Alone
#1 of Forest tails
First hoof back into writing, it's short and as you can see it has been a while but I hope you enjoy.
It's all in the technique, yep that's where it is, get a good swing on your axe from about the midpoint between your chest and the cut, keep it nice and steady letting the weight of the head do the work and remember to follow through, oh and no wind-milling, big no-no, do that and your gob ends up all over the shop when you swing your axe over your head. Well that and you end up looking like a twat, a townie colt splitting firewood for the first time... the guys used to say that you could tell a... well it doesn't matter
And to be fair there's nobody to look a twat in front of anymore and that suited me down to the ground it didn't suit the pines though, standing tall and majestic in the dull grey light on a chilly march morning. Raindrops still clinging to the green tips scraping the sky high up above and casting the forest floor In deep dappled shade, trapping the birdsong within the canopy while muffling all other sounds of the outside world
Dew or rain? i looked up for a moment not really able to tell the fat droplets falling, striking the bridge of my muzzle running into the softer hairs of the end of my muzzle and over my lips, I looked down shaking the drops off then squared off the tree trunk once more, axe handle in my grip and soon the only noise a reverberating bang as the iron head thuds into the bark, just about a foot or so from the base in an open triangle, the directional felling notch or gob as we call it, nice and neat and oh about 20% of the diameter of the tree, just enough to give me time to wander away as the once great pine makes it's final decent back to earth, but not yet. I've only broken the back of the great pine, or the face of it you might say, but happy with the cut I sit on my haunches fluttering my tail tied up in a heavy knot behind me, the ball of golden hair bouncing on the silty dry ground carpeted in pine needles as I look around the place, the bank of trees thick and densely packed around, no sound or movement.
Instinctively I glance over my shoulder for Echo waiting patiently, watching me work with one hoof tipped up at rest, the great dark Clydesdale tall and majestic even in rest usually with the sun on his back and the world at his feet waiting for the word. But the horse wasn't there, of course he wasn't, chances are he'd never stand and watch, or patiently clink his chains in anticipation again, neither would he give a snort of annoyance as the whump of a tree wakes him from his standing sleep, dreaming of his paddock and his oats. no not since I'd sold the aging gelding a week ago to a nearby miller for thrupence, barely half of what he was worth and now it was only his memory that clopped the springy carpet of fallen pine needles behind me, his great muscly body surging with his stride, great hooves digging in to pull the long logs from chains behind him, the shackles free ends jingling musically with each step.
The aged working horse's wasn't the only memory that stalked me through the woods though, I could feel another shadow watching me, He always watched, I didn't look round, I didn't need to, if I did I would see nothing but a clearing and more trees, it was more what I was used to seeing standing there, leg tipped up, his massive forearms crossed over his dull grey chest, a short dirty brown muzzle turned sideways with a bright brown eye watching me.
Robert wouldn't be there though, he hadn't been there for... I can't remember, isn't that strange? I can't remember the day my old friend walked away...
I just remember him not being there anymore, the rest is lost in my mind.
He liked to watch my cuts, and would always say something, often I'd pre-empt him, telling him I'd meant to leave the cut open or drop it this way or that "It'll come down sweetly you'll see, this horse doesn't hang em up" turning an ear around to listen to the reply, then a quick glance when none came only to see that inscrutable look he wore giving nothing away.
Now there was nothing, no look, no Bob, no Echo, no, no anyone... anymore.
"Right then where was I? ah yes that's right it's all in the arms, you know.. skill. You need to swing like you mean it and follow through. "use what muscles you've got and the ones you haven't you soon will ave" That's what Dickie used to say, the big angus lump of bovine flesh he was, always full of encouragement and digs and laughs, he had a point though Christ was I a weak colt when I started out doing this back in the logging camps, with the other furs, no horses to be precise some bulls, two that I remember but mostly horses, big and muscly with the ability to just keep going.
Where was I? Ah yes... me a few years back as a teenage colt, Things didn't... I mean weren't... basically thing's weren't amazing at hovel of a home, short tempers, problems, loud voices and long arms, broken skin, torn fur, crying siblings, then later, broken fingers, broken face, broken hoss. One day broken hoss packed his bag and went wandering, days passed as a young colt wanders the frozen countryside, scarred and scared until one evening there was a light, and activity and music and laughter. Masons logging company seemed like a world away from the grey dreary cobbles of home. So I signed up for better or worse and went to work straight away and by the end of the day my arms were on fire with pain, by the end of the second I could hardly carry the axe let alone cut a straight gob. By the end of the third I had blisters the size of shillings on my palms, isn't that right bob?..."
I look over my shoulder finally, I have to, like if I don't I'd be missing something very important, vitally important, I don't want to look because there's no point... but what if there is... I mean maybe just maybe there's a chance, that I'll find that old grey donkey standing there with his back resting up against the mottled bark of an old pine, watching my movements with a critical eye.
Was I growing neurotic? Perhaps but I still had to look
Turning my head I see a forest of blistered brown trunks flashing through my peripheral vision before settling on a particular spot, his spot, his empty spot.
With a deep heavy angry breath I raise my axe and swing into the soft wood, starting my back cut and opening it up with deep powerful strokes, ones that hurt at first but then come easier with time, settling into my stride I looked around me again, nothing, no movement, I looked to the heavens high above, the tall blob of green so high above, nothing there, no weak of hung up branches shaking loose as the axe blows sent sharp little tremors up the trunk. I'd worked on this technique long and hard back in the logging camps on the edges of the rural fenlands, you'd be watched and you wouldn't know when you were being watched, it doesn't do to be bent over double, leaning on your axe and hyperventilating with exhaustion so you push, and push and push, and push yourself until you can make your cut's in a single bout of swings, powerful and deep.
My back cut was beginning to look like a bowl instead of line, the hinge uneven and pulling to the left, that had to change, it was bad practice and I knew it but it takes longer to cut a perfectly even hinge and this guy had more than enough lean on him to go exactly where I wanted him to. I had about an inch more holding tree on the left than the right.
"Bang"
Nothing
"Bang"
Again
"Bang"
I could feel the trunk rock, the tree bowing and rocking, the cut in danger of sitting back on itself until it opened again, wider and wider, pulling sharply to the right.
"Bang"
I smack the ear of the hinge out from the corner letting the tree fall at the last moment straight and true, the daylight through the wedge of the gob disappearing as the top and bottom of the cut closing in on each other, until...
*Crack*
With a rush of wind and a swish the great pine completed its final journey to the forest floor, the trunk bending and flexing with all the stored potential energy stored up from its graceful decent.
I pulled back my upper lip and sucked my teeth loudly, laying down my old axe and picking up my bucking saw, once upon a time an old horse would have followed me, his great dinner plate hooves pounding the soft duff underfoot until he reached my shoulder with a friendly wicker, waiting patiently for someone to turn him round hooking up the tongs he carried to the waiting log, taking up tension while I would saw into sizes the mill wanted...
Once again a glance over my shoulder told me that my other companion had gone as well, my choice this time and one that still hurt.
Another tree, another part of the wood, this was up hill and I was catching a breeze, and the midday sun, streaming through the broken canopy from behind, another gob cut, nice and short and small, you need snap off! It's an art to do it properly you see, too small and the snap off happens somewhere about 40 ft above ground level, smashing into pieces upon contact with the floor and instantly taking on precise the value of firewood instead of the precious board length the mills craved in their insatiable demand the war had driven. Conversely too big a gob and the tree would fall slowly, floating languidly and lazily toward the ground sitting atop its stump held fast in place by its hinge, now full of kinetic energy and waiting to kill the unwary logger with explosive force, the connection to the stump never breaking. Prevention is better than cure!
Another look backwards, no Echo, of course not, he wasn't there at 9, why would he be at 12? In truth the four legged Clydesdale would never be back, because this was the beginning of the end, first Robert became sick, then Echo my had to go, without Eccy I can't get my timber out, sooner or later I'll run out of money, then food, then...
"Walk on horse, just walk right on"
But the answers had all run out.
"Walk on horse keep walking on"
The money wasn't looking good
"Walk on horse, keep walking on"
Food was running out.
"Walk on horse, keep walking to the end"
That was the really frightening thing, because I don't know when it's going to end, just that it will, no logs, no food, no more proud stallion, maybe no more stallion. Pausing to take a deep breath, pulling the cool resin filled air down into my lungs i come to a realisation, with sudden clarity I realise that I'd rather die than leave, this place is mine, my forest, my refuge, my home.
And while I can I will keep my home so with a heave I throw my shoulders into the back cut, I didn't even look for the Wiley straight donkey this time, why did he have to leave me, why did he have to go, this is our place!
"Bang"
Escaped from the logging camp.
"Bang"
Stole a horse.
"Bang"
Stole a donkey too if the truth be told.
"bang"
Ran here thinking we could actually do it, just us, working for ourselves...
"creak"
But now it's all falling down around me.
"Crack"
"Bang" for bloody good measure.
What now?
"Swoosh, thud"
"Cluck, cluck"
Back came a nicker but no thuds
"Come, Echo"
"Echo?"
I whirled round with a start, trees filling my panning vision until my eyes find the source of the sound, a single syllable word spoken with an unusual twang, spoken from the lips of a tall heavy horse, like me but not, I recognised him instantly as a Clydesdale standing languidly with his back against a tree, hands not folded in front of him, instead thrust deeply into the pockets of the rags that could once be called trousers, strange ones with the legs missing, a faded torn shirt barely covering his prominent chest, a diamond blaze of white showing between the parted fabric, a black, grey muzzle, rounded and blunt the lips curled into a cheeky small smile of mirth and bemusement.
"Echo?" the voice came again, now I could put a face to the sound, it was another horse.
"My horse..."
"I've been many people's horse... over the years"
I stood and stared my mind racing through all the possible replies and responses, lips opening and closing like a cart horse enjoying a belly rub after a hard days work, before with a deep sigh I gave up and spoke to the brush covered floor.
"No, my dragging horse Echo"
"Umm well, not sure how to say this but there's no horse here, well none except you and I" the stallion finished off with a small flourish and a smile.
"no... it's..." I looked away in frustration before eyeing up my cut again, contemplating my next move, hooves pawing the duff slightly in irritation and frustration "forget it"
"That back cut was a little shaky don't you think?"
There's that twang again but I can't for the life of me place it, he's a cocky sod though I'll give him that.
"Err, what!?"
"Yeah, it was going to fall way over to the left, there and get hung up in that cypress, you got it at the last moment but boy were you were sailing close to the wind there mate, lazy if you ask me, Christ you poms kill me, you just take it for granted it's going to be ok "
The stallion continued pealing his back away from the tree and strolling down towards me with a confident gait, the provocative words tempered with such a good natured tongue it was immediately disarming, but I was alone and I gripped my axe just that little bit tighter as the horse approached, he saw it and stopped.
"If I can borrow that for a minute"
"Err what?
"Your axe stallion"
That cheeky smile again.
"No"
"aww come on stallion, take a rest and watch how it's done"
I gripped the axe tighter, looking away ears up and sitting well back, really I'd never really escaped watching or judgement and clearly now never would, what did this strange Clydesdale want anyway? And where is that accent from?
"What do you want?"
"To help someone. Someone who needs it, and will never ask"
The stallion was serious now, the delivery flat and serious, the mirth vanishing as quickly as it had arrived as I scrutinised the dark horse closer, not finding a real reason to let him My mind screaming to keep the wooden handle by my side but somewhere else in there something clicked, something that overrides my brain, it happened before when I left home, and then again when I fled the logging camp, stupid, illogical, suicidal, dangerous and well out of my comfort zone, (and if there's one thing horses hate it's clopping outside of their comfort zones) but right at the same time, everything good that's ever happened in my small short life has flowed from one small word... yes, and although I didn't say or feel it my arm gave me away as it gave my axe away to this strange stallion.
"Cheers mate, you're obviously not using it properly anyway, just like you guys don't know how to use a cricket bat"
He winked a glimmering green eye as he passed me, slapping his braided tail against his thigh as he went.
"Gabes the name"
...
*Coughs quietly* Something new, and If you enjoyed then go and nuzzle this amazing, incredible and wonderfuly talented stallion who'll be following up...