Miller's Journal

It was clear why the miniature metropolis of Mapleton was called by that name. The 150 year-old former logging community boasted glorious maple trees aligned down every block, spanning the whole of downtown. Their leaves grew oversized in springtime, brightening the gray buildings around. By fall, the little city would transform into a picturesque form of autumn, coloring it alive. The sheer intensity that the mighty maples brought to the streets of this place, those trees might have always been there, perhaps preceding the town, or inspiring it’s growth. Very few knew that the town was originally called Firland. Even locals quickly came to dismiss the idea, as it lacked the grandeur Mapleton eloquated. It didn’t quite seem to ‘fit,’ they’d say. In fact, each of their mayors for 100 years had been a descendent of General Darius P. Maplewood, the town’s first established leader.

Transfixed out the window, Scotty sat in a small, expensive office of nuclear downtown. Despite overly-comfortable chairs, this room was rarely welcoming to be in. The maples might’ve made the scene a bit more charming, but Scotty preferred evergreens. He stared, so intent on seeing that tiny square plot just down the street. His mind wandered a century from the dumb, little office in that big, stupid building, and Scotty felt unshakable waves of serendipity. The plot in question is truly where this story takes root. It was right there, down the street - Scotty could see it from his sinking sofa-chair. Although he didn’t realize it, Mapleton’s structure was about to be shaken. It all surrounded a tree.

One final evergreen remained in Mapleton. Two-hundred years old, older than the city itself, this giant towered over every imported acer. When the land was originally entrusted to John Douglas, he dedicated the tree in honor of the People settling in Firland. Still holding the deed when Maplewood purchased Firland outright, he wouldn’t relinquish the little land rights he had left. After ongoing disputes, Douglas could not be swayed and the decree remained unchanged. The evergreen was preserved in its tiny 3’x3’ plot allotment in the middle of town. Although the area was contained as close to the trunk as possible, the tree still littered needles and widow-makers on the streets of Mapleton in the fall, and audaciously declared underground misalignments with the sidewalk when its root system tasted fresh springwater. No municipal liability suit would weaken the Douglases. This tree represented everything to Scotty’s family. This was one thing rich investors had no rights to overtake.

Rural land stretched much farther than Mapleton’s three-square-mile downtown area, where the scene changed. A dark massacre past the outskirts, there were no maple trees. Along desolate, dusty highways, neglected timber stumps sat lonely and scattered for miles. Occasional houses of wood remained; no concrete in these parts. Only a forest graveyard. Valleys rolled out grey and brown, with nothing but hill after dead hill, cooing a sad song of old growth genocide. Eventually at the edge of the boundary of Mapleton, there was wild, thriving, National Forest; a green painting that decorated the border wall, untouched. It was preserved, unreachable. An abandoned, ancient logging mill sat forgotten at the foot of the painting. But Mapleton was no longer a logging town. Mapleton, for the last hundred years, was centralized in finance.

“Mr. Douglas,” a strong female voice insisted. Scotty turned away from the window to face the woman behind the desk. Her eyes were kinder than he’d expected, though still held a firm look. Surely, he thought, she must be wearing her game-face. She was an executor, after all. “As you know, we’re here to discuss the last will and testament of a, ‘D. F. Douglas,’ Mister David Finn Douglas, who I take was your grandfather?”

Mapleton had a penchant for gossip, and it was well-known that Scotty’s granddad had been a poor descendant of Firland, and maintained a ‘country’ lifestyle in an old wood house outside the city. Notoriously conservative, stubborn, and irrevocably spiting the Maplewood family to boot, Davey Finn never adapted to city living. Hatred passed down genetically, adopted from his father and grandfather before him, John, who owned the logging mill and a large chunk of the original settlement. Davey Finn Douglas was anti-social, filled with animosity. He had tarnished what was left of his family’s reputation by condemning the Maplewood family’s business regimes in what were considered to be sad attempts at regaining his family's old company. For Scotty, the name still carried heavy weight.

History murmored the Douglas family always unpopular and conflicting, whereas the esteemed Maplewoods were the true founders of this rich land. It was unquestionable: having a generational monopoly of investments in Mapleton never harmed their interests. When the Maplewoods arrived to establish financial justice and begin construction of the city, the Douglas family's logging company tapered and they ended up losing everything. General Darius P. Maplewood bought the company and the land from a bankrupt John Douglas for $20,000, a small fortune in that time, although he apparently tried to refuse the account. John was forced out in a quarrelsome way, overtaken reluctantly. Maplewood hastily expedited the old growth of John’s former timber mill by outsourcing to nearby cities, abolishing the surrounding forest area, and allotting the profits to fund the economical advancements of the city. Soon, the town became a hub of prosperous investing. Lumber was quickly a thing of the past, as nothing new grew in the boondocks. Instead, a concrete jungle arose internally. The affluent economy flourished as immigrants populated the new city in search of fortune. John Douglas was seen as a failure. He had little credit left to his name, save for the lone tree that stood protected under a written law from the original settlement. Darius P. Maplewood was elected the first mayor, and the town was renamed Mapleton in his family’s honor, while the Douglas family name became disgraced.

Given the circumstances, Scotty was prepared to hear another lecture about his ancestry. It didn’t help his wits that he found the woman to look wholly stunning. Her chestnut hair glimmered in the light, and would fall like a trunk should she ever let it down. But this couldn’t distract him. He sat there, swallowed by a sofa-chair that mocked his comfort level. No inflation, not a million dollars, could poach that little plot of legacy away from his family’s name. No lawyers could touch it; they had tried and failed. No local petitions or community campaigns would sway his bloodline before him, and neither would he be swayed. He may not be the old lumberjack his grandfather’s grandfather John was, but Scotty Douglas wasn’t about to be cornered into a buyout. He knew better than to yield.

When the woman held her gaze, however, there was a slow alleviation. Sunlight greenhoused him through the window, and the serendipitous feeling started to pound vocally throughout his body. His heartbeat reverberated as a high-paced beat in his ears. Could she hear that? To Scotty it felt like she could see right through him, although her eyes were warm and unaccusing. He squinted at her. What was her agenda, he thought? An air about her surpassed the professionalism of a reader of wills and testaments.

“Mr. Douglas,” she repeated. Her eyes were unwavered, flickering intently. She spoke expertly, though there was a feverish impatience coming through. “I have some information that you should find very interesting.

“Your grandfather’s last will, here - there is the obvious central plot.” She glanced slightly through the windowpane and skipped her notes forward. “ ‘The evergreen shall stay in the name of the People of Firland under donation by the discretion of the Douglas ancestral line and the town of Firland.’ Although.”

“Mr...Mr. Douglas,” she stammered.

“Scotty.”

“Scotty,” she exhaled. Prayer-folded hands extended over her desk, she became less polished by the second. “There’s something else.”

Scotty gulped, listening intently. Something was different, Suzie wasn’t about to scold him. She was about to change everything.

“My name is Suzie. Susan Miller. My great-granddaddy was one of the mill’s child laborers when this was lumber-town. He was happy there, supporting the lumber effort as a teenager. And all my great-great-uncles wanted to work at the mill, too, sewing seeds ‘til they were old enough. Then Maplewoods came, and everything changed. All these were stories my parents told me.”

She didn’t need to elaborate, these were the same ramblings he’d always heard from his family. It was such a different tale than the history books printed. And now, finally, someone had a congruent narrative. Here was the confession of another lone stump in a forgotten forest.

“I found something,” she disclosed with excitement. It was clearly the first opportunity Suzie had been gifted to share this brimming news. Her eyes continued to dance in the strong way that a fire would. She picked up a small black notebook from the desk that Scotty had previously neglected to see, and ensued with the prolific truth that she had come to adduce. “My family has had this thing for generations and I finally got my hands on it. I was always told it was my great-granddaddy’s old journal. And I’ll tell you right now that no one in my family has a history of fiction-writing. This is the real deal. It’s a true journalistic account, of the atrocities that went on back then. This stuff is unbelievable. You need to hear.”

Scotty saw tabs, Suzie’s research markings.

“Every significant dated event. This is it. The answer. Your granddad, Davey Finn? You know how he fought against the city in those attempted lawsuits?” Scotty cringed, he knew his family’s reputation all too well. Suzie pressed on, brandishing the small black notebook. “He had good reason. The DLC takeover was forced. And I have proof here. Logs to corroborate. That twenty-K purchase? General Maplewood forced the sale of the mill and forestland by his influence with associates in the bank. He staged a money transfer and had a new deed drafted. Douglas never accepted, but Maplewood had indisputable records against him. Everyone back then knew he’d never sell out willingly - he cared too much about the timber industry. Maybe you’d understand?

Indeed, Scotty could corroborate. This was the fable his family always told him - but it wasn’t just grandfather’s fairytale. This was from a professional suit in a downtown office. It made the fable real.

“Well it’s the truth. This journal I’ve inherited confirms it. I have dates here, timestamps that coincide directly.”

Suzie turned the book with a flourish. Scotty noticed handwritings in faded cursive on tanned pages. “It’s older than dirt, look. Cowskin - authentic leather. Folks at the Society Club can certify employment of mill workers in John Douglas’ era. This notebook isn’t just circumstantial. These pages hold the key your grandfather didn’t have when he tried to prove his own granddad’s innocence.”

Scotty’s heartbeat still felt louder than life, but it had steadied. He was silently unsure of the words he was hearing, almost as if he was genetically predisposed to his family’s failure.

The Douglases, however, had retained their contract with the town’s original settlement; that the last standing evergreen shall remain the People’s by donation. Since no generation had accepted to forfeit, they were thereby expunged of any deal, and their full land rights would be returned to them. The Maplewood fortune would owe Scotty a settlement for the hostile takeover of Douglas Lumber Company, and the decades they took advantage of the land. A judge would rule the $20,000 account to be allotted to the Douglas name, with 100 years of interest. Scotty would invest in replanting new growth.

“Susan Miller, would you like to build something with me?”

Suzie smiled with childlike joy. “Well, Scotty Douglas, you own the place. We can build whatever you’d like. Mapleton will be yours!”

“No.” Scotty proudly gazed back at the lone evergreen. “This is Firland.”