The Roots That Bind Teaser
Early 2025
Andrew Wilkenson has made a lot of bad decisions. Now he must face the consequences, dealing with the fallout from his not-quite legal timber harvest and unrest within his crew. Eli, as his reluctant guide, holds Andrew in utter contempt—an ungrateful man who harmed his forest and his kin. As they each grapple with the responsibility of leadership, they find common ground.
Andrew Wilkenson was nine years old the first time he chopped down a tree.
It was a cold December morning in 1994 when his father, Robert Wilkenson, took him out into the forest with a hatchet. Andrew remembered the day clearly. He wore a heavy coat and a hat that continually slipped down over his eyes. He’d been miserable, following after his father.
“Why are we even out here? We could just get a plastic one like everyone else,” he’d said.
“No self respecting lumberjack puts a plastic tree in his house at Christmas, kiddo,” Bobby’s booming voice replied. He didn’t seem bothered by Andrew’s protesting.
They trudged on through the dense forests Andrew had grown up in.
His father, a second-generation lumberjack, descendant of parents who migrated across the country to follow the lumber industry, led the way. He pointed out to Andrew the various species, telling Andrew of their uses and market value. Most of it would drift right over Andrew’s head, but would be ground in over the next two decades learning from his father. But at nine years old, Andrew thought only of his toes, growing numb with cold inside his boots.
Andrew didn’t even know why they bothered, now that it was just the two of them. A decorated tree and a burned ham couldn’t fill the void left behind by the loss of his mother, and it only made him angry that his father seemed desperate to try.
They waded through a sea of browns and greens and grays. There was no snow on the ground, though it was nearly cold enough, and heavy clouds overhead suggested rain. Leaves covering the ground were dark with decay, and partly frozen. The trees they’d fallen from were nothing but sticks, and even the ferns which covered the forest floor were dark with the season. Only the conifers—the evergreens—retained their color. These are the trees Bobby described, but they all looked the same to Andrew. Hanging branches covered in long, sharp needles. Heavy bark along the trunk.
“Douglas fir is king out here,” Bobby said. “Some of these big ones, they’ve been growing out here for hundreds of years. You could cut one down and build a whole house out of it, if you’re resourceful enough.”
There was awe in his voice and the way he looked up at the towering firs. Andrew rolled his eyes.
“They’re just trees, dad,” he complained.
“Just trees that put a roof over our head and food on our table. They keep our house warm and shelter from the summer sun. We owe a lot to these trees, kid.”
There was no heat to the words. It was an idea that Bobby repeated so often it had become a mantra.
Abruptly, he stopped, something catching his attention just off the trail.
“This is the one,” he said, pointing to a fir sapling in the distance.
They approached, boots crunching the dead and frozen leaves in the dirt. Robert gave it another appraising look before nodding to himself and setting the pack he wore down at his feet. He pulled the hatchet from its outer pocket, passing it handle-first to Andrew.
Andrew gripped the wooden handle, a pit forming in his stomach. The tree before them was not large, by the standards of the trees around it, but stood several feet taller than Andrew himself. Its trunk was only a few inches wide at the base, but the hatchet didn’t seem nearly sharp enough to cut through it.
“What do I do?”
“Hit it like this,” Bobby said, and mimicked the motion with his empty hand. “About six inches off the ground, if you can. A few good swings should do it.”
With a frown, Andrew took the hatchet and held it horizontally at the base of the tree. Then he pulled back, swinging it as hard as he could.
The blade sunk into the flesh of the trunk with a satisfying thunk.
Andrew smiled to himself.
***
Chopping wood was just a fact of life for Andrew. Chopping wood was his job. It was how he kept the empty house warm, how he soothed himself when things got too stressful. But now, chopping wood was miserable.
He shook the last of the memory from his mind and paused to wipe sweat off his brow. Just the thought of quartering more logs was making him nauseas, and living in memories wasn’t helping. He drowned the last of it with a healthy sip of whiskey, that burned all the way down and helped settle his stomach.
The morning was cold and dry, but exertion had left Andrew sweating. He zipped his jacket down a few more inches, until his eyes caught the secret hidden beneath it, and his lip curled. Bark, growing like rot from the center of his chest. Grotesque and horrible, it was just another reminder of all the ways he’d fucked up over the last few years. He wondered what his father would say, then laughed without humor to himself. He zipped the jacket back up.
With a grunt, his axe swung down into the log.
As it landed and the wood split along the grain, he felt his skin crawl.
It had been like this for the last few weeks. Every time he struck the wood, Andrew felt it zap like electricity up the handle of the axe and through his core. Another side effect of his curse, no doubt.
For weeks he’d been holed up at home. He’d wake late in the morning, chop a few logs at a time until it made him sick, then he’d drink himself into oblivion.
Sometimes his babysitter came by to heckle him.
Once or twice, Jimmy had stopped by to check up on him.
Andrew hadn’t set foot at a work site since the trouble with the kid. If chopping an already dead log set him off so much, he was genuinely afraid of what might happen if he watched his crew fell the living trees. The feeling of those first few minutes in the clearcut, immediately after everything had happened, was enough to keep him away.
Mercifully, his mind blocked most of it out already—but phantom pain still echoed through his chest when he woke from a nightmare. He dreamed of roots piercing him and growing underneath his skin. Each time he awoke, he felt the bark in his chest and his stomach roiled again. It was easier to drink himself to sleep, he’d learned quickly. It helped keep away the dreams.
It was cowardly, Andrew knew.
“Get the rigs out of there,” he’d told Jimmy with a voice that was shakier than he’d like. “Don’t touch another fucking tree in that valley. Not one, do you hear me?”
After Eli left him in the mud, Andrew crawled toward his truck. Those first hours had been deafening. Andrew could barely drive himself home for how raw his nerves and sense were. He’d put Jimmy in charge, with orders to keep the legal jobs running smoothly for a few days.
That was weeks ago, now.
Jimmy had been worried for him—at least, that’s what he’d said. Andrew knew he was also eager to get back out there and finish the job. Now they knew about the maple and the buyer Andrew had lined up, it had been hard to keep Jimmy away. He’d held out the prize in front of Jimmy’s face, only to snatch it away.
Andrew swung the axe down again and the two halves fell on either side of the chopping block. Andrew grimaced and washed down the prickling sensation with another sip of whiskey. He finished quartering the log and scooped up the pieces, stacking them in the woodshed along with the rest of it.
Winter had come, and with it, an early sunset. The branches of the deciduous trees outside his house were now barren with the season, their leaves rotting on the ground. Dark clouds hung overhead, and Andrew could see his breath as he hefted the wood into storage. Whatever happened to him made it easier for him to tolerate the cold, but even before that, Andrew had preferred the winter months. Something about the long nights felt right to him.
A buzzing in his pocket interrupted his thoughts, but he let it ring. He’d been dodging phone calls from his crew for weeks—no sense in picking up now. Instead, he closed the woodshed and made for the porch.
The house, like everything else Andrew owned, once belonged to his father.
It was built simply of wooden shingles and a metal roof. The only redeeming quality was its large covered porch, even if it was buried now in empty beer cans and cigarette butts. Andrew sat in a worn wooden chair that groaned beneath his weight. He dug around the packs on the table—some empty, some not—until he found a fresh cigarette and pressed it between his teeth. He’d just sparked the end of it when Eli arrived.
Andrew was getting used to his appearing out of thin air.
One minute he was alone on the porch. The next, Eli, with his delicate hair and upturned nose, leaned against the railing. His arms were crossed, and a look of disgust contorted his features. “Those things will kill you,” he drawled.
Andrew inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He did not look up as he held his breath, savoring the relief that washed over him. They both knew the cigarette wouldn’t kill him. There was only one thing that could kill him now.
“What is it today?” Andrew asked.
He hadn’t figured out what the man wanted from him. Mostly, it seemed he just showed up to torment Andrew.
“I thought you might want to know I’ve seen that friend of yours snooping around your tree.”
The words made Andrew sit up, his eyes snapped to Eli. “When?”
“Just a few hours ago,” Eli answered. He seemed to be occupied with some dirt under his fingernails.
Andrew swore. “Take me out there.”
“You are capable of getting there yourself.”
“I’m not in the mood for a lesson right now,” Andrew growled. “Just take me out there.”
“Please?” Eli suggested. A smirk had spread across his face that made Andrew want to punch it.
“Please,” he ground out.
Eli grabbed his arm around the elbow. Andrew had hardly stuffed the cigarette into his mouth before the world disappeared around them.
