Darek

Introduction of Darek as one of the two main characters.

Darek Ashewood stood up straight and stretched at the summit of the ridge, letting out a sigh of pure exhaustion.  His back hurt, he had splinters in his fingers from the handle of the ax that had splintered earlier in the day, he had a small gash in his leg that refused to stop bleeding though it had slowed to a slow trickle, and he was covered in dust and grime.  Another day done with almost nothing accomplished.  Da' was going to be livid, and it was all Marc's fault.  Rage and revenge warred for dominance with his normally peaceful nature and it was unclear which would win out by the time he made it back to the cabin.  Whether he managed to curb his anger enough for his brother to live or not was a moot point.  Either way, retribution was coming Marc’s way.

Da' was in town for market day.  Normally he'd be there too, helping to load and unload the wood, but Marc had managed to get himself hurt while out hunting with that damn bow of his and he hadn't been able to do his share of the cutting this past week.  That's what his family did: they were woodcutters.  His grandfather had managed to get a grant of land from the King for service during some war or other as an archer.  He’d killed the enemy's magician, or some nonsense.  Anyway, it couldn't have been that good of service since the land they'd been given wasn't good for anything except trees and roots.  Oh, and rocks, but not any valuable ones; just the normal everyday variety that you stubbed your toes on or that conspired to roll out from under you so you twisted your ankle while trying to swing an ax.

So now it was left to Darek to cut as much as he could so they had enough to sell while his lazy brother lay in bed all day nursing his "injuries".  Well, what did he expect?  Trying to hunt boar with a shortbow...that's what a spear was for!  Most of the time, the whole village would get together and form a hunting party to hunt the boar safely.  That way, everyone could help and almost no one would ever get hurt.  Some of the men would flush the boar out while others waited with the long spears for them.  Each had a partner so that if one missed, the other would be there to make sure the boar didn't get a chance to gore him.  Marc was lucky all he got was a bruised knee and some nasty cuts and gouges from falling off the embankment into the river after missing his shot.

From the time Darek had gotten up at first light this morning on, the day had been a bad one.  After wrapping up a hard bit of bread baked the previous day, some salted pork and a small chunk of his Da's famous cheese in some spare burlap, he’d looked over at the spot closest to the fire.  As was usual this past week, his brother had slept in.  Grinning rather sadistically, Darek had moved quietly across the small space and opened the window all the way - letting a cold draft into the cabin.  Grabbing the ax and slamming the door behind him, he headed out to begin the day’s chopping.

Most people don’t think about it, but as a woodcutter you can’t just find a spot and begin cutting, otherwise you’ll end up having mature wood mixed in with the saplings.  This year the cutting was happening up by Red Smear Ridge.  It got its name from some daft explorer who’d decided to try going over it in the middle of the winter.  He’d lost his footing three-quarters of the way up and slid almost two hundred feet to his death on the rocks below.  Of course, going up to Red Smear Ridge meant that Darek had to hike over two miles before he could even begin working.  Then he’d have to drag everything he cut back to the cabin to create proper lengths and split it before it could be sold at market.  So, he’d grabbed the sledge, piled his stuff on it and drug it up the mountain behind him.

Today Darek had planned to get the old oak tree nearest to the edge of the ridge.  Most of the wood on their land was ash, of course, but there were a few old oaks scattered here and there. They’d skipped it five years ago when they’d last cut in this area since it leaned out over the drop-off, but he’d done a lot of thinking and thought he knew how to get it this time.  It would be a lot of work, but it’d be worth it.  The tree was almost three feet in diameter and straight as a planed beam all the way to the top.  If it worked, this wouldn’t just be firewood to sell; it would be shipped down river and made into a mast.  A tree like that would fetch a good price.  It might even make up for Marc’s idiocy and keep them from having to go on half rations this winter.

All week, instead of taking a lunch and resting after a good morning’s labor, he’d wolfed down his food and rigged ropes and pulleys.  If all went well, he’d chop it through and it would swing sideways and down slightly to land on the edge of the ridge overlooking the river.  Then, all he’d have to do is chop off all the branches and untie everything before rigging it back up to lower the two hundred foot trunk down the ridge into the river and float it down to the sawmill.  He’d even figured out a way to avoid hiring Mr. Jensen and three teams of oxen to lower it without damage to the bottom.  He was going to fell four more trees and bundle three of them together with rope as a counter-weight.  With the fourth, it would be enough to lift the trunk off the ground to swing it over the drop-off, then he could cut it loose and the tree would (hopefully) lower without incident all the way to the bottom.

Both Marc and Da’ always looked derisively at him whenever he came up with these in-depth plans.  You’d think they would simply trust that he saw things a bit differently than most people when most of them worked.  But no…they only remembered his failures; never the successes.  So, he’d learned to only let them know about things after the fact.  If failure occurred, they’d never know about it.  But, if he succeeded…well, he’d see what would happen before he’d think about how to tell them about making half a year’s wages for the whole family in a single week.

After hiking to the top of the rise in the morning, he’d secured the sledge to a tree to make sure it didn’t slide down the mountain once he started loading it later in the day, then began checking all the ropes and pulleys he’d secured over the past week.  Everything looked good.  They were still tight and he still thought that things would work out how they were supposed to.  Sometimes, after a night’s sleep, you’d spot something you’d overlooked before, but everything still made sense to him.  He’d grinned and moved to a spot to begin chopping through the old oak.

Fifteen minutes later he wasn’t grinning anymore; he was howling in rage and pain.  The handle of the ax had suddenly splintered in his hands and broke in two.  Three long pieces of wood had stabbed into his palms.  The momentum of his swing would have had steel head of the ax biting deep into the oak, but without the handle to make it follow through, it bounced to one side and bit into his calf before dropping over the edge and falling to the bottom of the gorge over three hundred feet below.

Hobbling over to the sledge and dumping his lunch out of the piece of burlap, Darek took a moment to see how bad things were before making a hasty bandage and cursing some more.  It would be alright if he didn’t catch an infection, but damn if it didn’t hurt.  His muttered curses rose in volume once again after looking at the half of ax handle still in his possession.  Instead of being a new handle like he expected, it was still the flawed handle from two days ago that Marc was supposed to have replaced when he sharpened it.  Darek himself had put this handle on the ax only a week ago, but the wood had been weak and had cracked after only a couple of days’ cutting.  Now, because of his brother, he’d have to limp down to the bottom of the gorge, retrieve the ax head, come all the way back up to the top to retrieve the sledge, then hike two miles back to the cottage to replace the handle.  He’d be lucky if he managed to get it all done before Da’ got home…not that that would help once Da’ found out that he’d not managed to cut anything at all today.

From that point on, Darek’s mood rapidly deteriorated.  The hike down into the gorge was a seemingly endless series of missteps, roots catching about his still seeping wound in his calf, scratches, and pain.  Everything came to a head though as he tried to locate the missing ax head.  Trying to locate where it may have fallen by looking up the steep face of the ridge was almost impossible, and tracking down the landmarks he’d tried to fix in his mind from the top was taking far longer than he’d hoped.  It took nearly two hours to find the ax head and the still-attached half of the handle.

Hiking back up the gorge was, of course, more tiring, but would have ordinarily been easier and more enjoyable.  His mood was black by then though, and anything that happened, no matter how small, seemed to justify an even fouler outlook.  By the time he’d nearly reached the top, a branch snapping off in his hand and whipping back into his chest instead of merely bending back out of the way somehow became Marc’s fault.  Oh, was he going to get even for this!

When he finally arrived at the sledge, he found that something had enjoyed his lunch for him, which was just as well since, by the time he get back to the cabin it would be to have a cold supper and it would be full dark anyway.  At about that point, the sun dropped behind the ridge and, in the deepening twilight, the mosquitoes came out in force to find their supper.  For Derek, today would become a new measure of how bad a day could become.  Muttering miserably and furiously under his breath, Darek limped back down the ridge dragging the empty sledge behind him.