The Dragon Tree (4 page)

T
HE
T
OWN
H
ALL WAS
an old brick building on Monument Square. Once a week Uncle Fred climbed the stairs to the office of the Selectmen and sat at a table with the other members of the board to fight for Truth, Beauty, and Justice—at least that was the way he looked at it. This morning he opened the door of the familiar room on his way to the office of the Town Clerk.

The room was empty except for Millicent Jones, the secretary to the Selectmen, sitting at her desk in a dazzle of sunshine from the window overlooking the square.

“Good morning, Milly,” said Uncle Fred. “I was just wondering—” he began, but then there was an interruption, a wild racket from the street.

Milly jumped up and hurried to the window. “Oh, good, he’s begun already. Our new tree warden, Mr. Moon, he’s going to replant the square. Wrong kind of trees out there, that’s what he says.”

Uncle Fred hurried to the window and saw a maple tree topple and fall. Two men with chain saws were heading for another. Exclaiming in horror, he watched a horse chestnut thunder to the ground and lie still, the tall spires of its blossoms still quivering.

Sickened, he stumbled away to the Town Clerk’s office, but the Town Clerk said, “Sorry, Fred, you’ll have to ask the Building Inspector on Keyes Road,” and then on Keyes Road his old friend Henrietta Meeks said, “Sorry, Fred, the old survey of your property isn’t here, it’s in Burlington.”

“In Burlington!”

“Right, in the archives in Burlington. We’ll have to send somebody. Hey, Fred, you know what? The
new tree warden was here this morning, wanting to know the same thing. He’s your new neighbor, right, Fred? I forget his name. One of the planets, I think.”

“Not exactly,” said Uncle Fred unhappily. “He’s our companion in the solar system. His name is Moon.”

“Oh, right. Mortimer Moon. Charming man. He’s got all sorts of marvelous ideas about the care of our town trees.”

“Does he indeed?” said Uncle Fred bitterly. Then the rattle of chain saws broke out on Keyes Road, and he had to raise his voice. “HOW LONG BEFORE YOU HEAR FROM BURLINGTON?”

“IT COULD TAKE WEEKS,” screamed Henrietta.

“WEEKS!”

“TWO WEEKS, MAYBE THREE.”

“WELL, THANK YOU, HENRIETTA.”

“SAY THAT AGAIN?”

“I SAID THANK YOU,” bellowed Uncle Fred.

“DON’T MENTION IT.”

On the way home he tried not to look at the war zone in Monument Square, but it was plain that the Civil War memorial would soon be standing alone, the grass around it baked by the sun, the friendly shade of the trees gone forever.

“What on earth is that noise?” said Aunt Alex, running to the door to meet him, letting in the squawking cat, which streaked past her up the stairs.

“Our neighbor is improving Monument Square,” said Uncle Fred dryly.

“Oh, dear.” Aunt Alex put her hands over her ears, and the bust of Henry Thoreau winced and closed its plaster eyes.

Eddy leaned over the upstairs banister and hollered, “What about the property line, Uncle Fred?”

“It’s a standoff. We won’t know for weeks.”

Georgie popped out of the kitchen, and said, “Weeks?”

“Well, at least,” said Aunt Alex, “your tree will be safe in the meantime.”

Eddy wasn’t so sure. Stomping back to his room, he tripped over the cat, which yowled and skittered down the back stairs.

The grinding noise from the square was like a declaration of war.

T
HE LETTER CAME
at last. Uncle Fred tore open the envelope and read the decision of the Chief Registrar of Deeds for Middlesex County.

Twenty-two feet? Uncle Fred went to the cellar, found the steel tape measure, took it outside, and stretched it toward the foot of the tree from the stone foundation of the house.

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one—it was going to be close, very close. Uncle Fred stopped stretching the tape, put his foot on it, and swore. The mark for twenty-two feet was exactly in the middle of the trunk of the tree.

Therefore half the tree belonged to No. 40 Walden Street, the other half to No. 38. It was too bad, but surely from now on the tree would be safe from the dreaded chain saw of Mortimer Moon.

“O
H, IS THAT SO
?” said Mortimer Moon, studying the letter from the Registry of Deeds. “How very interesting.” He looked at Uncle Freddy. He looked at the tree. And then he said, “I see. According to this legal document, half of this tree belongs to you and half to me.”

“Exactly,” said Uncle Fred.

“Very good. We are agreed. Your half is your half, and”—Mr. Moon handed back the letter with a sly grin—“my half is my half, correct?”

Uncle Fred paused before saying, “Of course.”

“Why don’t we shake on that?” Beaming, Mr.
Moon held out his hand.

Something about the bargain made Uncle Fred uneasy, but once again he shook Mr. Moon’s hand.

Therefore no one was watching from the house at No. 40 Walden Street when the scream of the chain saw began again. Eddy catapulted out of his chair at the supper table and burst out the door, but he was too late. As he rounded the corner of the house he saw Mr. Moon back away from the tree with his saw in hand. An enormous wedge had been cut from the smooth gray trunk, a gash that reached to the center of the tree.

Eddy stopped, appalled. Mr. Moon grinned at him and said, “My half just needed a little pruning.”

“But it will die!” cried Eddy. “The tree will die!”

“Oh, it was going to die anyway,” said Mr. Moon. “It’s crawling with insects.” He kicked at the chunk of wood on the ground. “You take care of your half and I’ll take care of mine.” Whistling, he walked away, swinging the chain saw.

Enraged, Eddy stalked up the steps of the front porch, where Georgie stood leaning against the
railing, her face pale with dismay. Marching into the house, he shouted, “Come look!”

“Horrible,” groaned Uncle Fred.

“How could he?” whispered Aunt Alex.

“He’s a murderer, that’s how,” growled Eddy.

The tree itself seemed unruffled. The gash in its living trunk looked like a death blow, but the canopy was as green as ever, dappled with sun and shadow, its thousands of leaves floating free.

Uncle Fred, Aunt Alex, and Eddy turned away mournfully, but Georgie lingered like a visitor at the bedside of a dying friend. But then she gave a startled cry, and the others looked back, because something was happening.

The pale wood of the gash was darkening, the bark around it thickening and filling in the gaping hole. Then something popped out, a green sprout. As they watched, it surged up and swelled into a sturdy branch. But instead of growing toward the house of Mr. and Mrs. Moon, it squirmed around and shot a leafy spray straight at the front porch of No. 40 Walden Street.

Mr. Moon didn’t see it. He was indoors in his
wife’s crowded Nature Center, watching her unwrap something from a fluffy bundle of tissue paper, a toy bird covered with sparkles.

“Just listen to this, Mortimer.” Mrs. Moon giggled, twisting a key in the bird’s back. At once it began to shake and whir and twitter a tinkly tune.

“Good heavens, Margery.” Mr. Moon gazed at the bird in wonder. “It’s a songbird for your Nature Center.”

“Isn’t it dear?” said Margery, but then she frowned. “Please shut the window, Mortimer. I can’t hear with all that noise outside.”

The sash came down with a bang, but the melody filtered through the glass. It was the voice of the small bird from foreign parts—the nightingale—singing in the top of the tree.

T
HE NEW SPRAY
of leaves nearly brushed the corner post of the front porch.

Reaching up, Uncle Fred touched a leaf and said, “So it’s all right, Georgie. You don’t need to worry about your precious tree. There is no way that man can hurt it now.”

Georgie beamed, but Aunt Alex said doubtfully, “You mean he can’t do anything to hurt
our half
of the tree.”

Eddy too wasn’t satisfied. “So what if he cuts the whole thing down? You know, like the whole damn tree?” Eddy leaned far out over the porch
railing and stared balefully at the house next door. “I don’t trust him. He’ll be out there some night with his chain saw. He’ll cut the tree down in thirty seconds and leave nothing but a stump. You know, just the way he did in his own backyard.”

“Remember, Eddy,” said Aunt Alex softly, touching his shoulder, “you mustn’t snoop.”

“But he may be right,” said Uncle Fred. “I’m reminded of the saints of old. Killing a saint wasn’t easy. If you stuck them full of arrows, they refused to die. If you threw them in the river, they just kept bobbing up. But if you chopped off their heads”— Uncle Fred swept a finger across his throat—“it never failed.”

Georgie shuddered. She didn’t say anything, but she made up her mind to keep watch on the tree every hour of the day for weeks if necessary. For months, for years!

Inside the house, in the dim light of the lamp in the hand of the metal lady on the staircase, Aunt Alex missed Georgie. Looking around, she saw only Eddy and Uncle Freddy in the kitchen. Where was Georgie?

Aunt Alex hurried back outside and called, “Georgie, where are you?”

She found her sitting on the grass, leaning against the tree. “Georgie, dear,” said Aunt Alex, “aren’t you coming in?”

“No,” said Georgie.

“But, Georgie, it’s getting dark. Please, dear, come in.”

“No,” said Georgie. “I have to keep watch.”

“Oh,” said Aunt Alex. She said nothing else for a minute, because it was clear what was happening. It had happened before, when Georgie had set out on the highway to walk all the way to Washington. Most of the time she was quiet and obedient, but when she made up her mind about something important, she became a force of nature, just the way Uncle Fred said.

It was nine o’clock. The sun was at last going down behind the rooftops of the houses along Everett Street, but the top of the tree still shone with rosy light and rustled as if chuckling at some leafy joke.

“All right, Georgie, dear,” said Aunt Alex, sitting down beside her on the grass. “Okay if I join you?”

A
FTER A WHILE
U
NCLE
Fred and Eddy came out with lawn chairs.

“Oh, good,” said Aunt Alex, sitting down on one of them gratefully.

Georgie sat down too, and so did Uncle Fred and Eddy. For a minute they sat quietly, their faces looming out of the deepening shadow under the tree.

Then Uncle Fred leaned forward and explained it to Georgie. “The trouble is, my dear, there aren’t enough of us. We can’t keep an eye on the tree every hour of the day.”

Georgie said nothing, but even in the dark the faint blob of her face looked stubborn.

Then the darkness vanished in a blinding light from next door. It flashed in their faces, like a staring eye.

“He’s watching,” said Aunt Alex, turning her head away.

“Lurking,” muttered Uncle Fred angrily.

“Spying on us,” growled Eddy.

Then the glare from Mr. Moon’s powerful flashlight blinked off and an even more powerful light shone from a different direction. This time it was the full moon, lifting suddenly over the roof like a balloon. Radiance flooded the tree, and the leaves glimmered like mirrors.

There were other lights too: sparks moving here and there in the dark.

“Fireflies,” murmured Georgie.

Then another spark kindled in Eddy’s head. “Well, okay, Georgie,” he said. “Our hero has figured it out. I know what to do.”

“What?” whispered Georgie.

“Organize.”

There was a shocked silence, and then Uncle Fred said, “Organize! You don’t mean Oliver and Frieda and all the rest?”

“Well, naturally,” said Eddy.

“Of course,” said Georgie.

“Good heavens,” said Aunt Alex.

“My God,” said Uncle Fred.

T
HEY DIVIDED UP
the rest of the night. Aunt Alex and Georgie kept watch until midnight, and then Eddy took over. He brought along a kerosene lantern and a book, but after a couple of hours the print began to blur on the page.

How could he keep awake? Eddy struggled to his feet and began walking around the tree, around and around, while the moon rose to the top of its arc and slowly declined, dropping at last behind the bushy top of a beech tree on Laurel Street. Eddy knew that tree well. It had always been the pride and joy of the neighborhood, at least until the
surging growth of their own wonderful tree.