A Maple Tree in Dagestan

By Abu-Isa Webb

When a Canadian reporter goes on a mission to one of the most dangerous reaches of the globe, he expects to find the answers to all of the questions brought up in the aftermath of the Boston Marathon Bombings. Instead he faces the impossibility of answering complex political questions in black-and-white print, and the more alluring question of how a Canadian Maple tree came to grow in an open field of the Dagestani foothills. Wrestling to balance his job with his life back home, he must decide how far his journalistic curiosity can take him before violence, intrigue or even love might carry him past a point of no return.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abu-Isa Webb
• Release date: Mar 5, 2020

Book preview

A Maple Tree

in Dagestan

Abu-Isa Webb

Copyright © 2015, Taylor Webb

A special thanks to my friends in Dagestan. Without their inspirational pictures, music and stories I would have nothing to offer, and without their helpful insights and critiques this book would have been lost under a mountain of ungooglable questions.

Further credit and the dedication of this work belong to all those who make National Novel Writing Month a source of inspiration and resolve for so many writers every year. This book was written in its entirety in November 2014, and would not have been written were it not for the challenge posed by NaNoWriMo.

A Maple Tree in Dagestan

The highlands were cooler than the coast, where Makhachkala sat on the Caspian Sea, where all the hotels were, and where the other reporters had stayed. I told Rasul that I was taking a walk around the block to get some fresh air and to see what the centre of Buynaksk had to offer. It was one of those large, unexpected cities that you never hear about, but you suppose must exist, and must be full of people and have its own history. It was like Hamilton in a way, not an international interest, but there none the less, existing despite being ignored. I tried to capture that with my camera, but the thought was proving to be elusive.

At that point I saw a young boy sitting in a vehicle, obviously bored and waiting for someone. I took his picture, but soon he noticed me and started posing, ruining the shot. I humoured him anyway, but as I focused on the face he was making at me, showing off his crooked and missing teeth, I noticed something stuck in the windshield wiper of the truck he was in. I zoomed in on the debris and recognized it as the seeds of a maple tree.

Writers and reporters often have a very broad and mostly useless scope of information floating around their heads. Because we are professional communicators we are called on to communicate incredibly varied information. It eventually accumulates into something of an eccentric set of interests, and in my case that included the ability to identify different types of maple trees.

When Canada released its newest polymer currency it had the image of a maple leaf on it, naturally. The problem was that the maple leaf in question was that of a Norwegian maple, native to Scandinavia and Russia. I wrote an article detailing the blunder at the time, and went through great efforts to learn to recognize the difference, and now, wedged in the windshield of the truck was something that was definitely not from a Norwegian maple.

I approached the car, gazing curiously at the keys collected in the grill below the windshield. When I looked up to the boy I saw that he was holding a huge fresh maple leaf over part of his face as if to mock me. I took a picture of his smiling eyes, and by this time I was well within earshot.

Vorcami, I said.

He replied in the local dialect.

I looked back toward where I had come from. I needed Rasul to translate.

Do you speak English? I ventured.

Yeah, what do you want? The boy’s English was impeccable. Maybe better than Rasul’s.

I want to know where you got that leaf.

My grandpa gave it to me.

Where did he get it?

From his tree.I huffed at the kid’s game. Where is his tree?

At his house.

Does he live here?

No.

Does he live nearby?

No, he’s dead.

I slapped my head with my palm. How did your dead grandfather give you a leaf? I demanded.

He planted a tree in my backyard when he was young.

The tree that grows these leaves? I was building a picture of an old man who happened to be a horticulturalist or an arboreal enthusiast. It was not much, but it was something to colour the normalcy of this bizarre location.

Yes.

Is it big or small? I asked.

It is very, very big. It’s the second biggest tree in the world.

I smiled at the assessment. It urged me to ask about the biggest tree, but I kept on track, Do you live nearby?

No, I live near Jengutai.

I quickly pulled out my notepad and pen. I tried to write down the name of the town, but could not remember, How do you spell it?

The boy rattled off a string of Cyrillic letters, so I handed him the notebook and got him to write it instead. Just as he was carefully writing what appeared to be a short novel on the notepad the driver’s side door of the truck was opened and a short old woman climbed in.

Vorcami! Hello, I said.

The old woman looked over at me with a scowl and began speaking Russian. The boy gave me my notebook back and began rolling up his window, Goodbye!

Wait! I tried to get the attention of the old woman, but she paid me no heed. The truck roared to life, drowning out my introduction, and by that time the window was up and the vehicle was rolling out onto the road.

As it took off, the door opened and shut quickly, and the large leaf the boy had been holding dropped out. I retrieved it, and was left only with the message he had scrawled out to me and that delicate tangible evidence that what I had experienced had been real.

Once I had returned from my adventure to Rasul, who was still waiting at the gas station, I exclaimed, There was a boy who speaks English!

Many children learn English in school here, he explained.

No, he spoke very very good English, I think he was a native speaker. He also had this, I handed the leaf over.

Neat, Rasul lied, I’m just happy he didn’t rob you.

He wasn’t a street kid, he was with his grandmother.

Ok then, shall we get going?

They live here, I handed off the note.

This is a tiny village nearby, Rasul looked at his watch as he got into the car. Once he got it started he said, it’s out of the way, it might not even have a road.

So, how many reporters do you think have been to this village? I demanded.

You are probably the only tourist who has ever come to this city, and you will almost definitely be the only reporter to ever go to this village, but the reason is because there is nothing to see here, he motioned to the note.

You are supposed to be facilitating my journalism. I want to find out more about this tree, I held up the leaf to underscore my point.

I am supposed to be keeping you from being kidnapped as well. I can set up interviews for you back in Makhachkala where it is safer.

Not about this tree though.

No, probably not about this tree, Rasul got onto the highway and started speeding toward the mountain range ahead of us. We are not far from the place I was telling you about earlier, where the town was sealed off and overrun a few years ago. We will go there and check things out, we can talk to some locals there. Why do you want to know about this tree anyway?

Talking to the locals you are going to introduce me to is what the other journalists did before, isn’t it? Besides that, I need to find a way to tie this story into Canada, to get the people to care. The fact that there is a Canadian sugar maple tree out here gives a sense of curiosity and personal investment to Canadians.

I can tell. You seem to be quite curious and personally invested.

Exactly!

Ok, you said it’s a tree, right? We will go through this village after we get back, maybe tomorrow, and look for the tree. If there is no tree then we will know that it was just a set-up.

How can there be no tree? I held up the leaf once more, You think this kid has a hoard of fresh Canadian maple leaves lying around on the off chance that he will encounter Canadian tourists in a restricted zone? You’ve got to relax, not everyone is out to get us.

Those words were ringing in my ears twenty minutes later, when we were both strip searched outside of the car while police dogs were run through it before we were admitted into the tunnel that would lead to our destination. We were admitted only after the hundred rouble ‘tourist fee’ was paid, of course.



The promised trip back out to the village the boy had written down took us through Buynaksk, then south along the highway for a few minutes. The lower village was a gathering of homes right along the highway, but Rasul informed me that the location was in the upper village, along a washed out pathway that headed up the hill in the background to another collection of dwellings.

It was early in the morning, and we both had our windows down as the car lurched forward along the rutted route. None of the trees visible from the highway were maples, but I surmised that the one we were looking for might be just over the hill and convinced Rasul to go see. Sure enough, as we pulled into the tiny village with cinder block walls crowding the central road, we came over the crest of the hill to see a small field below ploughed into lines of vegetables with a forty foot tall maple tree defiantly rooted in the centre.

Huh! Rasul exclaimed.

Yes indeed, I agreed.

It looks like it is the field of that house, Rasul pointed to a house that was set apart from the rest of the village. There was a little path leading from that house through the field to the tree, then up to the village, but the house itself, with its typical square block construction, was built along the side of the hill that the village was on top of. It was painted white, and the perimeter wall was also painted white, but both were worn and dirty, fitting into the landscape inconspicuously.

It looks like the house is accessed by the highway after all, Rasul concluded.

To his astonishment and horror I took the opportunity of him stopping the car in the village to open the door and get out.

We can just pull around to the highway, he insisted, still sitting in the car.

We can just walk through the garden, I replied.

My tires are going to get stolen, he shot back.

Then pull around along the highway if you want, I said, closing the door on him and setting out down the steep hill toward the tree.

The morning sun shone brightly against the fantastic panoramic view on this southern side of the village. I could tell that we were actually quite high up already, as there was a steep valley somewhere to the west of us, but beyond that the mountains rose again, steep and jagged against the pale blue sky. I took a few pictures of the view as I approached the tree, then I saw the boy I had talked to earlier exit the gate of his house with an enormous tin pail of water.

Hey there, I exclaimed, but the scenery seemed to swallow my voice in this secluded spot.

Oh! The boy seemed genuinely surprised, and stopped in his tracks. He looked back toward his house for a moment, Where did you come from?

I came out of the village, I replied, I wanted to visit your tree.

Have you come to take it with you? The boy was staring at me in a resolute, serious way, as though this was a real concern.

No, was all I could manage to reply. I looked up at the huge tree and wondered how the boy supposed I would take it home. After a moment I heard the clang of the handle of the tin pail and the boy approached.

The container was nearly full of water, it must have been ten litres, and the boy struggled under its weight. He waddled over to the tree and slowly tipped the pail over to water it.

Why are you watering this tree? I asked.

Because trees need water to grow. He replied.

But where did this tree come from?

The same place as you.

But why is it here?

The boy looked up at me, his dark eyebrows casting a shadow over his eyes as he replied, I thought you would know.

Why, because I am Canadian? I asked, Canadians don’t know everything about each of our trees.

Neither do Avars. Why do you care about this tree so much? It’s just a tree. Besides, what if there is no answer?

There is always an answer, I confirmed, and everyone and everything has a story.

Are you a story teller?

I am a journalist, so yes.

Then make one up! The boy threw his hands up in resignation, picked up his empty pail and began marching back the way he came, looking over his shoulder to echo the words of some cynical adult in his life, That’s all they do anyway, the press, make up stories.

I laughed and followed him toward the wall that surrounded his little house.

This is a very beautiful place. I said, You are lucky to live in such a wonderful spot.

The boy said nothing until we reached the garden wall. At that point he turned around and asked, Do you intend to follow me right into my home?

Yes. I replied, I would like to find out more about that tree, and I have a feeling that your parents might be a little more forthcoming.

My parents cannot tell you anything about that tree.

I smiled, Is it a secret?

The boy stood in the gateway still, unwilling to leave me at the door, but also needing to finish this chore of his.They are gone.

The words fell out of his mouth without pretext or emotion, slapping me in the face.

I’m... sorry to hear that. I could not bear the steely gaze of the ten-year old, so I looked down at my worn hiking boots, but at last my curiosity found a way forward for me again, Do you live alone?

Of course not. The boy rolled his eyes again –I could hear it in his voice.

Well then yes, I intend to speak to your guardians about that tree.

You came all the way from Canada by air plane, then drove out to here, and followed me home, just to ask about why there is a tree in a field? The boy shook his head and turned to enter the yard of his house, Why don’t you just Google it?

I found myself following him right into that yard just as Rasul pulled up in the car on the other side of the house. I came for something else, but that tree piqued my interest.

We went to the door along the side of the house, where I waited for Rasul as he exited his car. The boy went in and began hollering in Russian to the other occupants.

So what now? Rasul asked.

I don’t know, we’ll see who’s home, I replied as I knocked on the wooden frame of the open door.

The structure was quite small, and built low out of what appeared to be local field stones. We were standing at the front door, which was set at an angle to the highway and to the perimeter wall, but nothing much in the area seemed to be square to anything else anyway. In the small inner garden there were flowers and a few more vegetables growing, and a large old fashioned hand pump for a well.

I got the distinct feeling that we might simply be left there on the step until we gave up and left this family alone. At this point, in fact, I was beginning to question why I was there in the first place. I was unsure of what had drawn me to the tree, there was no evidence that a maple tree in a field was anything but coincidence, and I had no reason to believe that this family would know anything about the reason I had been sent to Dagestan in the first place.

Rasul, for his part, stood there patiently humouring me, despite knowing even less than I did and having virtually nothing invested in the bizarre behaviour.

Standing on that step I had a strange feeling of familiarity, however. The scenery was at once fantastic for its massive mountain range falling slowly toward the sea, for the short sweet grass and steep hills that typified the region, but somehow this home seemed to be welcoming, normal, like they might have a bombardier skidoo out back, or a dopey and friendly border collie inside.

Eventually the same old woman who had driven off the day before came to the door and scrutinized me openly even before she spoke, but when she did speak I was suddenly able to place that strange familiarity.

Can I help you?

Yes, hello. My name is Gavin McFadden, and this is Rasul Magomedov, my guide. I met your... boy in the city yesterday and noticed that he had this leaf, I held up the maple leaf the boy had dropped.

Ah, my name is Aurelia Merkovich. That leaf is from our tree out back, the woman nodded. There was something very strange about the way she spoke that I had a hard time placing, If you would like you may take some more leaves from it... or?

You have a Canadian accent! I blurted out almost uncontrollably.

She raised her eyebrows, and then seemed to understand, Ah, you’re a Canadian traveller. She smiled warmly at this conclusion.

For a