CHAINSAW

He looked up at the surrounding trees as he reached his designated felling area –his ‘cut zone’ as he liked to call it.

“All right, which one of you bastards gets it first?” ha demanded of the towering trees.

The trees remained silent apart from an occasional groan as the cold northern wind tugged at their branches.

“What, no challengers?”

He pulled the starter cord on the precision saw and grimaced at the unforgiving shrill noise as the motor roared into life.

He was proud of his chainsaw, it was the sports car of saws (or so the salesman in Asquith Farming Supplies had described it). It was a Husqvarna 365, a serious piece of kit for anyone who knew the business.

Robbie was an arsehole but he could wield his ‘Husq’ as a samurai could swing his sword. The 4.5 horse power engine and 20” blade made short work of anything he desired. With its low weight ratio and vibration dampening system, it was his pride and joy.

As always, the woods remained silent, the creatures of the forest hushed into silence by the buzz of the chainsaw. Like a million angry wasps, the shrill echoed from tree to tree. He gritted his teeth as the noise reverberated through his skull.

He made a start…

Robbie was sweating heavily as he cut a wedge into his third tree of the day, this was about the time he got the feeling he was being watched. He powered down the saw, letting it idle, and looked around the clearing. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still unsure, he cocked his head to one side and listened. Apart from the light traffic on the A1 motorway, a couple of miles away, there was very little sound. The wind in the trees and an occasional blare of a far off truckers’ horn was all.

No creeping footsteps, no stalking monsters.

Robbie almost laughed. The older loggers had told him about the spirits of dead Roman Soldiers that still patrolled these woods. Dead on Hadrian’s Wall but still looking for revenge on any body found alone in the woods!

What a load of shit! The old fuckers had seen to many ‘Blair witch’ movies for their own good.

Others had told of Jack o’ the Green, the spirit of the woods who collected human sacrifices and offerings in return for bringing spring growth to the forests and fields each year. Shaped like a man but made of wood and foliage, sharp slivers of wood as teeth and bracken for hair!

More bullshit!

But still he listened…He shrugged to himself and with a grudging sigh –started back to work. Within a few minutes the next tree was toppled to the ground. A shower of pine needles leapt into the air as the tree impacted into the ground.

Cursing, Robbie spat at the sweet smelling debris.

Tasting bile and the previous nights’ consumptions in his throat, another wave of nausea swept over him. He sat down heavily on the fallen tree trunk.

He sat with his head in his hands, waiting for the feeling to pass.

He retrieved a can of red bull from his jacket pocket and took a deep swallow. The glucose drink had helped many times before and he welcomed the sugar rush moments later.

After a few moments more of self pity, Robbie lurched to his feet and restarted the saw. He ambled back towards the next marked tree and positioned himself for the first cut.

The horizontal cut was first and then he angled himself at the side of the proud evergreen to cut out the triangular wedge that would control the direction of the falling tree. Then he moved again and sliced into the wood horizontally. He finished the cut but the tree seemed intent on defying both gravity and his will by refusing to fall. The timber groaned theatrically but remained upright.

Robbie stamp kicked the tree- and with a sigh of relief watched it topple to the ground. He always felt a sense of power as the trees hit the damp earth below.

“Finally” he declared, “There’s always one awkward twat…and I always get it!”

As he looked around for his next tagged tree, again he got the feeling someone unseen was watching him. Smiling to himself, he stepped back from the tree line and pretended to be taking another breather. He counted off ten seconds to himself then prepared to spin around suddenly, half expecting to catch someone sneaking up behind him.

Maybe one of the other lads from the logger crew playing silly buggers again. He smirked as he remembered earlier in the year when he and Andy Thompson had crept into the next clearing site and had taken great pleasure in shooting the other crew in the arse with an air pistol.

Maybe someone had found out the identities of the phantom marksmen and was looking for revenge.