Clayoquot Sound had been slated for clear-cutting until public outcry and international protest got the area on the west coast of Vancouver Island designated an international biosphere by the United Nations Educational Scientific Cultural Organization. The move had preserved a vast area as a biosphere reserve. The same was unlikely to happen to Redstone, but there was still a good chance that any move made by Conservco could be blocked if enough people stood up and voiced their opinions.

“Maybe you’re right,” she harrumphed, then turned back to face the lumbermen. “You won’t get away with this!” she shouted. “I won’t let you.”

The lumbermen all laughed at the old woman.

Garrett smiled too, but not for the same reason. Donna Hughson might look old and frail, but if there was going to be a fight, she was someone you wanted on your side.

* * *

An hour later Donna Hughson was making another long-distance phone call. She’d already called the papers in Prince Rupert, Prince George, and all of the other local dailies and weeklies she could think of. From Dawson Creek to Victoria, every media outlet in British Columbia was aware that something “not right” was going on in their little corner of the province.

Now that the alarm bell had been sounded, it was time for her to call out the big guns. Sure the newspapers and radio and television stations would all do a fine job of reporting the news to the rest of the country, but this was a fight that needed an army, and she knew just where to find one.

She dialed the ten-digit number.

Alise Grant was a sculptress in Toronto who did strange things with copper and clay. Her twisted renditions of people, places, and things were so abstract that no two people saw the same thing when looking at one of her works. But while critics and regular folk didn’t always know what to make of her works, no fewer than fourteen of them were on exhibit in the Art Gallery of Ontario. But more than talented, Alise was a great organizer of people. She had friends in high places, low places, and all the places in between. If Donna needed an army, Alise was the general who could fill its ranks.

The phone rang twice.

“Hello?”

“Alise, this is Donna.”

“Donna dear, how are you?”

“No time to talk now. We’ve got a problem here.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Have you got the list of writers’ unions handy?”

“I think so.”

“How about all the artists’ guilds?”

“Yes.”

“And that Canadian poets group?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Greenpeace…They’ll want to know about this too, of course.” At last she stopped a moment to take a breath.

“For God’s sake Donna, what is it?”

“The logging trucks rolled into my forest today,” she said. “And it’s going to take every tree-hugging salad-eater you know to help get rid of them.”

Chapter 5