The Goodness of Trees

By Doug Wesselmann

I knew the evil of trees.

Trees in triple canopy, mangrove, ironwood and teak, coiled along the Mekong. The trees of the Cuu Long, known as the Nine Dragons, brought death without warning. Trees were for hiding. The forest always heard us coming. The hiss of water on the bow, the roar of the Navy Swift Boat’s diesel shouted, “Here we are. Come try to kill us.

They had come, and they had tried. Too many had died.

My time in that dead green place had been guided by a single purpose, to stay alive. When I got back to the world, back to the states, I felt lost without that simple certainty. I wandered looking to find it again, every turn a bigger mistake than the one before. Finally, I decided to go back and face the enemy again. I knew just where to find him. In the trees.

As the highway climbed up into the Ozark Mountains, oak and hickory stretched a living arch above the road. Late April’s gothic architecture shaded my car. Dogwoods and redbuds brightened the lower tier and eased my mind a little. Curves revealed towns, then hamlets, then lonely mountain country stores. Places like Comfort, Warm Rock, and Half Hat appeared and disappeared, different villages on a blacktop river -- different trees -- different dangers.

Each turn onto a new road narrowed the way, and the green deepened. When my old Toyota chugged to a stop at the end of the last gravel path, I took a deep breath. When I exhaled, there was a flickering hope that the last stubborn molecule of air from Vietnam would be purged from my lungs and join the breeze in that Missouri glade.

A small painted wooden plank on an aged fence post was the only confirmation that I had reached my destination. A few humble words, neatly written -- The Trappists of Saint Maur --and an arrow pointing to a leaf-covered path shaded by an ancient oak.

Gathering my possessions; one khaki backpack with a few clothes, a toothbrush, and a book by Thomas Merton, I hiked up the path at a pace that matched my need.

My eyes scanned the woods -- every hiding place -- then a clearing and the monastery appeared. Hardly medieval, Saint Maur was a plain, white-framed chapel with three wood shingled wings jutting out like fingers clutching at the limestone edge of the hill’s summit, anchoring the simple buildings against the winds of the world.

The Abbott was a stocky man, in his forties, with salt and pepper hair, a strong handshake, and eyes that looked like they belonged to another, simpler age.

“You are Vincent?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Been expecting you. Call me Jerome.”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiled, leaned back in his chair, and stretched. “You want to join us?”

“Yes.” I might have said more, but I knew Trappists didn’t talk much.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m trying to find myself.”

He laughed and pointed at me. “Why there you are. Sitting right here in my little office. I found you. That was easy. Anything else I can do for you?”

I almost smiled. Jerome’s eyes were warm. There was nothing cutting in his little joke. “Maybe I’m looking for God.”

“Why? Is He lost?” Jerome laughed again.

“Well, I...”

Jerome leaned forward. “Or are you lost?”

“I guess I am.”

Jerome pointed at me again. “Then we’re back where we started.”

I was confused by the direction of the interview. It was not what I had expected.

Jerome’s face turned serious. “Vincent, can you work?”

“Yes. I’m a hard worker.”

“Can you pray?”

I hesitated. “Pray? A long time ago... I prayed a lot when I was in the war.” My voice faded.

“Good enough. That’s what we do here, work and pray. Welcome, Vincent.” Jerome offered me his hand. I took it.

I was a good novice. I worked hard in the fields. We moved rocks and deadwood. There were repairs to be made to the roof. New grape vines arrived in late summer, and I learned how to plant them and prepare the tender stalks for the cold to come. I learned to chant the prayers of the hours.

We gathered in the chapel before dawn and sang Matins, the morning prayer. We sang Prime before we worked and Terce in the midmorning. Our voices blended in Sext at noontime, Nones around three, Vespers in the evening, and Compline before retiring to our cells at night. There was an unearthly beauty in the ancient Gregorian music.

There was little conversation and the plainest of food. The seasons turned, the forest slept, and another spring arrived. A year had passed. I had found quiet. Yet, I began to grow uneasy again.

“Brother Abbot. I am soon to take my final vows but...”

“But?” he said.

“I don’t know if I am ready for such a step. You see...” I searched for the right words, then gave up and simply blurted out the problem. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“I wondered when you would get to this question,” said Jerome.

“You knew I would ask it?”

“We all do.”

“You wondered why you were here?”

“Of course. We all want to know our purpose. You read Merton don’t you? I’ve seen you with one of his books.”

“Yes.”

“He wondered, too.” Jerome closed his eyes, “Merton said that without purpose, life is like the forest floor. The light fails, and the darkness of the trees overshadows everything. That’s where we all find ourselves eventually, Vincent. In that darkness.”

“Why are you here?”

Jerome examined me as if he were looking in a mirror. “I have a new job for you.”

“A new job?”

“As you know, the monastery supports two hermitages.”

“Yeah, the hermits. I’ve heard. Their cabins are up the east slope deep in the woods. Monks need special permission to be hermits, don’t they?”

“They do. One of the hermits needs some help. We shall send you to him. His name is Father Louis. Do what he asks.”

“But...”

“Just go to him, Vincent. We will talk about your vows when you return.” Jerome’s eyes looked deep into mine. I could see that he meant this to be my decision.

“Yes, sir.”

Jerome’s eyes sparkled. “Good.”

“First, Brother Jerome, answer me. Why are you here?”

Jerome leaned back and stretched. “I’ll answer that when you return.”

There was a pause. I considered pressing the issue. But, for some reason, I let the moment pass. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re still in that jungle, aren’t you, Vincent?”

“Yes.”

“Go to Father Louis,” he said quietly. “Go talk to Father Louis.” Jerome smiled then, as if he’d made another of his little jokes. “Ask Father Louis your question.”

The next morning I was given a sleeping roll and a large rucksack of food and supplies to take with me to the hermitage. I sang the chant at Prime and set off before the April sun had risen above the trees. The dawning light made shadows high in the branches. I felt enemy eyes looking down through the tangle. I wondered if I’d made another mistake coming here. It was a fool’s errand.

“I’m a fool!” I shouted to the forest. The shadows retreated.

Father Louis’ “cabin” was modest, a rustic lean-to under a limestone outcropping, flanked by twisted oak trees that were nearly as old as the rock they shaded. Sitting in the doorway was an old man with his robe hitched up and tucked into his belt revealing sandal-clad feet and gray cotton work pants. His skin was brown as bark, and his hands were busy whittling away on some overworked hickory.

“Father Louis?”

The old man looked up at me, but he did not answer. His hands kept working the blade on the wood. One last curled piece of hickory fluttered onto the pile by his feet.

“Father Louis?”

He still didn’t answer. Father Louis folded his knife carefully, sighed, and stood up slowly, slipping his handiwork into his pocket.

He was a hermit. Conversation was likely to be at a premium. Abbot Jerome had told me to “talk” to Father Louis. “Very funny, Jerome,” I muttered.

The old priest turned to look at his cabin. I followed his eyes and noticed that a rotted branch had fallen and damaged the corner of the roof. He turned back to me and pointed at some lumber leaning against a boulder.

“Sure. I can help you fix that.”

Father Louis smiled.

We went to work. The job wasn’t hard, but required two sets of hands to move the old branch and steady the new lumber as we nailed and patched. The evening was upon us as we finished. Supper was in order. I began to open the rucksack full of supplies that I’d carried from the monastery, but Louis shook his head.

The old man went around behind his cabin and returned after a few minutes with an armful of parsnips that he’d left in the ground through the winter. He started to wash them in a basin of water and pointed at a dwindling pile of firewood by the door. The message was very clear.

When I got back with my contribution to the woodpile, Louis had a small fire going in his antique potbelly stove. The fire was bright and the parsnips were peeled and boiling. Louis mixed in some spring parsley, salt and pepper, and a few other leaves and roots. I felt rather brave when I ate the concoction, even after he added an unfamiliar species of wild mushroom.

The food was delicious. Father Louis even produced a bottle of wine and carefully filled two mugs.

“In vino veritas,” he said.

“Why Father Louis, you can talk.” I laughed.

He smiled. It was clear that was all he had to say.

“What is the purpose of my life?” I didn’t expect an answer.

He took a deep drink from his mug, stood, and picking up a small lantern, motioned for me to follow him.

His white hair glowed in the moonlight as he led me out into the night. Louis bent down. After a moment or two, he saw what he was looking for, and his bony finger pointed to the forest floor.

There, in the gentle flicker of the Coleman lamp, was a big black beetle.

I looked at the bug and then at Father Louis. “This is your answer?”

Louis nodded. He handed me the lantern. His intention was clear. I sat on the dry leaves next to the beetle. I looked at the black bug chewing on an enormous brown seedpod. When I looked up, Louis was gone.

I watched the insect gnaw away without rest. It was well past midnight when the beetle’s unrelenting work opened the pod with an audible pop. Then the beetle’s mandibles clamped hold of the pod and he dragged off his prize. I followed as the bug’s path led under some dry mulberry bushes, across some roots, and to the mouth of a burrow. Its pinchers worked the individual seeds out of the pod and, one by one, he took them home. But as he pulled one seed from the hard pod, another seed would pop free and roll away down the small mound away from the entrance. There, in the loose dirt scattered by the beetle when he dug his home, were several seeds from the labor of other nights. Some of those seeds were sprouting. New trees.

I shivered. I wasn’t cold. Looking back, I think I was afraid of the lesson. “Maybe I’m supposed to break these seed pods open and start a new forest.” I picked up a pod like the one the Nightbeetle had chosen. Try as I might I couldn’t open it. The banana-shaped pod was as hard as iron. “What a joke.” I hurled it high into the treetops and listened to it tumble through the branches out in the darkness. Angry, I wandered back towards my sleeping roll beside Louis’ cabin. The night was not kind to my sleep. I dreamt of boats and danger.

I woke up looking straight up into Father Louis’ face as he loomed over me.

“Good morning, Father.” I sat up and stretched my aching spine. The ground was still winter hard, and my bed had been less than comfortable. My pain was eased by the smell of coffee from the pot on the stove. Louis also provided some wheat berry biscuits with honey.

“Do you pray, Father?”

His eyes twinkled. Louis raised a finger into the air. For a moment I thought he was pointing towards heaven, but his finger turned and dipped into the honey jar. The old hermit pulled it out slowly, letting the nectar drip onto the rough planks of the tabletop. He stuck the coated finger into his mouth, and slowly pulled it free, sucking away every trace of the raw honey. He licked his lips.

“Good prayer.” I dipped my finger.

Father Louis stood and walked over to the rucksack full of supplies I had carried up from the monastery the day before. He lifted it and gestured for me to follow him. He led me around the limestone outcrop, past the oak tree, to a small path heading down the far side of the ridge.

“Let me take that pack, Father,”

He only smiled as I took the burden and looked down the narrow path.

“I’m supposed to go down there?”

Louis raised an eyebrow.

“O.K. I’ll...ah... just take the pack down there.” The trail seemed a little steep. And I wondered where it led.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the monk.

“Afraid of what?”

Louis took his whittling out of his pocket. He gave out one sentence a day, and I’d just had today’s ration.

“O.K., Father. I’ll take the pack down there.”

I felt his smile behind me as I began the descent. The footing was better than it looked. The path was steep but it kept switching back and forth down the slope, and the dirt was dry broken clay that gave good traction. In an hour I was at the bottom, standing beside a small river. The water was muddy with spring runoff, and the trees were high on each bank. A memory stirred. Trees were tall there. Water was deep.

I remembered another river and another day. I remembered standing on a dike by the Mekong. I remembered a bullet tearing into my thigh. I remembered Gilley, the kid from Montana, picking me up and throwing me onto the Swift boat as the firefight started to heat up. I remembered his words.

“You O.K., Vince? You O.K.?”

I remembered rolling away from him as the pitch of the motor deepened, and we started our escape.

“You O.K., Vince? You O.K.?”

I remembered his face when the bullet hit him. He saved my life. I lived. He died.

I stood there by that Ozark stream with dust in my mouth. The trees were crowding in on me, hiding things. Maybe I saw Gilly’s face in the green of the leaves. I stood there until I couldn’t stand there any longer. I started walking down that path beside the river.

The path was easy to follow. There were no forks, no choices to make. The path went on until it turned away from the stream and burst out of a grove of decrepit poplars. I found myself in a yard behind a rusty trailer. Patchy grass was littered with rusty beer cans and debris. There, in the middle of the yard, sitting on a broken seesaw, was a skinny little girl in a dirty blue dress.

“You aren’t Father Louis.”

“I’m Vincent.” I didn’t know what else to say. The child was not friendly. She had the stance of a dog staying out of kicking range.

“You brought it?”

“You mean this?” I took the rucksack off my back and held it towards her.

In a flash the girl grabbed it and disappeared into the trailer. The flimsy steel storm door slammed shut. That was that.

I waited for a few minutes, but no one came outside. I waited a few more, but the door stayed shut. I turned back to the path. It was long past dark when I got back to Father Louis’ hermitage. There was a bowl of rabbit stew and a cup of wine waiting for me on the table. Father Louis was snoring on his cot in the corner. I slept without dreams.

The next morning, after the biscuits and honey, I asked the question.

“Why are you here, Father?”
He looked into my eyes. Then he pulled out his pocketknife and sat down on the stoop to whittle on the hickory.

“I am here for the same purpose that Abbot Jerome is where he is.” He eyed his little sculpture and went back to work.

There was nothing I could say.

The walk back to Saint Maur went quickly. I may have hurried a little. Abbot Jerome had promised to answer my question when I returned from my mission to Father Louis. I burst into the small office off the vestibule.

“Welcome back, Vincent. What did you learn?” Jerome leaned back in his battered chair.

“I don’t know for sure, Jerome. I learned that even bugs have a purpose. I had a purpose helping Father Louis with his roof and carrying the food down to the family by the stream.”

“Ah, so you met them.”

“ The little girl.” I remembered the slamming door.

“And?”

“She didn’t thank me.”

“Did that bother you?”

“At first, yes. Then...” I was sorting it out as I spoke.

“Then?”

“Then I realized that I was there to give them the food.”

“Not to be thanked.” Jerome smiled.

“Exactly. I understood my purpose.” I hadn’t really realized that. But it was true. I knew it the moment I heard my own words.

“And did Father Louis thank you?”

“No. He didn’t need to, either. He hardly spoke to me, yet I felt such friendship.”

“And of course, you asked him why he was there? What his purpose was?” Jerome was almost beaming.

“Yeah. Funny, he told me he was there for the same purpose that you are here... You promised to answer when I returned, Abbot Jerome. Why are you here?”

Jerome stood up. The sound of chanting had begun. The sweet, deep, ancient song of Vespers echoed in the chapel.

The monk paused in the doorway and said, “Did you remember someone you didn’t thank?”

I remembered the river, the crack of bullets, Gilly’s face.

“I didn’t thank Gilly for saving my life.” Tears came to my eyes. I was on the verge of sobbing when I felt Jerome’s hand on my shoulder. His voice was gentle.

“You O.K., Vince? You O.K.?” Jerome spoke the words. The same words I had heard so long ago.

“I’m so sorry, Gilly.” Tears blurred my vision.

“Are you sorry for him? Or, are you sorry for yourself?”

The truth stung. “He saved my life.”

“What was your purpose there, in the war?”

“To stay alive.”

“There was more, I think.”

Jerome was right. “We were supposed to keep our buddies alive... and.”

“And Gilly did that.”

The Vespers chant filled my ears, the deep voices rising...

There is no earthly treasure worthy of a just man’s deeds
Save the measure of his heaven and the future in his seeds.

Jerome’s hand was warm on mine. “Vincent, he didn’t need to be thanked.”

I looked up at the Abbot. “I think I know that now.” Now I wanted him to answer my question. “What is your purpose, Jerome? Why are you here?”

“I’m here for the same reason Father Louis was there, Vincent.”

“Why are you here? Please, tell me.” I was afraid he would not answer.

Jerome’s eyes were gentle. “I am here for you.”

The truth of it flooded my heart and my soul. The beauty of it filled my voice when I finally joined the others in the chant.

I had arrived in spring, and in spring I left the monastery. Jerome agreed. I had found what I needed there in that Ozark forest.

Trees, beetles, and seeds -- monks, frightened children, and friends -- the purpose of my life wasn’t hidden at all. I still see it in other people’s eyes everyday.

I thought about my simple discovery after the monks jump-started my old Toyota, and I drove away through the blessed trees. Now, years later, whether I am working, playing, kissing my wife or tickling my children, I try to remember it.

“I am here for you.”

Whenever I need reminding, I reach in my pocket and it’s there -- a Nightbeetle whittled in hickory.

I know the goodness of trees.

Copyright © 2004 Doug Wesselman