The massive oak in front of 360 Adams Street had been pissed on by a dog for the last time. Grunting, groaning, and swinging his ten-foot-diameter trunk side-to-side, he loosened one of his largest roots, splitting and cracking several feet of concrete sidewalk in the process. Once the root was freed from its earthly enclosure, he whipped the soil-caked appendage around and beat the chestnut colored mutt senseless. The oak turned his crown toward the sliver of sky that managed to creep through the smog and tall buildings and bellowed to his neighbors.
"I have had enough! No more mutts pissing on my trunk and soiling my roots. The stench is more than any tree should have to breathe on a daily basis. There are so many nails and staples in my bark that I'm starting to rust. I've been smashed by taxis and buses. Clobbered by out-of-town drivers and puked on by drunks. There's no safety in this city and I'm getting out. All who wish to follow me sing out!"
From across the borough came the calls. It was no more than a rustle of leaves carried on the swirl of a breeze to the human ear, but it was just the right pitch for thousands of dogs, cats, and trees. It was how the denizens of the plant kingdom had communicated for thousands of centuries and across millions of species. None of them bothered with the mail, e or snail, since no tree had ever learned to read. A single gust of wind could carry the words of a sycamore hundreds of miles to be heard by every tree it touched. Mother Nature understood efficiency.
Up on Park Slope, elegant gingkoes and weeping red Japanese maples tittered and giggled as their tiny leaves fluttered with the booming voice of the old oak. From Canarsie, the majestic sycamores along Seaview Avenue, with bark equally mottled by nature and children, grunted and swayed as their roots pulled through hundreds of layers of constantly repaired asphalt. Maples and spruce that had lived in Flatbush for decades creaked out a cry of freedom loud enough to frighten sea gulls on the Statue of Liberty.
Early morning joggers soaked with smog-encrusted sweat sprinted to the safety of brick stoops as the urban landscape filled with the hundreds of flailing roots. Taxi drivers abandoned their cars in the middle of DeKalb Avenue and left confused passengers trapped in the backseat, while the drivers huddled in alleyways. Subway riders exited underground stations only to turn on their heels and trample their fellow commuters in an attempt to seek sanctuary below as a line of apple trees rushed down the avenue splattering everything in their path.
Watching the floral parade, a school bus full of sugar-charged fifth graders took notes and drew pictures in the hope of besting each other for show and tell. They, along with the rest of the Brooklynites had never seen a migration of anything but birds.
"Where shall we go?" asked one gnarled chestnut tree on Court Street, dropping his nuts to create a pile of wooden marbles on the shattered pavement. "Where will we be safe from all of this?"
"How will we get there? Who knows the way?" moaned his neighbor, as he lifted two large roots over an open manhole.
"North," groaned the oak tugging the last twenty feet of his tap root from the ground, "north through Williamsburg and Astoria. We'll go where there is fresh air and no foul four-legged creatures to continually stain our bark. We'll move away from the crazy four-wheeled monsters that splinter our trunks and cripple the young. I hear songs from the north of wide open land where a tree's only enemy is the occasional cold north wind and some freezing rain. That's where we'll go. The birds in my branches tell me we can walk there in two days if we leave now."
From all corners of Brooklyn, the trees came with a willful stride down the avenues and side streets, as they pushed honking trucks and bleating cars out of their path. They left behind crumbled sidewalks, overturned trash containers, and piles of twelve-inch high wrought iron fences, never tall enough to keep out a determined dachshund.
Hanging traffic lights and street lamps were transformed into strings of forgotten Christmas decorations as they wrapped around branches and were dragged with a clatter down the street. Several balconies on the Broadway Marriott jutted out too far and were torn from the building by the limbs of a five-story oak. All sizes and species of trees lifted their roots and stomped off intending never to return.
Several Birch trees shedding their bark as they slid up Myrtle Avenue left a line of white bark crumbs just in case they had to find their way back. Not everyone was convinced.
On their way out of town, thousands of trees converged on the Triboro Bridge in the middle of the morning rush hour. The bridge shook and swayed while trees heavier than all of the elephants in the Bronx Zoo thundered across its span. Police roadblocks were set up to control traffic and to give the arboreal migration room to pass. Bleating motorists found their morning hell had shifted down to a new level. Many abandoned their cars midspan and went home on foot to have another cup of coffee.
Stepping off the bridge, dozens of waiting elms tore off the handbills and posters adorning their trunks and stuffed the offensive paperwork into wastebaskets. They all wanted to be clean when they arrived at their new home.
The plethora of birds nesting in the departing trees elected to remain in Brooklyn. North was the wrong direction for them to fly at this time of the year. Those with sufficient sense of the impending weather had already migrated to Miami. In addition, there was an abundance of food in every street corner trash bin and clean rainwater on the thousands of flat roofs. A warm brick chimney in the winter was a fine place to build a new home if the old one had walked away.
Anyhow, several of the birds had listened to complaints from their spouses about the drafty attic the trees provided for years. Many were glad to see them go. They circled above the departing foliage and squawked words of encouragement as their former homes rumbled away. Prefab housing was on its way north. There would be no lack of new residents.
From upper floor conference room windows, businessmen in pinstripe suits and narrow ties watched as the march of shade passed below them. An overweight ad executive with his hairpiece flapping in the wind reached out and tried to grab a passing leaf only to be thrashed by the long limbs of a willow. The commodities market came to a halt as lumber futures plummeted. Realtors cried in dismay.
All three network television helicopters abandoned their coverage of the usual rush hour gridlocks, fender benders, and stalled commuters to rush their crews into midtown for live coverage of the exodus. A bank robbery in progress stalled as everyone, including the criminals, stopped to watch the once-in-a-lifetime display.
Several trees broke away from the herd in an attempt to cross the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey. State Troopers turned them around at the toll plaza insisting their forests were already full. One large pine still laden with Christmas ornaments forced its way through the Lincoln Tunnel. No one ever heard from it again.
Many lost limbs and dump truck loads of leaves in all shapes and colors. Sanitation crews followed the procession with rakes and shovels to remove the detritus as best they could with such short notice. Despite their efforts, traffic on the east side of Manhattan came to an annoying halt in the path of the trees and their droppings.
By now, tens of thousands of trees had paraded up Broadway behind the old oak on his journey toward safety. From two large buildings, secretaries threw confetti and wondered when the television crews would come to make them famous. New York City Police did their best to route the traffic around the moving forest and failed. As expected, the mayor got on the radio and begged everyone to use the subway. No one listened. After all, they were New Yorkers.
In the heart of Manhattan, it was autumn run amok as the old oak parted the pedestrians and scattered the cars faster than a drunk in a snowplow. Chuckling as the stores emptied, filling the streets with gawking shoppers, the old oak slowed its pace.
Hours passed as the trees lumbered up to the Saw Mill River Parkway with only a few stops for traffic to get out of their way or to pick up a squirrel in search of a free ride. Along the route people gathered to watch. Some waved flags, one greasy teenager with slicked back hair tried to carve his girlfriend's name in the trunk of a slow moving birch. He was smashed to the ground by strong limbs and whirling roots. There was to be no further injustice served on those branches.
At several intersections, the trees would bunch together while they waited for cars and trucks to clear them a path. Each of these interruptions slowed the process until the line of trees stretched the entire ten miles from Harlem to Yonkers. Along the way, several weary trees had slipped down side streets and installed themselves in friendly backyards. For some, the journey was just too far to travel and they began to wilt. Without a brief afternoon shower that fell as the trees crossed the county line, they all would have been lost. The cool drops of rain refreshed their drooping leaves but it gave the trees little strength to continue. They were all starting to slow. Some even muttered about turning back.
"Come on, pick up the pace," the oak shouted back to some older Norway maples.
"We're moving as fast as we can," one moaned. "It's these damn beetles chewing our cambrium that have weakened us. You try walking with a gut full of holes."
"It's almost rush hour. We've got to make Sleepy Hollow by nightfall or we'll all wilt away and end up in a wood chipper," bellowed the oak.
The fear of the dreaded wood chipper urged them on. All trees knew the awful whine of the chipper meant conversion to mulch in a most horrible fashion. The old oak had watched as several of his fallen branches had been pulverized by the spinning blades of the powerful machine. He had seen its smiling jaws as they crunched large timbers into handfuls of tiny chips. No sliver of wood was safe from the gas powered monster or its brethren the whirring chain saws.
Over the years, he had witnessed dozens of his neighbors fall victim to the teams of men in the orange hats and reflective vests. He knew, deep in his heartwood, some day they would have come for him when they needed another bus stop. But the oak was no longer afraid of anything. He was on his way to freedom.
They reached Sleepy Hollow as the sun was setting. Lining up along the Hudson River as the golden orb slipped below the horizon and ignited the sky in a band of crimson flames, the trees saw their first sunset without skyscrapers. Many of them smashed leaf-filled branches together in applause. All were cheering.
The old oak instructed everyone to put at least one large root into the flow and take a much needed drink. They were amazed at how clean the water was compared to the swill they had been forced to drink in Brooklyn. One root wasn't enough. Needing to quench a drought that was forcing them to lose every leaf, a pair of Japanese maples strode into the current, holding boughs.
"Are we staying here?" wondered one of the maples as its rainbow of leaves fluttered with excitement. "The air is clean, the water tastes better than the rain and I haven't seen a dog in hours."
A large spruce chimed in, "I don't think my roots can take much more of this traveling. I've dropped so many pine cones and needles that I'm starting to resemble a Popsicle stick. I'd just as soon stay here than lose any more of me."
"No, this is not the place we are looking for," said the old oak. "This is only an illusion of safety in the dark of night. We have another long day's march ahead of us. But we'll rest here tonight. It's too dangerous to travel these roads without lights."
They spent the night in Sleepy Hollow stretched out over fifteen miles of prime riverfront property. Several of the largest trees gathered under the stars to plan the day ahead while the smaller oaks and the chestnut trees buried nuts as a reminder of their night on the road. Their saplings would someday be tall enough to pass on the story of the flight from Brooklyn. Two maples spent the night in a cheap motel passing pollen and swapping sap. The rest of the trees slept peacefully for the first time since the Great Blackout.
The morning sun looked down on this enormous traveling forest and glowed. There would be rain again this afternoon. The trees would need it. It sent warming rays of molten light rippling down through their leaves. Not a single beam hit the temporary forest's floor.
"Awaken and arise," boomed the old oak. "The sun bids us a good morning. Shake loose the dew and whisk the squirrels from your branches. We're not carrying any baggage today."
A cacophony of twists and groans erupted from the trees. Bushels of leaves fell to become a soft blanket over the riverbank. The willows, needing the most water of all their neighbors, took one more deep draught from the Hudson before they pulled their long roots clear. As a mass of lemmings would form a living carpet in the rush toward a precipice, the forest began to move north toward their new home.
The state police, caught with their trousers down yesterday, were out in force this morning. The intersections were cordoned off and all the side streets were blocked. The glow of red and blue flashing lights added to the excitement of the march. Thousands of tourists had poured in overnight to see this living spectacle. There were several groups of bearded characters in flowing robes and Gucci sandals representing the powerful religious orders in attendance. Each one had its own theory to offer, most of them pointed to the end of the world.
The network news services had flown in as much high tech equipment as they could spare. It might be page one today, Pulitzer tomorrow, and no one was going to miss this story. Everyone wanted to know who they were and where they were going. None of the reporters asked the question, "Why?"
For their part, the trees had nothing to say to their audience, not that anyone would have understood. A few of the smaller ones bowed and fluttered as they passed the television cameras, but the older trees stared straight ahead. The only television they'd ever watched was through someone's window and they rarely heard the sound.
One of the oaks dropped a dead branch at the front door of a cabinetmaker's shop as they passed, several tossed acorns into the local parks along the way. Chunks of city debris, concrete, and asphalt wedged in their roots were sent to the bottom of the Hudson River last night. The fish would appreciate the artificial reef. There would be no dumpsters where they were going.
A line of protestors had found an open side street and attempted to blockade the trees. They had come by limousine from the wealthier neighborhoods of Woodhaven and Brooklyn Manor to force their shade to return. Many were waving hastily wrapped torches, others simply brought flashlights. One gentleman wearing a fedora held out a small bag of fertilizer and tried to bribe a Japanese maple to follow him home.
A local hedge of thorny tea roses intervened to become a prickly barrier between the traveling trees and their previous neighbors until the police could extinguish their torches and move the protestors back behind barricades. Several women wearing Prada were seen in handcuffs.
The Saw Mill River Parkway eventually dwindled to a local two-lane road and the crowds grew sparse as well. The news teams wrapped up their coverage as the stations switched back to one of the wars around the globe. Satisfied with their one-day entertainment, the tourists headed home laden with thousands of digital snapshots. On display to the world was the difference in attention span between humans and Mother Nature.
At the head of the procession, the old oak followed the moss on the local trees always heading north. There was no need for a map. They could read the stars and understand the seasons but the printed word was only artwork to a tree. As long as the river was on their left they would never get lost.
As they crossed through several large state parks, many of their tribe ended the journey and dug themselves into the soft rich earth of the Hudson Valley. They were happy to have come this far and saw no gain in hiking any further north. Although none of them doubted the words of the old oak tree, their belief in his quest had ended. The tens of thousands that left yesterday morning were now a good size stand of hardwoods at just over a thousand trees.
A cool wind from the north blew through his largest limbs and almost knocked the oak over. He signaled his companions to stop while he pondered the message it carried. His leaves bent back with the breeze so as not to miss a single word and his smallest limbs vibrated with excitement. All the trees heard the words but no one would recite them until the old oak declared them to be true.
"We'll reach open land before nightfall," he proclaimed, "the northern trees welcome us with spreading limbs. The water is clean and the sky is clear. There are wolves but they have respect for the tall trees and only relieve themselves in the fields. Our travels will soon come to an end. Let us press on my brothers and sisters."
The true believers picked up the pace knowing soon they would rest and never have to move again. Grumblings became words of encouragement to each other. Determination sprouted anew.
Several miles above Beacon and Newburgh the trees reached Interstate 84. The sound of traffic surprised the old oak. Had they circled back by accident and returned to the city limits? He checked the moss on a local chestnut. No, they were still heading north. This was just an obstacle they had to cross. But there were no state police here and no traffic lights to grant them a turn. Trucks and cars whizzed passed at hurricane speeds, shooting loads of gravel over the embankment. The oak shook his crown. There was no possible way for the trees to get across six lanes of traffic without being reduced to splinters. The road they were on went under the interstate, but only the smallest saplings could fit through the opening.
He called out to the trees on the other side of the highway and received sadness in their reply. They had grown there and had never needed to cross the road. He looked west to the rushing sound of the river and spoke to his companions.
"We have no choice but to turn away from the river here and look for another way around this road." The old oak sighed, "We've covered too many miles to let this stop us. Let's turn east, away from the river, and find our new home."
"But the northern trees are telling us to continue north. We should listen to them," protested a tall sycamore.
"What if there is no safe land to the east?" asked a ginkgo.
"Smell the air, taste the rain, listen to the wind, we are safe from everything we've feared our entire lives," said the oak. "If there is a patch of land here that can hold us all then we will put down our roots."
The four remaining willows shook their branches in agreement. "This is far enough for all of us. We don't have the strength to continue any further north. Let's find a large field and build a forest. We trust the old oak to keep us safe."
The sycamore was insistent and stamped his roots. "We started this journey to go north and I say we continue. The old oak has wilting leaves and is dropping acorns. Perhaps he has had too little to drink?"
Slowly, a birch standing behind him nodded its crown, tossing a chipmunk into a pile of leaves on the side of the road.
"We're much larger than these cars," continued the sycamore, "They will stop and let us pass. I say we go across."
"No!" thundered the oak, "No. We've lost too many trees already."
"Stay here if you want," the sycamore shouted back as he and the birches climbed the embankment. A small pine followed them halfway up, not sure of his choice, but willing to take a closer look.
The first car hit the birch tree and split it in two. Its crown smashed through the windshield of a delivery truck and whipped it across three eastbound lanes. The car, a vintage tin-can import with bald tires, slid with the trunk of the birch down the embankment where it rolled several times, ending up under a willow. Sending smoke and steam signals from its crumpled hood, it died with a pitiful moan just before its gas tank exploded.
The sycamore dodged a Cadillac with a blaring horn and flashing headlights only to be sideswiped by a landscaper's panel truck. A pole saw, wedged into a section of plastic pipe on the side of the truck, was impaled deep in the tall tree's heartwood. As the sycamore keeled over, now fatally wounded, a candy-apple red Peterbuilt hauling a fifty-foot reefer mounted the tree and shredded all the limbs on one side. The impact turned the tractor trailer on its side. Truck and tree were tangled together as they skidded down the interstate.
Desperately, the remaining birch tried to leap out of the way of the two inanimate lovers rolling over each other and all three lanes of the highway, but he only succeeded in crushing a Honda and two now riderless motorcycles that bounced over his trunk.
The eastbound lanes had been transformed into a junkyard in less time than it took a chestnut to fall from the tallest tree. It would take a walk back west of almost half a mile before there was an undamaged car. Westbound drivers, the audience to this madness, brought their speed down to single digits and filled the gravel shoulders. Several drivers grabbed their digital cameras to photograph the destruction while others called for help. One man in a rusted pickup truck collected hubcaps.
The small pine, a piece of candy-apple red sheet metal imbedded in a lower limb, scampered back down the hill, shaking hard enough to throw all his pine cones free. Turning back to stare at the carnage, the pine fell on its side and vowed never to move again.
What remained of the contingent quietly left the paved road and ambled across the countryside. Not a word was spoken but none would ever forget the sight.
Traveling east, the fields were few and none had the space required for all of them. The larger forests shooed them away telling them they were already full. They crossed several small streams with no stop for a drink and a dusty dirt road. A small friendly forest at the edge of a farm told them of an open area over the next rise. It was a place with room for a thousand large trees.
They quickened their pace down another dirt road, raising clouds of dusty beige ground smog several miles long. A red maple was the first one over the top of the hill. He paused to take in the view and whistled, "Wow! Look at all the open land with no furrows. Just acres and acres of turf waiting for our roots."
The trees came over the hill in a column. Each one stopping to admire their new stomping grounds before it trampled down to the valley below. One by one, they passed through a large opening in a fence that bordered the field and found a soft spot to tap into the earth. In less than an hour every tree had found a place to grow.
Happily, they shook off the dust of their pilgrimage and drank the sweet water from deep below the surface. A soft wind blew through the new forest and carried sounds of contentment from all. In the evening, the rains came to refresh them and wash away any remaining dust. The old oak hummed softly with the wind. It had finally found a clean, safe place to live out his days.
The whine of a not too distant sawmill echoed across the valley as the morning sun struggled over the mountain tops. The former inhabitants of Brooklyn, New York, now permanently anchored in the rich soil of the Hudson valley wondered what species of animal made such a mournful sound.
The old oak creaking in the velvety morning breeze would soon regret not having learned to read the language of man. If he had, he would never have stopped here and sealed their fate. If only he could have read the brightly lettered sign on the fence they crossed through that proclaimed, "Private Property - Vanderclap Lumber: Toothpicks, Chopsticks, and Sawdust," he might have continued further north.
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