Through the Gap (part 1)
He pulled the cord as the clouds thundered, masking the growl of the two-stroke choking.
Twin beams split the moonless dark to illuminate the rain washing over the tarmac. They slowed and swung to the right and lit up a five-bar gate in a drystone wall that slick with rainwater shone as they passed over it. The pickup rolled to a stop and a man got out, leaving the engine running, to open the gate. The door slammed shut and he drove along the gravel track until he could go no further. The brake lights flared as the truck stopped and then once he’d retrieved the chainsaw from the backseat flashed twice before fading out altogether as he locked up.
He peered through the downpour and waited for his eyes to adjust until he could make out the dirt trail and the boundary wall to the left that it followed. Moving quickly, hat and hood pulled tight to keep the rain from his eyes, he took the trail westward, boots leaving deep prints in the mud that would be washed away by morning. A wooden ladder over more drystone wall led to a copse where the cover of the autumn branches gave him some respite from the wet if not the wind of the storm.
It had to be tonight. Tonight, he would show them all. The amateur photographers with their camera phones, the social media influencers influencing no one, the climate protesters protesting their own doomsday fantasies. They would see that their posts and their tweets and their childish stunts were futile when faced with the real action of real men and tonight he was going to act. Not for attention or glory - there would be no boasts or vlogs to mark what we would do. He would simply do it and they would simply know of it, but not of him. It was the act itself that mattered, nothing else.
The path became rough-hewn stones as it started up an incline, twisting uneven through the trees, but he’d walked it many times enough not to lose his footing here and soon it levelled out and became dirt again. To his right, the grass and scrub sloped down away to the lake he knew was there, but which was barely visible through the rain. After a few more minutes, both the wall and the wood ended as the path, now lined with gravel, rose up further. The wire fence which continued along the boundary provided no cover from the wind as he climbed and the skin of his cheeks felt taut and his brittle knuckles tightened on the rubber grip of the saw.
He leaned into the wind to keep his balance as the trail took him over the rise and then downwards. More long minutes passed until he reached another ladder over another stretch of wall. Now to his left were the disordered stones that were all that remained of the wall that once separated Roman Britain from the wild Caledonia of the north, long ransacked by lowlanders for building materials leaving little more than foundation. The only places it resembled a wall were those sections that had been rebuilt by modern masons and were anything but ancient. It was another sham. Another fairytale that the tourists could use as a backdrop to their Instagram posts.
The path led over a rocky outcrop and then down before rising to another. There in the gap was what he had came for. Lightning flashed, lighting up the lone sycamore tree. During the daytime it would be crawling with city types adorned with barely weathered technical fabrics and pristine daypacks but tonight it was just him, chainsaw in hand. He pulled the cord as the clouds thundered, masking the growl of the two-stroke choking. It took another two tugs to get the engine running and then he set to work, making a deep cut into the tree. He worked quickly and with skill, cutting away until he knew he’d done enough that the high winds would finish the job. He cut the power to the saw and turned his back on the tree and walked back the way he came as it fell unheard in the storm.
He returned to his pickup, tossing the chainsaw into the truck bed and switched on the engine and reversed back along the gravel track to the road, stopping to close the gate. Then he sped away, slowing only for the speed cameras he knew to be armed, until he reached home where finding himself engorged he pleasured himself until he was breathless and spent.
Background
There was some talk on a Discord I’m on, of perhaps starting a folk horror zine, and from that I eventually had the idea of writing a short about the felling of the Sycamore Gap tree, of which this is the opening scene. It’s mostly written, and I hope that by posting it online I will feel motivated to write the last 1500 or so words.
Stylisting, I’m dipping my toes into minimalism - I wouldn’t usually write in such a clipped, detached fashion, but it was something I wanted to try and I felt it would work well for this piece. It’s a difficult way to write (at least I’ve been finding so), but I do like how it forces me to consider each detail and word and be confident that it’s doing the heavy lifting I need it to. I think in this passage there are some moments where it works well, and others where it’s still a little clunky.
On the last detail of this passage, I must admit I was initially unsure. It’s unashamedly graphic and presented so abruptly that it might catch some readers off-guard. There is a temptation to remove it rather than risk it being read as a cheap ploy for shock-value. Now, I don’t see it as my place to tell reader’s how to interpret the piece - the job of the writer is to guide that process through what they choose to show and omit in the piece itself, so all I’ll say is that after much consideration I reached the conclusion that that detail is both necessary and justified.
Whether you agree or not, enjoyed it or not, or just skipped to the end, thanks for taking the time to read (or skim) this. I will be posting more of it as and when I feel so inclined.