Oakwood Grange

Chapter 1

        

The tree was beautiful.

Mae stood below its branches gazing at the lush green colors of its leaves, enchanted as each bough was set aglow within the red-orange fire of an autumn sunset.

This is a good place to live, she thought, eyes wandering over the dry brown soil of farmland that surrounded her. A girl could have roots here.

"Keep him steady, Mae," said her father.

Startled, Mae returned her attention to the length of rope she held. She gave the rope a tug, pulling downward on the halter of a large, gray-dappled draft horse.

The horse whinnied and flattened back his ears.

"He's shyin' from something, Pa," said Mae.

"Yup," said her father.

"Do you reckon there are coyotes in these parts?"

The man was busy fastening a harness to the horse's shoulders. He raised his hat brim to the hilly woodlands on their left. "Could be," he said. Then, seeing worry on Mae's face, he added, "It's still a shade early in the evening for 'em though. Most coyotes do their hunting after sundown."

Mae reached up to give the horse's neck a rub. "Hear that, Stormy? Those coyotes are prob'ly still dozing in their dens. There ain't nothing here to be afraid of—"

The horse snorted at her. A puff of air blew Mae's bonnet loose.

"Shucks," she said, retying a pair of lank red ribbons below her chin, "I ain't seen him this skittish since we heard those miners dynamiting outside Frisco. What do you s'pose he's all worked up about?"

Her father bent to cinch a leather strap near the horse's underside. "Couldn't say. Ain't never been a horse."

A light breeze rustled the emerald canopy above them. Mae glanced upward, watching how the leaves shook as if the tree itself were shivering. "Maybe Stormy doesn't want you chopping down this oak," she said.

"No?"

"Maybe he thinks it's too pretty to be felled and that you ought to leave it where it is."

"Huh." The man stood up again and began uncoiling a rope. "And I s'pose Stormy won't mind watering the crops with buckets all day long because we ain't got any lumber to fix the windpump with?"

Mae said nothing.

The corner of her father's mustache drooped. "Look, doe," he said, using Mae's nickname, "this tree is just a mite too close to the barn for my comfort. If a strong wind came and sent it crashing through the roof there, well . . . we just can't risk it, is all. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," mumbled Mae. She scuffed her boot against a clump of ryegrass.

Her father nodded and continued with his work. He knotted one end of the rope securely to the horse's harness; then he took the other end and walked toward the tree. There, from behind the trunk, he spoke to Mae again. "You never told me how your first day of school was."

"It was fine, I guess."

"Make any friends yet?"

Mae shook her head. Two blond and tightly braided pigtails swished from side to side. "The kids are all standoffish," she explained, "and there ain't too many of 'em to begin with neither."

"No?" The man now lashed the rope around the tree trunk as high as his arms could reach.

"No more than nine, all told—not including m'self. I counted."

"Well . . . can't say I'm surprised. Susana ain't the biggest town we've seen. How'd you like the schoolmarm?"

Mae's face brightened. "Oh, Miss Two Pines is a peach! She's real interesting—smart too. Her classroom's full of fancy books and maps and such. And today she told us about how she was in a hurricane once—someplace called Charleston—and how she saw about a hundred ladies' parasols all whirling through the sky like dandelion fluff."

"A hundred of 'em, huh?" her father said distractedly. He stepped away from the tree and yanked the rope to test it. "You say her name is Two Pines?"

Mae nodded. "She's Injun. Cherokee, I'd wager."

"Well ain't that something."

Nearby, an axe leaned on the wall of the barn. The man picked it up and directed Mae to lead the horse as far as possible from the tree.

Mae did as she was told, tugging at the horse's halter until the hauling rope behind him was stretched tight, and paused atop a grassy hillock thirty yards away. The horse stamped a hoof uneasily; Mae slid a hand along his snout and whispered calming words to him. Then she saw the first swing of her father's axe.

Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.

Again and again the silver axe blade struck the tree. Mae winced as chunks of living wood flew outward and acorns dropped like tears from the vibrations. The chopping made her terribly unhappy. She could not have explained why, exactly, only that it all felt wrong somehow, as though a part of their new home was being hacked away.

The horse backed up, nickering. Mae did what she could to hold him still.

"Make sure that rope stays tight!" yelled her father.

Mae grabbed the horse's lead line with both hands and pulled hard. "C'mon, Stormy—let's just get this done and then I'll fetch some apples for you."

The horse flicked his ears and strained forward, hooves pressing heavily into the dry sod underneath. Mae saw the rope grow taut until it looked like she could strum it like a banjo string. Her father resumed the chopping, and the tree began to shudder with the impact of the axe.

Then Mae heard a violent CRACK! The tree trunk broke in two, its heartwood rending with a shrill, ear-splitting noise that sounded like a scream. The canopy tilted—just a little bit at first, as if nodding tiredly toward the dry and grassy field in front of Mae, then a little more and more still, gathering speed as its great bulk rushed down to crush the waiting earth.

The oak tree slammed against the ground like a tremendous hammer, shaking Mae, exploding a massive cloud of dust around her.

Frightened, the horse reared and kicked out with his forelegs. Mae stumbled back to keep from being struck and fell hard against a pile of loose sandstone. She rolled onto her stomach and looked up, and hooves came falling right on top of her.