Lumberjacks - a short story - 12-2-2009

Thud, like the termination of every beings life, or the conclusion of every complete sentence. The repetition of this dull and monotonous thud made my heart -adventitious and alive – mirror its own dullness and monotony. The thud of a thing cracking. The thud of bones – nay for the distance dampened the thud – the thud of a child or small animal’s bones, as it may drop from a height unto a profusion of the earth made sedentary overtime. This thud was that which exclaimed the sheer boredom that nature endured under blazing sun as its limbs were incapacitated by the ruthless and progressively dulling blades of every axe ever forged with the flare only relative and comparable to the one the Dark Lord resides and finds comfortable. As a hardened man of the woods, this thud should only represent the beautiful noise the machine makes as it prints off the slips of paper which dully exclaims the amount of pork we may bring to the table. The first few cuts cry murder as the beauty of the tree becomes riddled with scar tissue that yells and vibrates every cell in your body as you touch it. After that it is only the divine act of relieving pain through the demise of an infinitely small part of the eco-structure. The thuds of the forest usually become in sync as the sun stops playing shade games with the ski and reduce it its plateau performance in the unchanging mid day of the summer solstice. The younger trees – a truly celestial part of the natural system – are only auditory observers of the horrific thud ringing through the trees. The pause I take is only momentary – I focus on the beautiful stillness between every tree. I join in and the thud begins to sound a lot like the progressive decline of everything living. So I do what all my ancestors dud- with the unmistakable damning of my soul – I still take the blade and splinter the bark and crack the very core. I try to ignore the fact that nature will one day have its way with me, and until then I shall represent the large number of families that send a spouse or a partner to perform an evil task for the people in his life who are divine. The thud is routine and scheduled, yet so scary that you can’t help but to miss it as you sleep or the days you remain absent from work. The repetition of this exclusive noise can only be heard as great number of axes where to slam into a tree side in a uniform accent as to create a sort of a heartbeat. This heartbeat is a representation of the slow decline of the woods until complete annihilation. And as the sun sets, I mirror its activities minutely from relaxing to laying, to shading the world and the ultimate rising to the thud of the landlord’s fist upon the solid oak door – so used to the thud. The thud to terminate trepid trees by the dauntless and demoralizing tools of man, and the routine repetition of the life of a lumber jack.

So my life was, benign in its existence and fertile in its economic yields. The River root forest was our bank; we could never realize that our source for economic prosperity was our source of harmonious tranquility as well. Our flagrant enjoyment in the presence of our natural atmosphere was never questioned, therefore never feared in absence and was all taken granted. The cropping technique was in accordance with proper foresting technique of inversion which requires the cutting of trees from the outset down to the center redwood. The redwood located in the center of the woods brought wonders of awe. It imprinted a sort of motherly presence to all the lumberjacks. As our siesta bell rang I took the two hour walk to the center and placed my weight upon the supportive trunk of the redwood and lit my cigar. The redwood towered over every other land formation in sight; the other cedar trees seemed like rice plants surrounding a corn stalk. This was the big month that we finally cleared this part of the forest. With that thought it was the first time I became aware of my attachment to the redwood. For Three years now I have been taking my siesta beneath what could be the only mother I knew. Thud, like Pavlov’s dog it was my stimulus to start to work, my bell. I took a few minutes to hone my axe and I proceeded. With every swing and swing I, along with others I know of, focus on the beautiful stillness between every tree.

The bunting boys, as we call them come around with their torches and soften the bark and burn the trees soul away. The resistance to the blade is gone and the bark cuts like cheese. With every ring of the tree, representing every human year it has observed comes a new soul. With every new soul comes another sin on my behalf. The bunting boys are very peculiar, I assume it is in accordance to their differentiating conscience that I am unable to relate with them as easily as I could with my fellow lumberjacks. My shoulders and core have become used to the incessant and relentless swinging and my eyes so used to downfall, so I thought. No one was prepared for the instant loneliness we were to feel soon, for on cue, all the trees surrounding the redwood fell. The pang of loneliness that we felt was so awe inspiring. The world that we had known for so long – without our realization – had fallen almost completely. All we had was the redwood. The redwood stood as a monument to all life, and we could never take that away. The bunting boys however, they felt no connection with the tree. The proceeding day was reached with severe apprehension. We were up before the thud on the door, before the sun rose, some never went down at all. As we approached the redwood we witnessed the woeful attack on our mother. The bunting boys were torching the redwood. Tear and rage, fear and love. Together as one we took full force on the bunting boys. They turned their torches on us and we took our blades onto them. The skin on our face came together to create a featureless being hacking wildly. My left eye remained intact, I looked around and saw that none had survived and my time was waning. The redwood above was burning and I was trapped beneath a fallen branch... It was the redwoods last motherly act as it held me in my supposed final moments. The flash of red lights was in sight – I wanted them to leave me be, peaceful, that’s how I wanted to go. I now lay alone in my bed burnt and hacked like the trees that I lay waste to.