Even as he deciphered what he was seeing, Malone found himself caught between a pair of similar parallel, vertical ridges. Though he reacted with speed astonishing for such a big man, his hips and back were still caught by the enfolding strips of bark. Soft it might be, but sequoia bark was also tough. Malone’s hands were free, but his knife was caught up within the fibrous restraints. He could kick at the tree, which he did, and he could slam his huge fists against the bark, which he did. He might as well have been kicking and punching the side of a mountain. Which in a sense he was, only in this instance the mountain was made of wood.
Imprisoned within opposing folds of thick bark, the two men were well and truly trapped.
He tried whispering certain words of power he knew. But they were intended only for the hearing of the great kauri of Aotearoa. He tried spit and curses suitable for persuading the inscrutable ginkgo. He tried forgotten languages and refulgent pleas. He recited relevant phrases from the Kalevala and Theophrastus’s Enquiry. Nothing worked.
The tree spoke: slow, subsonic, and triumphant. “BOTH WORM FOOD NOW.”
“Let us go.” Malone was dead serious. “Let us go or it will end badly for you.”
The sequoia could not laugh, but managed to express its amusement nonetheless. “MEATFOOD FOR WORMS, BLOOD AND BONE FOR ME. BUT I WILL LET YOU GO. IN A THOUSAND YEARS. PERHAPS.”
A more normal voice, one that propagated through the air, reached the trapped mountain man. “I am sorry to have gotten you into this, Amos Malone.” Straining forward and looking to his right, Malone could just see the other man’s face peering out from within the bark coffin that imprisoned him. “I have always gotten along well with trees, until now. Until this one.”
“It’s an ornery cuss fer sure,” Malone replied calmly. “Mighty tetchy personality fer a hunk o’ wood. I reckon it needs to be taught some politeness. You said you could call deer and bobcat. Any other critters?”
“Birds,” came the reply from across the tree. “Many birds.”
Malone shook his head sadly. “I reckon a few chickadees won’t be of much assistance in our current situation. More forceful intervention is demanded. Somethin’ considerable more powerful.”
Turning away from the other man and pursing his lips, he whistled sharply.
“CALL WHAT YOU WISH,” the exultant tree challenged him. “A DOZEN MOUNTAIN LIONS COULD NOT CLAW YOU FREE. A HUNDRED BEARS COULD NOT RELEASE YOU. A THOUSAND WAPITI WOULD NOT MOVE ME AN INCH!”
From the mountain man’s mouth came forth such a stream of sounds that the other prisoner could only listen, marvel, and try to identify them. In addition to whistles of varying pitch and tone, there were a series of clicks, a kind of toothy chatter, a multitude of chirps, and a positive profusion of peeps and patterings. To John it all sounded at once familiar and alien, as if he had heard the very same sounds only arranged in a different order, in different harmonies.
It was then that something drew the attention of his sight instead of his hearing. A line was coming toward them—a line just under the ground. The upraised soil formed a positive streak, as if whatever was causing it just beneath the surface was moving with unnatural urgency. A second line soon appeared, then another, and another, all converging at the base of the tree… where they proceeded, in silence, to disappear.
Looking up from his browsing, a querulous Worthless inclined his head toward his imprisoned master. With a knowing snort, he resumed demolishing the nearby ground cover. As he did so, he kicked irritably at the ground with a back foot. Thus inadvertently relieved of the massive steed’s unrelenting weight, the wolf that had remained pinned under the horse’s rear left hoof let out a long, tremulous wheeze and gasped several times for air. Righting itself, it staggered shakily toward the clump of brush that contained its badly bruised and still-whimpering brother.
John continued to struggle against his immovable wooden bonds while wondering what the whistling, chirping, chit-chitting mountain man was up to. And what could be the significance of those converging lines in the earth?
“What’s going on?”
Ceasing what John could only describe as an infernal chittering, Malone looked over at him.
“In the mountains, the catamount is more ferocious, the bear stronger, the wapiti more numerous. But those are the dangerous critters you see.” He cast his gaze downward. “Not everything thet eats, not everything with sharp teeth, likes t’ show itself. Try listenin’.”
John hesitated, then decided to do as the mountain man instructed. He heard nothing beyond the ordinary midday song of the Sierra: scolding jays, the songs of smaller birds, the intermittent sigh of the wind in the branches. He said as much to Malone.
“Try harder,” the mountain man advised him. “Focus. Listen deep.”
Closing his eyes, the other man complied, straining to hear whatever it was to which Malone was alluding. More of the same, it was. Except… just there, just then. Something else. Something below him. A sound in multiples, deep beneath, and this time recognizable.
The sound of chewing.
While he considered himself a man of many words, and good ones at that, John peered across the breadth of the tree at Malone and found that at that moment he had none. Leastwise, none that were suitable, or could be expressed in polite company.
Finding its way into Malone’s mouth, a wandering caterpillar quickly saw itself expectorated halfway into the next county.
“You say y’know about all the trees hereabouts, John of the mountains. Then you know that despite their great size, these giants soarin’ around us have one weakness and one only. Their roots are shallow.” He peered downward, listening intently even as he spoke. “’Tis all about the teeth, John-friend. Not as sharp as catamount teeth, not as powerful as a bear’s, but plenty sharp enough to do their daily work. One pair can’t cut much. A dozen pair would do better work still. A few hundred or so, now, all gnawin’ away together… After a bit o’ hard work, why, I reckon thet kind o’ activity would be sufficient t’ get the attention o’ any growth. Even one as humungous and disagreeable as our captor here.”
As sure as the color of Millie’s bloomers matched the flush of her cheeks, the great tree spoke up once again.
“WHAT IS HAPPENING? MAKE IT… STOP.”
“Let us go.” Malone’s tone was quiet but demanding.
“I WILL NOT…. YOU MUST MAKE IT STOP!” A shudder traveled through the entire length and breadth of the enormous bole. “MAKE IT STOP NOW!”
“Let us go… now.” Malone was resolute. Nearby, Worthless let out a complementary whinny.
There came a rippling around him. Thick folds of bark drew back, back, until he could move freely once again. Swinging his arms and stretching, he climbed down the side of the aboveground mass of the nearest root. A glance showed that John, unprompted, was doing likewise.
Standing once more emancipated and on solid ground, Malone turned his attention not to the root he had just descended but to the earth at its base. As John looked on, the mountain man pursed his lips and emitted a series of chirps and whistles not unlike those that had emanated from him prior to their liberation. At his command, a single body popped out of the earth to stare at him, then another, and another, until at least a dozen of the subterranean denizens had responded to his calling.
John looked on in silent amazement as his towering companion knelt. The multitude of tiny saviors, a fraction of those who had done the necessary work, swarmed over and around him: ground squirrels, gophers, moles, and voles, their diminutive tongues licking and tasting of the mountain man. Two badgers emerged from the ground, wandered over, and nuzzled Malone’s boots. Then, one and all, they scampered and scattered back into their holes in the earth and disappeared.