by Bev Wagar
Buckthorn foists himself on Hort Court.
I wrote “The Orange Menace” in September 2025, during the Terrible Trump Times in the USA. Sean and I had just moved to Eastern Ontario, a short distance across the St. Lawrence River from upstate New York, which had overwhelming voted Republican. But what really motivated this story was the inaugural Brockville Writers Festival which drew A-list authors and large audiences.
For the first time in the history of hort court, a tree entered the garden under his own free will. He swaggered up to the courtyard and surveyed the garden like he owned it. Though small in stature, he shook his head of shiny leaves, bright green even in November, and barged through the courtyard gate.
“Mah name is Buck. Buck Thorn” he announced. “And ah demand a hearing!”
The flowers had heard rumours about this rogue tree—the native perennials seemed especially distressed. Mayflower, long dormant, rose up and, along with Trillium, searched for the Prosecutor, who happened to be lounging near the bird bath on his day off. The ephemerals cajoled him into the courtyard where a crowd had already gathered. Presiding Judge M. (Mama) Nature saw the commotion and wafted into the courtyard with her usual quiet dignity. It all looked like a regular trial—but Buck had something else in mind.
Buck was a stranger to the area, known only by rumour and fear that he might move into the neighbouring forest. He stood tall, branches akimbo, trying hard to look tough despite his small stature. He wished his thorns were longer and sharper .
“Ah’ve come to your fine garden to set the record straight” he bellowed. “The tales you’ve heard about me are lies! The birds—those crazy waxwings, robins, and sparrows—have told you that my berries make them sick. Ungrateful creatures! They should thank me and my kin for hanging around in January to keep them alive.”
Mr. Robin, perched in a maple tree, looked sheepish. “Me and my buddy Jay and a few others, yeah, we eat the berries ‘cause we’re so darn hungry. But we don’t like them. All carbs and no protein. We only get sick if they’re not ripe, and no bird is dumb enough to eat green berries. But the dark, ripe ones, they’re okay if that’s all you can find. But it’s sure not healthy food.”
Buck puffed out his trunk and boomed at the crowd. “Y’all hear that? Thanks to me them ungrateful birds survive the winter! Then he turned to Judge Nature, hoping for a sign of sympathy. But Mama was busy knitting a spiderweb blanket for a clutch of prematurely hatched turtles. She didn’t even look up.
He turned to the Prosecutor, who was furiously whispering something to Goldenrod and Aster. At full autumn stature they were a formidable pair—gorgeous yet functional garden stars, winners of the courtyard’s Keystone Species Awards given out last spring. The two raced out of the courtyard towards the forest, a blur of purple and yellow on a mission. Buck looked confused. Had he won his case?
Then the Prosecutor squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. The chattering Violets in the front row turned to listen and even the Peonies stood up straight.
“What you say is true, Buck. But it’s not the whole story. You evolved in Europe, in a distinct ecosystem where you belonged, among a community that kept you in check. But now you’re here and you are menace to the forest. Your leaves are the first to open and the last to drop, so our native plants never get enough light. You change the soil chemistry, making it impossible for seedlings to grow—except your own, of course. You grow so fast that no one else can compete. And your seeds, spread all over by those desperate birds, produce thousands of seedlings that take all the space.”
“Don’t razz me about seeds,” Buck interjected. “My kind is dioecious, which means each of us is either pistillate or staminate, better known as “female” or “male”. Only the gals have the drupes and, as you can clearly see, I ain’t no girly tree.”
The Prosecutor rolled his eyes and launched into a story about how Buckthorn had ruined his childhood forest. But before he got to the part where Buck sucker-punched the Dogwoods, Aster and Goldenrod rushed in.
Goldenrod, with his typical dramatic flourish, held up an unusual piece of something smooth and black. “This” he proclaimed, “is known as a buckthorn bag and it will help us keep Mr. Buck here from destroying the forest. Two years ago I watched the humans use it. It works.”
Buck’s lenticels grew wide and his root flare sprouted three suckers right before their eyes. Most attempts to chop him out of a forest had failed. But this new cut-and-cover strategy was different. It meant certain death, slower but more effective than being chopped down.
Buck had to escape. He turned and fled the way he came, his dense and shallow root system sprinting full out. Goldenrod and Aster gave chase and were soon joined by Jerusalem Artichoke, the fastest runner in the garden. Unable to maintain the pace, Buck tripped and fell awkwardly across the path. He didn’t resist when the threesome collared him and marched him back to the courtyard. With his wounds exposing bright orange heartwood, he stood facing the Prosecutor.
Mama Nature put down her knitting.
“Buck, you must leave here and promise to never return” said the Prosecutor.
Buck’s thorns drooped and he wondered if his tough-guy image would ever recover. How many invasions had he led? How many forests conquered? And now he stood cowering to a bunch of flowers and birds and a strange old woman with a wistful smile.
Mama Nature looked up and sighed. As her breath touched Buck’s leaves he shook slightly and heard himself say in a clear, solemn voice “I promise to leave the courtyard garden and never return. And I will never enter the courtyard’s forest.”