no murder like at Kent State.
“Should have made my own placard, I guess. Something about cutting down the last tree and putting it in a tree museum,” Belle commented to Melanie, who looked confused. “Joni Mitchell. A bit too early for you,” Belle added.
“Sure, I know Joni. My mother has her albums,” the girl replied spritely. Suddenly Belle felt as ancient as the venerable trees they were protecting.
Franz lifted a bull horn and gestured for quiet. “If you don’t know me, my name is Franz Schilling. I’m a professor at Shield, and I’d like to thank you on behalf of the Stop the Park committee for coming to support this watershed issue for the Sudbury area.” A cheer went up. “As you know, the decision will be made this month on whether to open a new provincial park on the north side of Lake Wapiti, near fragile pictographs, sacred graveyards and the last refuge for wildlife like the lynx and the peregrine falcon. But the developers wait at the gates, imagining rich profits: lodges, motels, restaurants, condos. Will our heritage be turned into a theme park?” Boos erupted, which he stopped with his hand. “I admit that jobs will come with the tourists. But at what terrible price? Look at the dunes area at the Pinery Provincial Park near Sarnia. An entire ecosystem of beach areas with precious plant life is under constant threat from campers. And east of Superior at Pukasawa Park, rare arctic plant life, Northern Twayblade and Franklin’s Ladyslipper, have nearly disappeared and the sacred rock pits, four hundred years old, have been levelled. Our precious Killarney, that emerald necklace of lakes, cannot support fish. You need a number to canoe the system, and the tourists and cottagers from Southern Ontario are pushing sanitary facilities to the limits. Now is our last opportunity to convince the Ministry of their terrible lack of foresight.” People began clapping. The First Nations drummers started up like a faithful heartbeat.
Franz looked at Melanie as he put away his notes. “There’s someone else we need to do this for, someone who can’t be here today but stands with us in spirit.” He lowered his voice before the stillness of the crowd. “Jim Burian was documenting risks to the trees north of the lake. He was a forestry student at Shield before his tragic accident a few weeks ago. So let’s say a silent prayer and dedicate our march to him.” He paused and people bowed their heads while even the drums stopped and left an eloquent silence over the scene. Belle felt a lump rise to her throat and pulled her parka tight around her neck.
Then Franz raised his hands and gestured to his left. “Del here has the petition, if you haven’t signed it already.” A tall woman in a bright pink snowmobile suit waved a sheaf of computer paper. “Follow us to the Ministry downtown where we’ll present it, along with our final report, to Ann Dawes, who has kindly come up from Queen’s Park. Remember to keep to the sidewalks and obey the traffic signals. We have promised that there will be no trouble. We’re environmentalists, not rioters.”
A voice rang out. “Not if the park opens, Dr. Schilling.”
He shook his head. “A wise government must listen to reason. Let’s go, people!”
With a single energy, the crowd flowed away from the university and down onto Ramsey Lake Road. Cars gave cheery toots and drivers waved. Strikes were common in the union town, and the “them against us” philosophy hit a familiar chord. Right on Paris Street and on downtown they marched, singing, “This land is your land, this land is my land, from Bonavista to Vancouver Island.” An hour later, as the crowd regathered in the handsome courtyard of the provincial buildings, Franz presented the petition. Melanie’s eyes were bright and wet. “I wish Jim could have been here.”
“So do I, Mel. But I think we did him proud today,” Belle said, putting her arm around the girl.
After a rather wary Ms. Dawes had accepted the petition and backed quietly into the government building as if not daring to turn, people began to disperse. A few pickup trucks ferried groups of five or six to the university, with the police ignoring the obvious seat belt violations. Belle found Franz to congratulate him.
“I think it went well, too. Thank God there weren’t any incidents. We don’t need any bad publicity at this point,” he said. “Of course it will be a few months before the final decision. The wait won’t be easy. Thanks for marching with us, Belle.”
Belle tapped Franz’s arm. “I’ve been thinking about the park and about Jim’s contribution. Really, I don’t know where else to go with this. Is there any possibility, is there any reason that his reports might have earned him some enemies, people who stood to make money on the development he was trying to stop?”
Franz gave her a politely sceptical look. “Well, I’m not minimizing his documentation, or anybody else’s. It was all integral, Jim’s trees, William’s sites, the whole ecosystem, not to mention the overriding threat to water quality. One is not more important than the other, but together we hoped that these factors would make a powerful argument. I wish it were a thread to follow, Belle, but I think not.” He waved over a small van for them.
Belle said goodbye to Melanie at the university parking lot. On the short drive to the Petville clinic, the radio warned people that the smaller lakes and rivers were thawing. Another snowmobile driver had gone down on a tributary of Lake Penage. On the happier side, the rally had inspired a phone-in poll that showed 65 percent of listeners disagreed with plans for the new park. Radio polls might not have much influence, but public support should help their cause.
At Shana’s, Freya was pacing behind the counter, nails ticking on the linoleum, and she barked excitedly as Belle caught her eye. She galloped through the waiting room, galvanizing the clients and their tinier charges. Shana was panting as heavily as the dog. “Am I glad you’re here. She’s driving me nuts! Every sound HAS to be your car.”
“Thanks, Shana. What do I owe you?”
Her friend sighed, but business was business, no professional courtesy between realtors and vets. “Oh, with the X-rays, that’s the expensive part, let’s say an even hundred.”
Considering the days of boarding and the tests, it was a shameless undercharge. “You won’t retire in New Mexico that way, Shana, but you have our thanks,” Belle said and flipped her thinning VISA card onto the counter, first holding it up to the light. Was it becoming transparent?
Shana had another thought as she passed over the receipt. “Before I forget, her stools are a bit hard. Age gets to us all. I suggest a tablespoon of Metamucil each day with a tablespoon of canola oil.”
Belle gave her an incredulous look, and they both burst out laughing. The dog flounced out of the room after Belle and stood nose to the van door, taking no chances. This was the way home, and she was not going to be left behind; on camping trips, she often climbed into the canoe even on dry land. Freya planted a few nose prints on the glass before curling up on a rug in the back. Having forgotten to plan dinner, Belle bought a pizza (Chicago style, wow!), a jar of marinated artichoke hearts and a woody tomato from Israel, wondering if it were better to have peace and blizzards or meaty tomatoes and car bombs.
At home she stuffed herself while the Nostalgia Channel pumped out Mata Hari, a masterful propaganda vehicle featuring Garbo as the legendary World War One spy Gertrude Zelle. Lionel Barrymore strutted as the manly Shubin against the effete but more effective posings of Ramon Novarro. Hadn’t Ramon been found dead in auto-erotic strangulation? Many critics accused Garbo of sleepwalking through a familiar role, yet her farewell to the blind Novarro before going in quiet dignity to her execution had the timbre of a Casals cello concerto.
THIRTEEN
Just as well I didn’t visit Jim’s camp immediately, Belle thought as she looked out at the thermometer; I know
