Gary Stone became Division Chair and stayed, and Tony Guzman looked comfortable too, unwinded by his relentless publication schedule and private early morning Pilates. In the past they’d have returned their job like a book they wouldn’t remember reading. But now they said they loved the town, enjoyed the weather, could walk to work, raise a family. And they kept their ambitions: they published, outreached, served. They gathered and procreated, took flexible schedules, formed clubs, installed outdoor kitchens. And stayed.

  CHAPTER 2

  Time swung a lazier spiral over Roal Bowman. He stacked another pile of papers at the edge of his desk. They would be finished by the end of next week, when school ended and the students spilled from buildings, dropped their sweatshirts on the lawn, and revealed that all along they had been bodies and mouths and pourings of amber.

  Roal made his comments in green: there was no other color that would work for these students. They would soon leave for a summer and come back with their insistent, terrifying smiles when they said the words future and hope and want. Roal had tried red pens. And pencils. But the students did not need a crisis of red or the erasability of graphite. There would be life enough for both.

  His notes on their papers were crafted as tiny script in the margins of their work. Notes about tone, passages of pieces the work called to mind, semicolons, why etymological origins made certain words incompatible with others, explanations about why the characters ought to reconsider their motives. His notes were copious, labored, nearly affectionate due to the amount of time invested he spent with each word. The precision of his letters, sharp-cornered Es and Rs that flourished where they trailed instead of drooping. His belief that they would understand his allusions and references. He bloomed on their pages and encouraged them to do the same, and so students found touching the rift between his distant in-person self and the intimate proximity of him of the page, touching in nearly the same strange way that the Heimlich maneuver can remind the arms of tenderness.

  Roal shut his door gently to the students gathering in Lin’s office, the festival of anticipation. Students used to stop by his office, too. A few of them, anyway, until his own little book went quietly out of print. The last few copies lay on his bookshelf: Every Good Thing Must. The covers were still crisp enough, but the pages’ edges had yellowed like hospital tubing. When students asked him to sign a copy he felt how thin it was.

  Twenty years at Braddock, tenured, and with a steadily delivered income, Professor had a certain ring to it. The Bell of Inertia. The Gong of This Is It. Though the college seemed to want a little more. Demanded it lately, in fact. Tagg Larson, the dean, said Roal would need to do something that could be put in Roal’s next evaluation packet.

  “Anything—” Tagg said, “a paragraph, a review, an article about writer’s block. A—a satirical cartoon. Just publish something. It doesn’t matter what. It could be a poem.” Tagg rolled his hand in the air as if to usher in more ideas, more possibilities. Tagg was so small and delicately proportioned that he looked like a child playing the part of an ambitious accountant. But his little wrists were creased and hairy just like a grown-up’s, and his suits were expertly fitted. This tiny precision lent Tagg’s authority a chilling quality, like watching children organize a gun cabinet.

  Not likely, Roal explained again. His first book had been a kind of mistake, a surprise orchestrated by his wife, Dina. It wasn’t even what Roal had intended with all of its stories cut in half so only their beginnings were left, and then published as a book of lessons for beginning writers. They read the first half of the stories and then wrote the second themselves. Sixteen years later, Roal had recovered from the surprise of the book, but not the sting of it. There would not be another.

  Tagg threw up his tiny hands before leaving, “You don’t get it, Roal, I’m not asking. I’m telling you how it is.” Roal imagined tiny confetti coming down over them both.

  But Roal knew how it was. He had tenure, one book, decent class sizes, and at a solid six-five stood too tall to take arguments from Tagg seriously.

  Plus his students really did almost like him—they couldn’t say why. Something about how he shook his shaggy black hair from his face when he had an idea, like a swimmer proudly rising, chin angling out as his mouth opened for air. When he spoke, his lids remained low and heavy, giving him a reputation for being droll and unflappable. He was rarely funny, but did not seem exactly serious. Solid. Patient as a whale heart. His height was an authority they trusted. And when they searched his dark eyes for a message beneath those lids, for a flicker of humor or a shuttering of displeasure—anything to read what he said—they were struck by the impassive gaze of them, how they accorded all things equally, all things worthy or unworthy of the same kind of consideration. It was the look in the eye of a fish pulled from the water and laid on the bank, the spectacular eye turned slightly to look at the world of air, taking in the overhead birds, the trees, the people, and the grass with the same unblinking calm. When the fish would be done trying, its eye would lose focus, its wilderness congealed.

  As for most tall men, particularly those whose looks became more etched than softened over time, people stepped aside to make room for Roal, then looked up to see his appreciation for the favor they’d provided. But the
look of gratitude they hoped for was rarely present. Because Roal had always been treated with special consideration, he assumed it must be so for everyone: the world a place where the gifts always exceeded the earnings, where the corrective measure was to guard against the mindless excesses of generosity. A world of the tipped-up, waiting face where people thanked him for the favors they provided.

  In this grateful air, Roal loved to sit with the students who brought him their work, silence crepitating importantly between them. In his office, the air felt substantial, and the ticking of the second hand profound. His lamp’s green seep of light siphoned time, and the desktop sand garden with its miniature rake made them giants of possibility.

  After students left, Roal’s office stayed with them like a portable sanctuary. They entered it throughout their days of sun and traffic, of tabloid covers, of news from home of dead pets, of the microwave’s timer announcing the readiness of their next meal. It was the important silence of a large and solid man who sat still as he held their work in his own steady hands.

  But now it was Lin’s students whose voices Roal heard, beak-sharp on the drywall between their offices. Roal sank onto his cushion in the corner. Another burst of laughter. He closed his eyes and prepared to meditate. His first ohm-hum was weak, a wire-thin sound that was separate from him, that originated somewhere removed from his solar plexus. He started over, locating the center of the next humming ohm inside his head. He pushed it deeper, down into his chest where he wanted to feel the vowel gather his body around it. He intoned again, this ohm extending past the sound of Lin laughing as she told a student how to catch a taxi in Prague. It filled his office, inhabiting one second’s clock tick and then spreading into the next and so on until each ohm was an elastic length of hum.

  Roal loved these moments—the imagined nowhere and nothing on either side of him. Not his growing unease about how his father would sometimes call too early just to talk about how beautiful eggs were, not Tagg’s overeager interest in his upcoming evaluation, not the way Dina seemed to go still and lost when he reached to smooth her hair. Ohmmm—the sound was tantalizing: enduring, stable in a world that kept rearranging the furniture in the room of his comfort. The distance between one ohm and the next got farther and farther away, eventually stretching impossibly. Into sleep. He slept.