“The ice wind howled about the tree all winter, but the needles held tight and the woji stayed snug and warm, and if he nibbled on a needle now and then the tree forgave him, because he had taught it not to cringe and turn colors and stand naked all winter shivering before the ice wind just because that’s what the other trees did. When spring came the other trees begged the woji to turn their leaves into needles too, and the woji finally agreed. But only for those trees that hadn’t laughed at him. And that’s why the evergreen trees are evergreen.”

“Is that all?” demanded one of the Carver brothers.

Mark nodded.

“What’s a woji? You said we’d know when the story was over.”

“That’s the thing that lives in spruce trees,” Mark said, grinning. “He’s invisible, but sometimes you can hear him. He’s usually laughing.” He jumped down from the chair. “I’ve gotta go.” He trotted to the door.

“There’s no such thing!” one of the brothers yelled.

Mark opened the door and looked out cautiously. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Then he looked over his shoulder and asked the brothers, “How do you know? Have you ever gone out there to try to hear him laughing?” He left them quickly before a doctor or nurse showed up.

Before dawn one morning near the end of May the families began to gather at the dock once more to see off the six boats and crews of brothers and sisters. There was no gaiety now, there had been no party the night before. Barry stood near Lewis and watched the preparations. They were both silent.

There was no way to draw back now, Barry knew. They had to have the supplies that were in the big cities, or die. That was the alternative they had. The toll had been too high, and he knew no way to reduce it. Special training had helped a little, but not enough. Sending groups of brothers and sisters had helped, but not enough. So far in the four trips downriver, they had lost twenty-two people, and another twenty-four had been affected by the ordeal, perhaps permanently affected, and through them their families. Thirty-six of them this time. They were to stay out until frost, or until the river started its usual fall rise, whichever was first.

Some of them were to build a bypass around the falls; some would dig a canal to link the Shenandoah to the Potomac to avoid the danger of the rough water they now had to face with each trip. Two groups were to go back and forth between the falls and Washington and bring out the supplies that had been found the previous year. One group was on river patrol, to clear the rapids that the capricious rivers renewed each winter.

How many would return this time? Barry wondered. They would stay out longer than any of the others had; their work was more dangerous. How many?

“Having a building at the falls will help,” Lewis said suddenly. “It was the feeling of being exposed that made it particularly bad.”

Barry nodded. It was what they all reported — they felt exposed, watched. They felt the world was pressing in on them, that the trees moved closer as soon as the sun set. He glanced at Lewis, forgot what he had started to say, and instead watched a tic that had appeared at the corner of his mouth. Lewis was clenching his fists; he stared at the dwindling boats, and the tic jerked and vanished, jerked again.

“Are you all right?” Barry asked. Lewis shook himself and looked away from the river. “Lewis? Is anything wrong?”

“No. I’ll see you later.” He strode away swiftly.

“There’s something about being in the woods in the dark especially that has a traumatic effect,” Barry said later to his brothers. They were in the dormitory room they shared; at the far end, apart from them, sat Mark, cross-legged on a cot, watching them. Barry ignored him. They were so used to his presence now that they seldom noticed him at all, unless he got in the way. They usually noticed if he vanished, as he frequently did.

The brothers waited. That was well known, the fear of the silent woods.

“In training the children to prepare for their future roles, we should incorporate experience in living in the woods for prolonged periods. They could start with an afternoon, then go to an overnight camping expedition, and so on, until they are out for several weeks at a time.”

Bruce shook his head. “What if they were adversely affected to the point where they could not go out on the expeditions at all? We could lose ten years of hard work that way.”

“We could try it with a sample,” Barry said. “Two groups, one male, one female. If they show distress after the first exposure, we can slow it down, or even postpone it until they are a year or two older. Eventually they’ll have to go out there; we might be able to make it easier on them.”

They no longer were holding the number of like clones to six, but had increased them to ten of each group. “We have eighty children almost eleven years old,” Bruce said. “In four years they will be ready. If the statistics hold up, we’ll lose two-fifths of them within the first four months they are away, either to accidents or psychological stress. I think it’s worth a try to condition them to the woods and living apart beforehand.”

“They have to have supervision,” Bob said. “One of us.”

“We’re too old,” Bruce said with a grimace. “Besides, we know we’re susceptible to the psychological stress. Remember Ben.”

“Exactly,” Bob said. “We’re too old to make any difference here. Our young brothers are taking over our functions more and more, and their little brothers are ready to step into their places when needed. We are expendable,” he concluded.

“He’s right,” Barry said reluctantly. “It’s our experiment, our obligation to see it through. Draw lots?”

“Take turns,” Bruce said. “Each of us to have a crack at it before it’s over.”

“Can I go too?” Mark asked suddenly, and they all turned to look at him.

“No,” Barry said brusquely. “We know you’re not hurt by the woods. We don’t want anything to go wrong with this, no pranks, no tricks, no bravado.”

“You’ll get lost then,” Mark shouted. He jumped down from his cot and ran to the door and paused there to yell back, “You’ll be out in the woods with a bunch of crying babies and you’ll all go crazy and the woji will die laughing at you!”

A week later Bob led the first group of boys up into the woods behind the valley. Each carried a small pack with his lunch in it. They wore long pants and shirts and boots. Watching them leave, Barry could not banish the thought that he should have been the first to try it with them. His idea, his risk. He shook his head angrily. What risk? They were going for a hike in the woods. They would have lunch, turn around, and come back down. He caught Mark’s glance and for a moment they stared at each other, the man and boy, curiously alike, yet so distant from each other that no similarity was possible.

Mark broke the stare and looked again at the boys, who were climbing steadily and coming to the thicker growths. Soon they were invisible among the trees.

“They’ll get lost,” he said.

Bruce shrugged. “Not in one hour or two,” he said. “At noon they’ll eat, turn around, and come back.”

The sky was deep blue with puffs of white clouds and a very high band of cirrus clouds with no apparent beginning or end. It would be noon in less than two hours.

Stubbornly Mark shook his head, but he said nothing more. He returned to class, and then went to the dining room for lunch. After lunch he was due to work in the garden for two hours, and he was there when Barry sent for him.

“They aren’t back yet,” Barry said when Mark entered the office. “Why were you so certain they would be lost?”

“Because they don’t understand about the woods,” Mark said. “They don’t see things.”

“What things?”

Mark shrugged helplessly. “Things,” he said again. He looked from one brother to another and again shrugged.