The Language of Trees

By Steve Wiegenstein

The inhabitants of Daybreak, a quiet 19th-century utopian community, are courted by a powerful lumber and mining trust and must search their souls as the lure of sudden wealth tests ideals that to some now seem antique. And the courtship isn't just financial. Love, lust, deception, ambition, violence, repentance, and reconciliation abound as the citizens of Daybreak try to live out oft-scorned values in a world that is changing around them with terrifying speed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blank Slate Press
• Release date: Sep 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781943075393

Book preview

River

Chapter 1

August 1887

Charlotte Turner fidgeted on the dais as her son’s speech entered its twentieth minute. The crown of flowers on her head itched, and she longed to take it off. But the children of the community had made crowns for all the original settlers as a school project, so on it would stay, grapevines and ivy and a strand of bittersweet.

She glanced down the row at the other originals. John Wesley Wickman, upright and pugnacious, fiercer in old age than he’d ever been as a younger man, his glassy gaze reflecting an inner confusion that accounted for his fits of vehemence. Marie Mercadier, similarly afflicted with an inward absence, but from an old head injury, not the erosion of time. And Charley Pettibone, a few years younger than the rest of them, placid as a plow ox, tamed by twenty years of good meals, no longer the rambunctious lad who showed up at the colony with nothing more than a sack of borrowed clothing.

Was that all of them? Just the four? So it was. All the rest gone, lost to time, age, war. So many never came back from the war, and those who did were not the same. Her late husband, for one. So now the next generation had to carry the torch, or so Newton was saying as she refocused her attention on his speech.

Thirty years ago they came in wagons and on horseback, and on flatboats up the river. A hundred people—two score families—to break the soil and subdue the forest. And more important, to establish a new way of living, one in which the artificial divide between wealthy and poor is swept away through common ownership, common purpose, and universal suffrage. Radical ideas then, and radical ideas now. But now the mantle is ours—

Not bad, Charlotte thought, but not delivered with the verve of his father. Now there was a man who could bind a crowd. The first time she’d seen him speak, springing across a makeshift stage made of wagon beds in an open field filled with rapt listeners, her heart had pounded at his galvanism. Newton had inherited his looks, but not his charm. Just as well. James’s charm had led him into places—

No. She had made a rule long ago not to revisit the past. The past was where nostalgia and resentment lived, and she had no use for either. Yet here she was, sitting on the dais in the Temple of Community during their anniversary celebration like the figure of Nostalgia herself, a living reminder of once-upon-a-time.

As the waters of the St. Francis flow from a multitude of sources, seen and unseen—springs and brooks, freshets and fountains, so too our community grew from all over the nation and indeed the world, and continues to take on new springs of inspiration every year.

Charlotte let her gaze wander over the crowd. The second generation now, and the third. When they came out to this valley, they had no notion they would still be here thirty years later. They were idealists, or perhaps fools was the better word, swept away by the grand experiment of communal living and astonished at their good fortune in obtaining a grant of land from an adherent. So what if none of them knew anything about farming, or Missouri? A thousand acres of river bottom land would put them all in high clover. Little did they know.

Adam, her younger son, sat front and center with his wife, Penelope. That was a good match, John Wesley’s daughter and her son. Penelope’s straightforward practicality tempered Adam’s dreamy, almost mystical tendencies, and the two of them made an odd-looking but well matched team, like old man Sebastian’s mule and walking horse. They might look ungainly, but they plowed a straight furrow. Penelope’s twin sister Sarah sat beside her, not as bright as Penelope but more tenacious, and if Charlotte could wave her hand and make a wish Sarah would be her other daughter-in-law. But if wishes were fishes . . .

And what is the best way to honor that heritage? By carrying it on, not only into the next decade, but the next century.

Down the row, Marie Mercadier began to fidget, poor thing. Newton shouldn’t have included her on the dais, not with her damaged faculties, although Charlotte appreciated his impulse. Since the day years ago when Marie’s poorly chosen husband smashed her across the head with the barrel of his shotgun in a fit of anger, Marie’s mind had flickered like a poorly trimmed lamp, bright one day and thick with smoke the next. Marie spent most of her time sitting at home, on her porch on pleasant days and by the front window on bad ones, tended by her daughter Josephine. On rare occasions she would flash her old wit and willfulness, but mostly she sat wrapped in a fog of silence broken only by soft requests to Josephine for food or assistance.

Decades had passed, but Charlotte still remembered the day a couple of months after the crime, when it became clear to all in Daybreak that Marie was carrying another child inside her, a child whose condition no one could know inside her damaged body, and the thought of Marie’s battered brain trying to deal with the birth of that man’s child was too much for any of them to bear. The women of the village gathered wordlessly at Charlotte’s cabin that morning. She sent them to gather pennyroyal and primrose, which she brewed into a strong tea, saving the dregs to mash into a pungent cake to cook on the griddle. They brought the tea and herb cake to Marie in the afternoon, like a deputation from the Ladies’ Aid Society, but with somber intent.

Here, Charlotte said to her, and there was an instant of recognition. Marie’s look was frank and knowing. She swallowed the cake in three bites, the tea in four long grimacing gulps.

Bitter, Marie said. Bitter.

Charlotte nodded and said nothing. By the end of the next day it was over. Now she looked out over the crowd and found Josephine, sitting in a back corner as usual, but with her gaze locked on her mother from that distance as if nothing and no one were in the room. The girl never missed a stitch, that was sure. Not a girl any more, although Charlotte’s habit of thinking of her as one persisted despite her grownup figure and razor tongue, capable of skinning a goat when she took a mind. Newton carried on, oblivious to the woman in difficulty behind him.

The omens are propitious. The cattle rest in the shade, the river murmurs its approval, and the citizens of Daybreak sing as they march out to plow and harvest. Years ago, we came to this valley as strangers, with little more than willing hands and enormous dreams. Today—

Marie stood up abruptly. I have to pee, she announced.

In an instant, Josephine was at her side, guiding her off the platform and out a side door toward the privies, while Newton fumbled to regain his place in his notes amid a growing rumble of chuckles and low conversation. He’s losing them, she thought, and for a moment considered standing up to reclaim the audience. She’d been a fine speaker herself, in her day, and knew how to corral a rowdy crowd. But he wouldn’t appreciate that. What son would, especially one who already wrestled with the legacy of his father the founder and his mother the longtime leader? Better to let him work through it on his own, and if he didn’t, the wounds he would lick afterward would only be his self-inflicted ones.

Citizens! Newton cried, a little too loud. He sounded almost desperate, but his shout stopped the murmur. Citizens, let’s honor our heritage by reciting—

She sensed where he was going. The anthem. She glanced at Charley Pettibone, sitting next to her, and he nodded in recognition. They stood up and linked hands. Charley reached across the empty chair and took John Wesley Wickman’s hand. They waited for Newton’s cue as the hall quieted and others joined hands.

Where there is inequality, let us bring balance.

Where there is suspicion, let us bring trust.

Where there is exclusion, let us bring openness.

Where there is division, let us bring harmony.

Where there is darkness, let us bring Daybreak.

Again, Newton said. And this time John Wesley’s quavering voice rose above the rest. The old man may have lost most of his memory, but thirty years of weekly repetition had left their print.

It was a fine moment, redeeming all of the unconvincing, borrowed rhetoric of Newton’s speech, and even better that during the second recitation Marie and Josephine returned to the room and quietly joined hands with others in the front row. Charley Pettibone’s crown of flowers, strung over the top of his deputy sheriff’s hat, looked absurd and askew, but the simple comfort of the familiar words redeemed that absurdity as well, and all of a sudden Charlotte felt proud to be wearing her itchy crown, to be the living embodiment of Heritage or Old Times or whatever it was, her hand warm in the clasp of Charley’s wood-hard palm.

The two men who had slipped in the main door during the anthem were strangers to her. Easterners by the cut of their over-fancy suits, a handsome young man in his late twenties and a narrow-eyed older one, bald as a bullet. They stood in the back, uncertain, while the meeting broke up, then sifted through the crowd to introduce themselves to Newton. The young one was the talker. The older one, lips pressed, occasionally nodded, half listening to the conversation while his eyes darted to take in everything around them.

Newton gestured Charlotte and Charley over. Here are a couple of our founding members, Newton said to the men. As sudden as it had appeared, Charlotte’s feeling of well-being vanished, replaced by self-consciousness at her rustic dress and flowered crown and a vague dread despite the men’s broad smiles.

Madam, the young man said, bowing slightly. Charlotte extended her hand. I am J. M. Bridges, and this is my associate Clarence Mason. We represent the American Lumber and Minerals Corporation.

Although the older man extended his hand to shake as well, his eyes never rested, moving from face to face in the hall. Looking for easy marks and weak links, Charlotte suspected, the eyes of a dealmaker and money man. But young Bridges’ bright eyes had been fixed on a spot to her right, and without even looking Charlotte knew what had drawn his gaze—the perfect, beautiful, hard face of Josephine Mercadier.

Chapter 2

Of course the bright-eyed bastard from New York was looking at her. They all looked at her, the men, even the harmless ones, as though she was a prize pig. And she was not supposed to notice their gawking, or worse yet, she was expected to find it flattering. Only last month on the plank sidewalks of Fredericktown, a passerby had cried out, By God, what a beauty! to his friends, then tipped his hat, and she had to restrain herself from shouting back, By God, what a wretch! But that would have been playing the same game as he, and if there was one thing she knew, it was that a woman playing a man’s game always came out the loser. So she had ignored this one too, despite his doe-brown eyes and over-grand bow, and walked home without speaking.

Mama had settled into her usual place by the window. She would be there until dark, and perhaps past, if the moon rose pretty or the whippoorwills called. The blow that had struck her down so many years ago had left a permanent crease in her forehead, and when she had emerged from her deep gone-ness after the attack, she had lost the ability to speak coherently for more than a few sentences at a time, and her movements were halting and jerky. But she never seemed fearful, only expectant. Whenever Josephine returned from an absence, she would be waiting at the window, still as a stone, as though an inner quiet had come to compensate for her losses of mind and body. Josephine wished she could possess such calmness, though not at such a price.

She remembered the morning it had happened, cowering in the corner, her stepfather in a fit of rage and her mother not exactly stepping in to take the blow, not inviting it, but not shrinking from it either. As if she had always known it was coming. The crack of the barrel on bone rang out in the room and for a moment she was certain the gun had gone off.

Now Josephine pulled in the latchstring of the door and took off her shoes. They needed actual knobs for their doors, like regular folks. She would bring it up at next week’s meeting. They had framed over the logs of their cabins a few years ago, so the village no longer looked like a cluster of huts in the wilderness, but the doors had remained the same, heavy planks lapped and bolted together, with a string and an inside beam for closing. All right, so they didn’t have to buy fine brass doorknobs like the houses in town. But surely they could have a blacksmith make them some wrought-iron latches so the doors wouldn’t look like they came from pioneer days.

Mama didn’t stir. Here’s Mr. Turner, she said softly.

Josephine frowned and leaned over her shoulder to look. Sure enough, Newton Turner paced up the street, his lips pursed and a look of intense concentration on his face.

Saying his prayers, Mama said, and as usual she didn’t seem to be making a joke.

Josephine stepped to the door and opened it in front of him, surprising him on the step with upraised knuckles.

I was about to knock, he said.

I can see that. She didn’t step aside to invite him in. Something about Newton annoyed her, despite all the years they’d spent growing up in Daybreak together. He seemed to trade on being the heir to his father’s legacy, as if the community were a hereditary monarchy rather than a radical democracy. Which made her—what? The bastard child, pretender to the throne?

He stayed on the step and pretended not to notice the lack of invitation. These men, he said.

They’d all heard the rumors, passed from farm to farm all along the road from St. Louis to Little Rock, that a big lumber company, a combine from the East, was setting up somewhere in the area and paying top dollar for timber-land. What about them?

They want to talk to us. I’d like you to serve on the committee.

All right.

You’re smarter than the rest of us, and you won’t be buffaloed by these New York boys.

I already said yes. You don’t have to persuade me.

Newton clearly had prepared a longer speech and was reluctant to swallow it. He turned his hat round and round in his hands, his eyes unwilling to meet hers for more than a moment. I thought I would appoint Charley Pettibone, too, and of course myself.

All right. You’d better add your mother as well. People will go to her for guidance.

He puckered his lips and gripped his hat. I see your point.

And you’ll need a fifth person to break a tie.

That’s not the Daybreak way. If we can’t all agree, we don’t move forward.

Suit yourself. She turned away and shut the door, out of sorts, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a parting word. What did she care about the trees on the mountain, anyway? They were trees. The mountain itself, that was another thing. She had lived beneath its shoulder all her life and had come to rely on its looming presence. In the summer the long marker of its shadow crept across their fields, cooling them early, and in the spring she could swear that she saw storm clouds break and part over its crest. And the springs that flowed from it—the cold, clear one that sprang from halfway up the mountain and fed the springhouse in the middle of the village, and the intermittent one, cloudy and odorous, that trickled out from the cave at the south end, behind the Pettibones’ house. Only fools would sell off their sources of water.

Mama was still sitting by the window. Full dark soon, Josephine said. Better tuck in.

Marie rose, obedient, and shuffled into her bedroom, her face as bland and innocent as a child’s. Josephine pulled the shutters, darkening the house, but she wasn’t ready to sleep. Restless and filled with aimless energy she didn’t know how to burn, she took her shawl from its peg and stepped into the night.

The tang of woodsmoke from cookstoves and fireplaces seasoned the evening air, and the first stars salted the sky. It was a good six miles to the railroad as the crow flew, but she could hear the distant clack-clack of the northbound line, the banging of cars, and the screech of a whistle as it passed a crossing. Up from Texas with a load of cattle, no doubt. Cattle going north, emigrants and orphans going south. Bodies in motion.

She walked away from the sound, up the road toward the river, her mind cluttered. Charlotte liked to sit by the river, always had, and Josephine could understand why. It had a balancing effect, the movement and silence, the faint murmur concealing deep power. Sitting by the river reminded her of lasting things and suspended the oppressive sense that she would rather be anywhere than in this valley, caring for a damaged mother, waiting for her to die so that the next chapter in her own life could begin. Even the cattle had a destination.

At the ford, two wagons were parked on the opposite bank, corner to corner, with a campfire in their sheltering ell. Josephine stopped in surprise and listened. Robbers weren’t likely to be about, not in this day and age. Even Jesse James was five years dead. But it paid to be cautious.

She heard female voices, and a moment later two women came down to the river with buckets, dipping up water in the dim firelight.

Hello, Josephine called.

The women stood up abruptly and gazed across the river. Hello? said one.

There’s a town over here. I’m sure someone could put you up for the night. The woman turned toward the wagons. Brother, there’s a lady across the way, says there’s a town over there.

A man stood up from the fire and came to the bank. A town, you say?

More like a village, I guess, Josephine said. Not much of a town.

With the light of the fire behind him, the man was no more than a looming outline. Josephine could make out a curly wad of hair that was either red or firelit red. He rubbed his chin.

Does it have a church? he said.

No church, she said. Nor store nor hotel. But I imagine we could find a way put you up for the night. Better than ground or wagon bed.

We’re accustomed, the man said. I didn’t care to try a crossing in the dark.

Josephine could see the sense in that. It’s deep, but a solid bottom, she said. You’ll have no trouble in the morning.

Tell me more about your town, the man said. I do me some preaching when the spirit moves. You have no church. No preacher either?

No, she said. We’re not a churchy sort. Town’s called Daybreak.

Daybreak! the man cried. I read about you in a book. Didn’t know you were still a going concern.

Oh, yes, she said. We’re still going.

Still following the communal way of life?

Josephine was a little unnerved that this man knew so much about them. Yes, she said. And who are you?

Braswell is the name, the man said, his voice softer. Barton Braswell. State of Michigan is my place of origin. Preacher and jour printer, scholar. I have argued a bit of law in my day, turned my hand to farming and prospecting. Now I am in search of a place where I can settle with my wife and her sisters, till the soil, preach the Word, maybe compose my memoirs. You know anybody has some land for sale down the way?

Can’t say that I do, she said. But if you’re truly buying, someone will be selling.

Simple words, but profound meaning, Braswell said. His voice dropped into a lower register. But please excuse me, ma’am. I don’t mean to give the wrong impression. It’s not proper for me to be out here in the dark talking to you without your husband on hand.

I don’t have a husband, Josephine blurted out. And we’re not that old-fashioned over here.

Every town is more old-fashioned than it thinks. The night’s shadows darkened, throwing the silhouettes of the women around the campfire into deeper relief. You’re not one of those sentimental young ladies who goes to a river every night to consider throwing herself in?

Josephine laughed. I’ve been called a few things, but never sentimental.

Then why are you out here in the dark of night? Braswell’s voice was softer yet.

Josephine hesitated. She had no need to explain herself to anyone, least of all to a strange man in the dark. But she answered him anyway. Sometimes you just want to be out in the quiet, to think, she said.

To her surprise, the man waded into the river a few steps. I sense a deep longing for spiritual nourishment, he said. Come out here and let me give you a blessing.

No! Josephine cried and stepped back. That’s not what I meant at all.

It’s not what you meant, but I have spent a lifetime divining the spiritual needs of others, Braswell said. It’s what you need. He pushed forward through the water some more and stood thigh-deep in the river.

You shouldn’t cross the river in the dark. You said so yourself.

You told me it had a solid bottom, and I trust you. Now you trust me.

For an instant Josephine imagined doing it—stepping out into the stream toward the man in the middle, letting him—what? Bless her? Baptize her? Induct her into some sort of strange denomination? She could hear the water rippling around his legs as he stood, silent in the stream. Then she lifted her skirts and ran back to the village, to the dull silent cluster of houses and the soft snoring of her insensate mother.

Chapter 3

J.M. Bridges had never imagined himself running a timber operation in the backwoods of Missouri, or anywhere else for that matter. He had never envisioned himself a captain of industry. He believed, rather, that he was simply a man whose diligence and attention to detail left no doubt about his trustworthiness, a man who could be counted on in any circumstance, a man whose loyalty could not be questioned. So when he was summoned to Mr. Crecelius’ office in May, he was pleased at the prospect of recognition, but mildly apprehensive about coming face to face with the great man himself.

True, he had shown initiative during the godawful snow and ice storm a couple of months before, the worst anyone had ever seen, but he didn’t flatter himself. One inspired week would not vault him over the ranks in a company like American Lumber and Minerals.

The March storm had indeed been a test, though. Starting on a Sunday, stinging torrents of rain had chased pedestrians up and down Broadway. Then overnight the rain changed to ice, then to sleet that rattled the windowpanes, and then by Monday’s sunrise to snow—heavy, blowing, whistling snow. A foot, a foot and a half, then two feet, drifting in great mounds against buildings, clotting streets into impassibility, and felling the forests of utility poles so that Bridges woke to the snap and sizzle of electric lines as they whipped in the street below.

He knew few men would make it to work that morning and decided to be one of them. He wasn’t sure why. No commerce would take place. That much was clear. But it was a Monday morning, and what one did on a Monday morning was go to work.

The thick, wet snow resting atop the layer of ice conveyed electricity, and Bridges quickly realized that when he got within sixty or seventy feet of a fallen line he felt a tingling sensation that told him to back up and try another route. Others apparently did not possess this ability, and as he trudged through alleys and down sidewalks, he heard the muffled cries of men who had been struck by wires and then more cries from their would-be rescuers. He made it to the building without incident, found it locked, kicked in a side door, and groped his way downstairs to the main power switch. After shutting it off, he had spent the rest of the day—and most of the week—organizing teams to keep the roof cleared, the boiler filled, and the doors barred.

So when he’d arrived at Mr. Crecelius’ outer office in May, it was with the hope of receiving a bonus, and nothing else. He’d paused outside the door to tighten the back buckle on his waistcoat. No one would see whether it was tight, but in Bridges’ mind, the invisibility of his act only added to its need. The snug fit of the waistcoat assured a crisp line to the shoulders of his jacket, and the crisp line of his thrown-back shoulders sent the message he wanted to convey to all who met him, that here was a man to trust.

Bridges’ given name was John Malcolm, but he had settled on J. M. after growing dissatisfied with the ordinariness of John and rejecting J. Malcolm for its pretense. Diligence and trustworthiness were essential, but the first and second floors were full of young men just like himself, earnest strivers who never rose. A man needed a distinguishing mark, and for someone who came from no family to speak of, belonged to no clubs, and possessed no college connections, a distinctive first name would have to do.

Mr. Crecelius’ private secretary was a taut man named Ramsey, with a prematurely receding hairline and a permanent look of ill-concealed impatience. He glanced up but did not speak as Bridges entered.

I’m Bridges, he said. I’m supposed to see Mr. Crecelius at three.

I know who you are, Ramsey replied. Mr. Crecelius isn’t in. He has a standing appointment after lunch on Wednesdays, and sometimes he doesn’t return at all. Go back to your desk and I’ll send for you when and if he comes in.

There was a sofa against the wall and a straight chair in the corner. Bridges chose the straight chair so he could see the elevator doors.

What, you don’t have work to do in the middle of the afternoon? Ramsey said.

Nothing that can’t be done after hours. I’ll not waste Mr. Crecelius’ time having a boy fetch me upon his return.

I don’t have time for chit-chat with you, Ramsey said with a grimace. He gestured to a pile of correspondence on his desk.

Then I’ll not chit-chat, Bridges said. He folded his hands in his lap. After half an hour, Ramsey couldn’t stand it. Where is it you’re from again, young man? New Jersey? he said, barely glancing up.

Bridges let the young man remark pass, although the two appeared to be about the same age. Delaware. Newark, Delaware.

Ah. That explains my New Jersey thought. I remembered that you weren’t a New Yorker.

Bridges heard the slight in his words but let that pass as well. For all he knew, Mr. Crecelius had given instructions to test his mettle a bit. In any event, there was no point in antagonizing the man who controlled access.

Another twenty minutes passed. We liked the way you handled yourself in March, Ramsey said. You were observed.

I’m glad to have been of use, Bridges said.

Another twenty minutes went by. Perhaps there would be no bonus, but only a certificate for his wall, or a photographed handshake. Mr. Crecelius was renowned for his thrift. That would be a disappointment he would need to brace for and properly disguise.

I’ve seen his Wednesday appointment, Ramsey ventured quietly. I wouldn’t come back to work either.

Bridges didn’t answer. He had just about had enough of Ramsey’s remarks and smirks.

Then there was a deep groan from the rafters as the cable wheel of the elevator began to turn. Ramsey stiffened and took the next set of papers from his stack, jogging them on his desktop with a nervous clearing of his throat. Bridges stood up.

Mr. Crecelius arrived in a cloud of cigar smoke, ignoring Ramsey, and was about to push his way through to his inner office when he noticed Bridges standing in the corner. He stopped and stared at him blankly.

This is Mr. Bridges, Ramsey murmured.

Ah. Bridges, said Mr. Crecelius. He strode into his office without another word, leaving Bridges uncertain, until Ramsey waved for him to follow.

Mr. Crecelius had a bright red face and a fierce expression, and the wrinkles of skin from his bald head down his neck made him look like a snapping turtle, if a snapping turtle could grow a bristling white mustache that stuck out from its face as if it was trying to flee to another lip. Bridges stood quietly in the middle of the room while Mr. Crecelius glanced through a stack of letters and papers on his desk.

No one on Bridges’ floor had ever seen this office, though rumors about it flew as regularly as pigeons from windowsills. Bridges vowed not

Reviews for The Language of Trees

[brokenteepee · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I did not have the opportunity to read the first two books in the Daybreak Series but I can honestly say I don’t feel any particular loss. The Language of Trees stood along just fine. The author filled in any back story quite seamlessly and if you want to know the truth I was rather blind to the fact that there were other books – I somehow how just didn’t figure it out somehow. And obviously it didn’t have an impact on my reading enjoyment but I do now want to find time to read them – as if. I wish I could find a box of time – anybody?The novel is about a Utopian town in Missouri that has been in existence for around 30 years. I can’t say that I got from descriptions that it was thriving but it was certainly surviving. The inhabitants were committed to the ideals of combining their funds and making improvements by committee. There are the usual troubles when you have people living in a small town but nothing that they can’t (so far) handle.Then some men ins suits from back East come ’round looking to buy their trees. They are buying up all of the land they can to strip it and send the lumber back to build houses and stores and cities. And then they find a vein of silver and more greed sets in. The citizens of Daybreak have to decide if they want to do business with these man or to try and stay as they are. The thoughts of all of that money are also causing some people to rethink the communal ideals. Will the community survive? Will their commitment to sharing all hold firm?There is a lot going on in the book. The discussions of the Utopian community, family issues, greed, love, lust and more. Mr. Wiegenstein has done his research and it shows with lots of period detail. The characters are all unique and despite their being of the 19th century they seem – most of them anyway – like people I would want to have dinner with. Most of them. There are of course a villain or two for their wouldn’t be a good story without one.It’s an interesting book to read in today’s world as well. Greed, raping the forest, differences between the rich and the poor. You see what I mean. It’s a well written morality play full of wonderful prose and memorable characters.

[bookscookslooks · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I did not have the opportunity to read the first two books in the Daybreak Series but I can honestly say I don’t feel any particular loss. The Language of Trees stood along just fine. The author filled in any back story quite seamlessly and if you want to know the truth I was rather blind to the fact that there were other books – I somehow how just didn’t figure it out somehow. And obviously it didn’t have an impact on my reading enjoyment but I do now want to find time to read them – as if. I wish I could find a box of time – anybody?The novel is about a Utopian town in Missouri that has been in existence for around 30 years. I can’t say that I got from descriptions that it was thriving but it was certainly surviving. The inhabitants were committed to the ideals of combining their funds and making improvements by committee. There are the usual troubles when you have people living in a small town but nothing that they can’t (so far) handle.Then some men ins suits from back East come ’round looking to buy their trees. They are buying up all of the land they can to strip it and send the lumber back to build houses and stores and cities. And then they find a vein of silver and more greed sets in. The citizens of Daybreak have to decide if they want to do business with these man or to try and stay as they are. The thoughts of all of that money are also causing some people to rethink the communal ideals. Will the community survive? Will their commitment to sharing all hold firm?There is a lot going on in the book. The discussions of the Utopian community, family issues, greed, love, lust and more. Mr. Wiegenstein has done his research and it shows with lots of period detail. The characters are all unique and despite their being of the 19th century they seem – most of them anyway – like people I would want to have dinner with. Most of them. There are of course a villain or two for their wouldn’t be a good story without one.It’s an interesting book to read in today’s world as well. Greed, raping the forest, differences between the rich and the poor. You see what I mean. It’s a well written morality play full of wonderful prose and memorable characters.