(050)
A decision had been made, and now it was time. The long summer days had faded into autumn and all signs of what had happened had gone with them – all that was, except for one.
The man cuts the engine leaving him and his apprentice in silence, both stoic and sullen in the early morning gloom. The light from the apprentice’s phone reflects in his glasses, showing split seconds of videos flashing up on his screen one after the other. The man checks his phone too, taking a swig of bitter coffee from his battered old flask as he does. He reads his emails, checks the agenda and sighs.
“Alright,” he says, slotting his phone into his breast pocket and opening the door, “come on then.”
With a slight delay the apprentice follows, making his way to the back of the truck from the other side.
“You can take lead on this one.” The man says, opening the flap at the back of the truck to reach the tools.
He masks his surprise well, but the man still sees it.
“Alright.” The apprentice says, hoisting a satchel over his shoulder. “Let’s take a look.”
They move across the field in unison, laying the tools amongst the now faded crop of wildflowers in the shadow of their subject.
The blackened frame of the sycamore tree melts into the murky sky behind it. Gnarled branches contort into claws that scratch at the air, but the threat they hold is feeble, and of the two leaves that still cling to it, one is entirely ashen. The apprentice walks around the tree in a circle, the palm of his hand flat against the trunk and his eyes scanning the branches above.
“I’ll put the backcut here.” He says, coming to a stop opposite the man with his hand still resting on the trunk. “And I’ll fell it from here.” He moves his hand around into view and touches the other side, indicating that it will fall into the open field.
The man nods, before bending to retrieve the chainsaw.
“Let’s get you suited up then.”
It was a ritual they had performed countless times, but still they moved through it at a steady pace, never rushing, taking care that every check was done correctly. Once the apprentice stands before the man prepared, he withdraws to observe from a distance.
The man watches as the apprentice flips down his visor and hovers the blade beside the trunk. The tree looms over him, still powerful in spite of everything, and beneath it he looks small and lowly. He sets himself; his hands prime the blade, air fills his lungs with breath onto which he holds, and then he fires. The kick from the engine ripples through him but he contains it, guiding the blade into the bark. Black dust billows out from the entry point while he carves a third of the way through the tree’s diameter, then retracts and kills the chainsaw.
He looks up to the man and holds up a thumb, who offers him one in return.
The apprentice brings the blade above the previous cut and angles it at 45 degrees. It bursts back into life. The chain gnashes and bites at the bark as he brings it down, with the momentum of the saw pulling it closer to the acute connection of the cuts. He keeps an eye on any signs of stress that might indicate an unexpected movement, though thankfully none come. The man watches the way he moves, content that his lessons had been heeded. The apprentice stands firm as the saw passes through the wall into the open space made by the undercut, and the wood between falls away. The engine dies, leaving only the echoes of its work in their ears.
The apprentice dances with care around the base of the tree, his footsteps deliberate, his actions rehearsed. He takes up his final position, and once he’s where he needs to be, he fires.
At first it only creaks, managing to hold itself upright in spite of the odds stacked against it, but it cannot last, and finally it cracks. A rogue gust of wind teases it the wrong way, but the apprentice’s work guides it back to where he wants it. The snapping sound crescendos as the tree topples towards the open field, its branches out in front trying to cushion the blow, though to little effect. It crashes to the floor with a definitive thud, unmoving but for the waving of the branches still left in the air.
The man leaves the path to join his apprentice, who crouches beside the fresh stump and removes a glove. By the time the man reaches him he’s running his hand over the flat of it, holding his palm up for him to see.
“There’s still life in it.” He says, his hand slick with residue.
The man only nods.
“Should we sand it?” The apprentice asks.
“What do you think?” Says the man.
The apprentice touches the severed stump once more, holding his hand there, then shakes his head.
“No, no –” he says, “let’s give it a chance.”
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