Free Falling From Grace by Ann Eriksson

turned her toward me and cupped her chin. “Rainbow, what’s wrong. Are you hurt?”
    She peered out above her forearm, pupils clear and cheeks dry. “I’m practising for Mary.”
    I failed to hold back a smile. “Here. Give me your hand before you fall on your face.”
    For once she complied and we trudged hand in hand along the road, the dwarf and the wailing child, trees a living roof above our heads.
    My station wagon appeared around a curve in the road ahead. Paul drove alongside and rolled down the window, knees up at shoulder level.
    â€œYou could have taken the extenders off,” I scolded.
    â€œI like the challenge,” he answered with a grin. “I came to pick up Rainbow,” he said. “What’s wrong with her?”
    I smoothed the hair plastered to Rainbow’s forehead and patted her heaving back. “She’s upset her mom left her behind.”
    â€œWe didn’t want to wake you up. Sorry. Hop in and I’ll drive you the rest of the way.”
    Rainbow tugged on my hand and continued up the road.
    â€œI think she prefers to walk.” I fell into place beside her. “What’s happening up there?”
    â€œNot much,” he answered. “A company pick-up pulled up an hour ago, turned around and left. I guess I’ll see you back there.” He did a U -turn, and glided past, waving like the Queen, his antics eliciting no response from Rainbow.
    We arrived at the entrance to the upper valley road to find the protesters milling about, talking, in front of the locked gate—a single bar of red-painted steel. Rainbow received a great deal of mileage out of her theatrics, Mary beside herself with guilt at her daughter’s distress. Protesters carried placards over their shoulders. Three men were chained to the gate. No sign of loggers, logging trucks, or machinery.
    Paul drove me back to camp and we spent a strained afternoon checking traps, avoiding talk of the protest, the subject of Mary. At the end of the day, we walked the trail through the buffer zone and counted the timber marks. Five trees. I wanted to cry.
    â€œMarbled murrelets are nesting in here,” Paul announced as we stood at the base of a giant fir.
    â€œWhat?” I asked, surprised he hadn’t told me earlier. Nobody cared about arthropods, but marbled murrelets carried threatened status, their nests and eggs protected. An occupied nest could mean no road building, no cutting of trees. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” I asked.
    â€œI’m wasn’t sure, but I’ve heard adults call and”—he dug in his pants pocket and pulled out a piece of tissue, unfolding it into his hand to reveal a delicate green-hued fragment of shell blotched with purple—“I spent an hour yesterday searching the base of these trees.” He handed me the shell fragment.
    I held the near weightless shell in the palm of my hand. “Any idea which tree?”
    We peered again up into the canopy to study the green confusion above. Which tree, which ancient limb, which moss mat held the shallow depression where a murrelet would lay a single egg?
    â€œI’ll inform Roger in the morning,” I said. “He can’t ignore murrelets.”
    â€œThis fir sure is a giant,” Paul observed, head craned back. “Makes me feel like a dwarf.”
    â€œMe too,” I said.
    He nudged my boot affectionately with his toe. “Sorry, I forget.”
    I nudged him back. “Me too.”
    Late the next afternoon, I received an email reply from Roger. Interesting about the murrelets. I’ll send our ecologist in soon to check it out. Roger. P.S. It’s a boy!

7
    After the fifth day of occupying the road with no signs of loggers, the protesters—who referred to themselves as forest defenders—straggled back at dusk, dirty after days of camping and no showers and discouraged by the lack of progress. A meagre