North Woods
By Daniel Mason
Wow. That was quite a book.
The novel tells the story of a piece of land in Massachusetts' Berkshire Mountains through the eyes of its
inhabitants over four centuries, beginning with a pair of Puritan lovers who flee the, well, puritanical, mob that would have their hides for their deeds. They establish a little cabin, soon only inhabited by the former bride, who welcomes another "Englishwoman" kidnapped on a raid by Native people. A scuffle with a party of murderous soldiers leaves only the newcomer, and thus begins a succession of owners: an army major, Osgood, obsessed with a wondrous variety of apple found near the cabin; his daughters, Alice and Mary; a once-famous landscape painter; a wealthy hunter; his daughter and son, who is wracked by schizophrenia (or a psychic gift?); and, finally, no one. No one living, that is.
For many of the former inhabitants of this land, and the increasingly sprawling home that sits upon it, become ghosts upon their deaths. Not all. But enough. Mary, for instance, dispatches a slave hunter with an axe just as he is about to corner his escaped quarry. And the painter, William Teale, can be heard reciting poetry and copulating with his male lover, a relationship he was only able to glimpse briefly in life. The rules for who becomes a ghost and who does not are a little unclear. Mary, Alice, and Teale, were all prevented, by their partners, from the form of self-actualization that might bring them happiness, and so died able to image this state but unable to attain it. Osgood, though, seemed quite content with his life, and yet he also lingers in the place.
And what to make of Robert, the mid-20th century inhabitant diagnosed with schizophrenia whose seemingly wild ramblings he calls "Stitches" because he believes his steps literally keep the earth stitched together. He talks of enemies and allies that others perceive to be little more than paranoid hallucinations. And yet his sister, upon Robert's death, finds a stash of 8 mm tape with titles like "Major Osgood's Remembrances of the French and Indian War". To the sister, they are soundless shots of the property; but we, the reader, know of Osgood and his experiences, and are left to wonder whether perhaps Robert's disease was perhaps just a gift, and ability to interact with the ghosts all around us that the rest of us don't.
But, really, this book is about the land. For while we talk about forest "succession", what that really means is death. It's not just the way some of the inhabitants cut the woods or slash the apple trees. It's the attackers from far away -- the fungus, for instance, spread after a quite detailed and humorous description of beetle sex, that kills the elm and the chestnut, and disfigures the beech -- that have slowly dismantled and diminished the north woods. And not just the trees! Apparently, we have lost 1/3 of our birds since the 1970s, reducing the sound of our once-great forest to a mere hum. At the books' end, the author describes the upward creep of southern pines, which, if our climate continues, will inevitably "succeed" -- and kill off -- our fragile north woods.
This last part was a bit hard to stomach. But this winter (most winters, actually) it is hard not to focus on the loss wrought by climate change. We have yet to have a significant snowfall, and our 5" "powder days" do indeed seem like ghosts of what used to be. Perhaps that's melodramatic. I can't help but wonder, though, whether my kids, who will have grown up spending their winter days at the mountain, will even be able to ski in these parts when they are my age. It makes me wonder, too, about the change my grandfather saw. He was born in 1912 (I think?), and loved the woods, albeit the ones in upstate New York. Did he see the great elms I've been told once lined every downtown in America? Did he see great stands of chestnuts? Did he mourn their losses the way this author does?
Depressing though the book might seem to be, it is engrossingly told. Each vignette brings us wholly into a character, who is imbued with their own voice. There must have been a lot of research into the particular vernacular stylings of each time period touched upon. And the ghost conceit keeps you wondering when they will pop up next. What a great read.
