Freedom from her crushing debt. A possible cure for the fungus. A viable future for the child she might be carrying. A laboratory. “I said I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I’m holding on to this.” Jake dashes back to pluck the journal, still in its slipcase, from the coffee table.
“I’m not sure my firm will like that,” Silas says tersely.
“Well, I need to read it again before I make my final decision.”
A pained grimace comes over him, and in an instant she realizes just how valuable the paperbook actually is. Then he raises his palms in surrender. “Fine, take it,” he says with forced mirth. “More than anyone, I know better than to pressure you. The last time I did you moved to Utrecht and blocked my number.”
“I have one last question,” she says from the Villa’s doorway. “Why are you doing this? The research. The time investment. For money?”
“Yes—well, partly. There’ll be some for my firm, I admit it. But there’ll be an ocean for you. And you can well understand that making a company like Holtcorp happy is good for us, long term.”
“And here I thought you were trying to help me.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Jake. Life is getting crueller with each passing day. Not even Canada is the oasis it once was. And if this Cathedral ever goes under, you’ll be cast out there to retch on dust in some treeless, sunbaked snakepit along with everyone else. And I don’t want to see that. We can’t change the world anymore, but if we’re smart, maybe we can preserve the best of it. And who better than you to do the preserving? So let me know. I’m booked in here all week. My door is always open.”
THE TREE ENTERTAINMENT BUSINESS
MIDWAY THROUGH DINNER the next day, Jake is summoned from the dining yurt to Davidoff’s office, where in a stern, exasperated tone he goes over the raft of online complaints about her that he’s received from Pilgrims over the past month. “It’s alleged that you’ve been deliberately ignoring certain sections of old-growth during your tours and that you’ve been delivering muddled and unenthusiastic speeches about the Cathedral’s natural features.
“And,” he continues, shaking his head and closing his dim eyes, “last night, you were observed by our security staff exiting one of the Villas after hours. Number Twelve of all places.”
My great-grandfather Harris Greenwood built that cabin so I can go there whenever I please, she wants to yell, but instead says: “I’m sorry, sir. I was meeting with a Holtcorp representative, and I forgot to clear it with—”
“I know it was that lawyer from Corporate who asked you over there, Jake, so I’m not going to punish you. But from now on, if he wants to meet with you he needs to schedule a private like everyone else. Is that clear?”
She nods and prepares to get up.
“But that’s not all,” he says with a grave expression, motioning for her to stay seated. “You’ve now officially dropped below a three-leaf online approval rating. So I’m going to need a very good reason for why I shouldn’t fire you.”
Jake feels her eyes pinch shut. “I’ve been having some family trouble, sir.”
Davidoff’s squat face takes on an unexpectedly sympathetic look. “Jake, with the exception of our young, trust-funded Forest Guides, all the Cathedral’s employees have us transfer a large portion of their paycheques home to families living in the various slums of the world—all except you and Knut. So I’m sorry, but the fact is you don’t have any people out there. Look, I know that you and the German were close. Honestly, I didn’t want to banish him, but he punched his own ticket with that stunt of his. Still, his leaving has nothing to do with why you of all people have been giving substandard tours. So I’m going to need a better explanation, or you can start thinking about joining him.”
For a moment, she indulges in imagining herself sitting behind Davidoff’s desk in his web-backed chair. First, she’ll shut the Cathedral down and send the Pilgrims home, let all the hiking paths grow over and allow the forest to regenerate properly. Then she’ll claim Villa Twelve for herself and her child. As Greenwood Island’s steward, she’ll renew her commitment to the study and protection of trees. No more mandatory selfies or inane Pilgrim questions. No more being grateful to Holtcorp for her job and her dismal staff cabin. She’ll be her own person again, with real, attainable hopes and dreams, just like a Pilgrim. And, most important of all, she’ll establish a lab in this very office and hire Knut back, along with the world’s brightest minds in dendrology, and together they’ll discover a cure for the Withering that will save the trees not only here, but everywhere.
“Remember that unusual browning I told you I noticed in some of the Douglas firs?” she says, feeling emboldened by her fantasy. “The ones you let me sign out research equipment to study? Well, it’s a fungus. One I’ve never seen before. And there are more affected trees now. Five in total. Including the island’s largest tree. This is the section I’ve been avoiding during my tours, for fear of the Pilgrims noticing.”
Davidoff holds her eyes as his face blanches. “And this could be Withering-related?” he says. “Potentially?”
“Given the current epidemiology, yes, I believe it is.”
He furrows his brow and massages his thick cheeks with his hands. “What do you propose we do?”
“I’ve already tried an anti-fungal preparation, and it didn’t make a dent. Our only option is to cut the diseased trees down and burn them. Immediately. That’s exactly what Knut was attempting to do—and he was right. It’s the only action we can take to stop the fungus and prevent, or at least slow, its spread across the entire island.”
Davidoff laughs. Then he sits there blinking at her, looking horrified once more. “The Greenwood Arboreal Cathedral is in the tree entertainment business, Jake. Can you imagine what Corporate would say? The chainsaws roaring at breakfast? Cathedral staff willingly cutting down and burning ancient trees just because some needles have browned and some bark has chipped off? All while Pilgrims take videos? With their phones? The publicity would be a disaster. We’d have to empty the resort—we’re talking millions in lost revenue. Corporate would crucify us.”
“If we don’t,” she says, “there will be nothing left within five years.”
Her boss sits silent for a moment, staring at the pens on his desk. “You know,” he begins in a confidential tone, his voice husky with emotion. “I have two little girls. Nine and five. Back in Oklahoma. There, the dust comes in through the window casings and under the doors, no matter what my wife does to keep it out. Both my daughters wheeze so bad from asthma they need daily steroid injections—injections that cost me half of what I earn here. We can’t afford visas for them to come to Canada, even though I’ve been in the country for years. And make no mistake: if we tell Corporate about this fungus, Jake, you and I will lose our jobs, and I don’t know what will happen to my daughters then. So what we’re going to do is keep this between us, and we’re going to ride this out. Like you said, these things spread slowly. Five years is a long time. Who knows if the Cathedral will even be around by then? Either you agree to keep this a secret, or I’m banishing you right now. Is that clear?”