Book excerpt

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Move in closer, and listen.
...and this is how you plant a tree, ladies and gents. This is it. No more, no less. Anyone who says differently is totally full of shit, y'hear me? And, uh, may the pox be on them and their whole house. A POX, I say!!! No, no, ha ha I don't mean that. A pox on nobody. But anyway, hi dee do you little heathens, this is where you become tree planters, like it or not. I'd tell you to take off your rain gear and gaiters and plant all day in your goddamn undies if I could, but that's Hank's joke. So I won't tell you that. But yeah man... this is where you become tree planters, like it or not.
The dog stops sniffing the ground and rocks and everyone's boots for just a moment, raises his shaggy grey head and looks up at the man who is talking. Their eyes meet.
Oh, oh uh, ahem, ahem, this is my friend Wolf Boy, the man says, and I believe he's some sort of dog or something, yeah? And, uh, Wolf Boy, these here are some rookies. They're not ready for the big stuff yet, so you go easy on them, kay?
The dog looks carefully around the group, sniffs the air once or twice, looks them over again a bit more slowly, sniffs again and then goes back to investigating the ground.
I, the man says, am known to some as Feral Danger Macduff, and this, you poor miserable bastards, is where the shit goes down and so, yeah, yeah, man... buck up, I guess, 'cuz it ain't gonna be easy.
He plants a tree quickly, then plants another, too fast for anyone to understand much of anything. You got it?, he says. That's it. That's how you plant a tree. No more, no less...
Now let's have a dogs-eye view, a look at the faces here in this small huddled group.
NAMES!, Feral shouts. Names! Are we in civilized company still, or have we so quickly descended to the level of mere beasts? No offense, Wolf Boy, he says, turning sideways to the dog, who looks up at him. But which is it?, he continues. Civilized, or beasts? Have we so quickly eaten that bitter root which taketh all reason prisoner? Goddamn it people. Fuck! Are we civilized or are we beasts?
Uh, we're civilized?, someone says. A few nervous giggles go around.
Feral heaves a long sigh, rolls his eyes heavenward, asking some invisible listener how he got stuck with these dullards. Anyway, he repeats, anyway, I ask you for your names.
He points at a girl. Minh, she says, curtsying with an imaginary skirt. A guy. Keith, he says, but I'm not...
Aha! Keith's not a rookie!, Feral says. He was here last year, eh? He's a vet now. Good, good. Minh and Keith. Keith and Minh. More, more.
And other names get named. One by one. Adam, says Adam, our man from the first scene. Lyn, says Lyn, though her full name was really Evelyn, but we'll get to all that soon enough. She looked Italian or Egyptian or something, hard to place it really, but she was Metis actually, which we'll also get to soon too. Dark hair, dark eyes, not tall, not short.
Hank, one of them says, a tall skinny dude with short messy hair. It was his joke, you'll remember, about rookies not being allowed to wear their gaiters and rain-suits, that Feral didn't tell earlier.
Hallo hallo Mr. Hank, Feral says. Now listen rookies, he whispers, leaning in, Mr. Hank here thinks he's a bit of a highballer, a bit of a... uh, sargeant at arms, eh Hank? 'zat right?
'sright, says Hank, and gives a careless, off the forehead salute, laughing good-naturedly. Most of them are rookies, so they all nod, impressed and amused, too.
Anyway, Hank says to the group, pointing with his thumb, anyway, Mr. Feral here has been known to plant a few trees in his day. But what's weird about this statement is that Hank makes the rabbit ears with his fingers as he says the word Feral, as if quoting it or, like, calling it into question or something.
'Sright 'sright, Feral says. Me too, me too. Planted lots of trees me buckos, lots of 'em.
More names. Susie--a Polish-p(l)easant Saskatchewan farm girl. Round rosy cheeks. Blond hair. Blue eyes.
Scott--dark hair and pale eyes, five feet ten inches or so. Thin, but athletic and strong-looking.
Magda, says Magda. And she's fucking hot. Feral doesn't say that. No one says it in fact, but I'm telling you about it all the same. She's hot. Feral nods to her and says Salut, mon coeur. Enchante.
Salut, she answers, laughing. Moi'ssi. Their eyes hold for just that tiniest second, y'know? That tiniest second that conveys so much more. A half-smile passes between them. She lowers her eyes.
And then Marcus, says Marcus.
Now, uh, Marcus here, Feral says, turning away from Magda and back to the group, is more rightly known as Christian Marcus, in order to distinguish him from the other and decidedly non-Christian Marcus who will not be joining us on the voyage this year due to certain, uh, irregularities in his performance shall we say. But our man here, our Marcus, Feral says, leaning in as if he's sharing a secret, he's another highballer. Big time. He leans back outward, adds: He also highballs in spirit, which is just as important in my books. More important, in fact. This guy's a fucking champion.
Marcus just smiles broadly, nods. Smiles, nods, smiles and nods all around.
A pause. People are waiting now, waiting for something.
Okay, so... I'll try to remember all your names, Feral continues. I'll try. Wait. Wait... Okay. Got 'em. MinhKeithAdamLynHankSusieScottMagdaMarcus. The Nine. Got 'em.
The Nine, he had called them, and so just like that and quite all of a sudden on this first morning together in the bush, they were declared to be a weird little fellowship group. A band. A troop. A gaggle of grey-wandering pilgrims all grey-weary fleshed with the wear-down of city that was worn down upon all their faces, the grey wear-down gown of the city worn down upon them all like a fleece of old coat in the rain.