“Grampa?”
Ricky sidled into the kitchen clutching the translator behind his back, half hoping his grandfather wouldn’t be there. He knew he should tell Grampa Nystrom what the trees had said just now, but he also knew he’d be in trouble for using the translator without permission.
Grampa sat at the kitchen table with a sandwich and a glass of water. He broke into a smile as soon as he looked up at Ricky. “I’ve got some good news.” Grampa turned his chair to face him. “I just got back from visiting your father, and they say they’re going to move him out of intensive care tomorrow. That means he’s getting better.”
Ricky’s heart leapt at the news, but the edge of the translator dug into his back. He had to tell Grampa.
Grampa Nystrom’s smile dimmed. The older man looked closely at him. “I know this has been hard on you, not being able to see your dad. But when they move him, you’ll be able to visit. We’ll go tomorrow afternoon, how about that?”
Ricky nodded. He was excited to see his dad, even though he was a little nervous to see how badly he was hurt. And his arms, twisted awkwardly behind him, felt tight.
Grampa Nystrom reached out to him. “What’s the matter? Come here.”
Ricky looked down and slowly produced the translator from behind his back. He peeked up at his grandfather, and his stomach tied itself into a knot at the stern expression on the older man’s face.
“What are you doing with that?” he demanded. “What did I tell you about taking other people’s things?”
“I . . .”
Even louder: “Did I give you permission to use that?”
Ricky shook his head.
“No,” barked Grampa. “So then, why did you?”
Ricky buried his chin in his chest.
His grandfather sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. But this is valuable equipment. You should know better.” He held out his hand for the translator, and Ricky shuffled over to give it to him.
“I’m sorry, Grampa,” mumbled Ricky. “I was wrong.”
Grampa set the translator on the kitchen table and patted Ricky’s shoulder.
“But Grampa, I think the trees are in trouble. I think you should hear.”
The older man frowned. “So you still want to help the trees? Despite what happened to—despite everything?”
Ricky nodded. He wouldn’t forget sitting up in the treetop on the edge of town, watching waves of branches pass the fire along from tree to tree. But those were just some bad trees, he’d decided, just like there were bad people. Not all of them were like that. He hoped.
“Come on, then, let’s go,” said Grampa Nystrom.
Ricky ran out of the kitchen to the back room, throwing the sliding door open and bolting into the back yard.
“Hold on, Ricky, slow down,” said Grampa Nystrom, following with the translator. “They’re not going anywhere. At least, not yet.”
Ricky picked out a knotted old oak, one of his favorites to climb because of its broad, sloping trunk and low branches. “Hey, Gina!” he said, patting the scaly bark at its base.
“Its name is Gina?” asked the old man.
“Well, that’s the name I gave her. If they can talk, it seems like they should have names.” He was too embarrassed to tell his other reason—that maybe if you named them and were nice to them, they wouldn’t go bad.
The old man nodded thoughtfully as he looped the translator around the trunk. Ricky pressed a couple of buttons and brought the translator to life.
“Richard Nystrom, you must talk to human leaders,” said the tree. “Now.”
“What is it?” asked Grampa Nystrom with alarm. “What’s going on now?”
“Humans will do much harm. We hear them say much . . . mo-di-fied fire retardant to hurt trees. Now bring modified fire retardant more and more from other places. We also feel ground move, many big cars. They say tanks.”
“Well,” said Grampa Nystrom, “you can’t really blame them—us—for being worried. The last fire still isn’t completely out.”
“Is something bad going to happen?” whispered Ricky, looking from the tree to his grandfather and back.
“We want Ricky Nystrom safe,” said the oak. “Ricky Nystrom will help us. But now he must go be safe.”
Ricky’s heart beat faster. “Why?”
“Your leaders plan dangerous thing,” said the tree.
“They’re just fighting the fires,” said Ricky.
“They fighting us.”
“They wouldn’t have to fight you,” interjected Grampa Nystrom, “if you would let the fire go out.”
“Fire defend us,” replied the oak.
Ricky’s heart sank. Was Gina turning bad too? “But you’re hurting people,” he said. “You hurt my dad. You have to stop!”
“No other way, Ricky,” said the toneless female voice.
“The boy’s right,” Nystrom argued. “If you let the fire go out, they’ll stop coming after you.”
“Too far now, Richard Nystrom.”
“Too far?”
“Your leaders fight too far. Ricky Nystrom must be safe. Away from here.”
“What? No!” shouted Ricky. “I have to stay and see Dad!”
The tree remained silent.
“Why do I have to go?” demanded Ricky. “You’re going to start another fire, aren’t you?”
“You must talk to your leaders.”
“You’re just like the rest of them!” yelled Ricky. “Just like the ones who hurt my dad. You’re all bad!” He picked up a rock and threw it at the tree. He picked up an even bigger rock. “I’m not going anywhere, stupid tree! I’m staying here. I’m going to see my dad!” He threw the second rock, feeling satisfied at the thunk it made against the old oak’s trunk.
“Ricky!” yelled his grandfather.
A cacophony of pops and cracks drowned Grampa Nystrom out. The old oak lowered its branches and wrapped them around Ricky. He struggled against the grasping tree limbs, scraping his hands as he tried to pry himself loose. He gasped, his feet now pedaling air.
As he soared upward in the branches’ grasp, he looked down and saw his grandfather reaching up to him. Writhing twigs descended from the top of the tree, wrapped themselves around his waist, and took him even higher.
“Let me go!”
Wood popped and branches clicked against one another as they carried him higher. He felt woozy, like everything was leaning to one side. He put his hands over his eyes as he tipped farther and farther over. Suddenly he smelled pine, like his face was being pushed into an air freshener. He peeked through his fingers. As the oak let him go, the pine lifted him straight up in the air before arcing over to tip him into a waiting maple.
“Grampa!” he yelled. He heard his grandfather’s cries, far away through the groaning trees. The branches supported him, scooping him out of one tree and handing him off to the next, knitting themselves into each other and pulling themselves out again. Ricky jostled from oak to fir to maple and beyond, covering his head as needles and pinecones scraped by. It was like a rollercoaster, going up and down and forward and backward. He held his breath and tried to roll himself into a ball as the branches slid around his body, weaving in and out underneath him, rocking him from tree to tree on an undulating carpet of wood.
The stiller he stayed, the smoother the ride got. As the rocking calmed, he cracked his eyes open and braved a look down. Patches of ground flew by through layers of bare branches. Ricky had no idea where he was, but he was up high—too high to do anything but hold still and see where the trees would take him.