Falling From Grace by Ann Eriksson Page A

smell of decayed wood.
    â€œGo away,” Rainbow growled, her voice muffled in the folds of her dress.
    â€œHow do you know I’m not a bear and this is my den? Bears like cedar caves.”
    She lifted her head to reveal a red-rimmed eye. “You’re not a bear. Bears are furry.”
    â€œYou’re smart.”
    â€œI’m not going back.”
    â€œMe neither. It’s a lot quieter here.”
    Rainbow dropped her head back onto her knees and resumed crying, but her sobs soon became forced, then dwindled to half-hearted sniffles.
    â€œDid you know this tree has a name?” I asked.
    Her small head waggled back and forth on her knees.
    â€œDo you want to know what it is?”
    The top of her head bobbed slowly up and down.
    â€œRainbow’s Hollow,” I lied.
    Rainbow’s head shot up and she squinted from between narrowed eyelids. “Truly?”
    â€œNo, but would you like to name it Rainbow’s Hollow?”
    â€œYes,” she said suspiciously.
    â€œLots of the trees in this forest have names.”
    â€œAre trees people?”
    â€œNo, they’re plants,” I answered, glad to have her attention.
    â€œBut they’re like people, aren’t they?” Rainbow leaned her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.
    â€œWell, they come from a sperm and an egg, like people,’ I said. “Except for trees they’re called pollen and seed. Trees aren’t conscious like us, but they remember things. Their trunks record all that happens to them. Scientists can read what the climate was like from hundreds of years ago in the growth rings of trees.”
    â€œTrees grow and live and remember like people, but they’re slower, right?” She jumped up, instantly bright with excitement. “Let’s sleep here and make a kitchen.” She stretched out her arms across the space. “It’s big enough for both of us.”
    â€œWon’t your mom miss you?”
    The light in her face vanished and she hung her head. “She doesn’t love me anymore.”
    â€œOf course she does,” I said without conviction.
    â€œShe loves him.”
    â€œWho, Paul?”
    Rainbow crossed her arms and turned away, chin thrust forward. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
    â€œOkay, let’s not. Let’s talk about trees. When I was a kid and mad or sad or worried, I had a tree I shared my troubles with. This could be your tree.”
    â€œCould it?”
    â€œSure, if you promise to tell your mom when you come out here.”
    She hesitated. “Didn’t your mom and dad love you?”
    The question threw me off balance. Trust a child . “You ask too many questions,” I answered. “How would you like to climb a tree?”
    â€œCould I? Up a rope like you do?”
    â€œYup. But you have to ask your mom and we need Paul to help us.”
    She stuck out her bottom lip and scowled.
    â€œHe’s our safety man,” I coaxed.
    â€œOkay, but I’m not talking to him.”
    Paul and I rigged one of the hemlocks at the edge of the clearing with two climbing ropes. Rainbow watched from her perch on an elbow of root and prattled away about whatever came into her head, leaping from her seat, then sitting again, unable to contain her excitement.
    â€œDo mother trees care for their babies?” She batted at the soft floppy head of a seedling sprouting from a decomposed limb embedded in the forest floor beside her.
    â€œIn a way,” I answered, adjusting the smallest harness to fit Rainbow’s tiny hips, sobered by the realization that the length of webbing required for her arms and legs was not much shorter than my own. “Seedlings get nutrients from the roots of the adult tree. Try this.”
    After a practice session waist height off the ground, I followed Rainbow up; she scooted along like a monkey. Her pluck reminded me of myself as a child, always in a tree.