Rising to Fall

Chapter 1-1

Part 1

Fallen

Chapter 1-1

The whir of the chainsaws is still loud even through Andy's industrial-grade earmuffs. Wood chips from the tree spit out, flicking against Andy's tough shirt and pants and scratching his safety glasses. Beside him, another man dressed in similar attire is also operating a chainsaw. They both cut away at the base of a large tree that has ropes tied to several of the higher branches to control the inevitable fall. The tree creaks and sways ominously. Andy glances up then focuses back on his chainsaw, his eyes squinting as the chips flick towards his face. The tree creaks again and begins to slowly lean towards the two men cutting at the base. Instantly, the ropes tighten and drag the tree back the other way.

"TIMBER!" one of the men yells as the tree comes falling down with an ear-splitting crack, wood, dust, leaves and small branches leaping into the air. Andy wipes his forehead and kills the motor on his chainsaw.

"Alrigh', le's cut this thing up and lug it back to th' Capital," another man yells out, dropping his rope and picking up a chainsaw that had been at his feet.

The forest air is suddenly filled with the roaring of chainsaws as the group of 20 men get to work. They cut up the large tree into manageable sections and strip off the small sticks, placing them in a container as kindling. In pairs of two, they heave up sections of timber and load them up onto the carts that sit not too far away, the heavily built Clydesdale horses standing stock still as the men load the logs in the backs of the carts.

Andy hates the feeling of wood chips against his neck and hands, and he hates having to wear long sleeves and long pants during the hot work. But he is strong and well-suited to the task, able to work in a team and trust those around him, as well as looking out for them. In this trade, trusting your team is extremely important. He carries the front of the logs while his partner, Dave, carries the back. Part of his long brown hair falls out of his ponytail and he angrily blows it out of his eyes.

Almost three hours later, the entire tree is loaded onto the five or six carts. The men clamber up onto the cart, three sitting on the front bench and driving the teams of four horses while the rest hang onto the side. Andy hooks his elbows over the side of the cart and plants his feet on the sturdy undercarriage. This was the best part of the job. The ride back.

At the edge of the forest, only just out of sight of the guards who stand on the Capital walls, the men dismount from the sides of the carts and the front bench, so that only the driver is left on the cart. With a flick of the reins and a crack of the whip, the horses set off again, grunting slightly under the weight of the heavy carts. Andy walks next to the horse, making sure that there are no obstructions in the path of the horses. The men rely a lot on the horses, so they try to look after them as best as they can.

The walls of the Capital grow larger and more dominating as the horses slowly plod into the large iron gates. The main street is crowded like normal, although the crowds part for the carts and the lumbermen. They leave the main street fairly quickly, however, heading for the more industrial part of the Capital. The streets are thinner here, only a little wider than one cart width. The wooden cartwheels trundle along the cobblestone street, the metal horseshoes sounding thin and metallic on the stone. Finally, they reach the lumber mill, a large, low, wooden building with a large drop off area for the carts.

The second phase of the process begins. The men split into two groups. One group heave the logs off the carts and into the building, stacking them in large metal baskets with no sides, while the other group cuts up the logs into smaller pieces for firewood to sell. These pieces are stacked in a different section of the shop. When the carts are completely unloaded, the men tend to the horses and then join the others to chop up logs of wood. The men work until dusk, and then they flick on the dim electrical lights that Andy is sure are a safety hazard, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Then they keep working until almost three hours after the sun has set, cutting up the logs with their chainsaws and stacking them in neat piles to sell. Not that these men ever have to deal with the many customers that come to the lumber mill.

The foreman comes in to give the men a five-minute warning before the boss arrives. The men, moving like a well-oiled machine, each take 7 or 8 logs for their fires at home and stack them outside the building in the yard. The foreman was lenient, he knew how hard life was for these men, hence why he turned a blind eye to them taking home 7 or 8 logs to store for heating food or their home and family.

The boss was nowhere near as lenient. As soon as he walks in, the men assemble themselves into a semi-straight line without speaking. One by one, they receive their week's pay from the boss, shuffling along and leaving by the side door, then sneaking around the wall to collect their wood before heading home. Andy is near the front of the line. The boss hands him two $50 notes for the 6-day-15-hours-a-day work then gives a small motion for him to move along. He does, stuffing the two notes into his wood-dust filled pocket as he did so. Like all the others, he picks up his logs, holding them tight to his chest, and starts walking to his home all the way on the other side of the Capital.

Andy doesn't say a word while he walks. He doesn't whistle, doesn't cough, doesn't mutter, just walks and holds his logs. He walks around the edge of the city, in the less reputable part of the Capital. In the centre of the Capital were the clean buildings, clean streets, polite people and the wealthy neighbourhoods. Out here though, at the edges, the buildings aren't necessarily looked after all the time and there are some shifty people around if one doesn't keep their wits about oneself. But none of these people bother Andy. They all take one look at his well-built upper body and the ease with which he carries his logs, and they scamper away.

Only when he is safe at home and has put his logs in their place by his fireplace does he finally sigh and relax. He doesn't bother lighting a fire. He needs to keep the logs for Sunday, four days away, when he doesn't work. The money that he has earned goes into a small box that he hides under his bed. Andy glances around the one-room low-roof building that serves as his house, mentally calculating how much he absolutely needs to spend. $25 for the rent (there was no way he can afford to buy a house all to himself, even one as small as this), $5 for the bread tomorrow morning from the bakery, so $35 for the whole week. The oil for his small lamp that he is lighting is a killer at $25 a container, which can last him a week and a half if he really stretches it. Electricity is a premium, reserved only for those businesses that needed it and for the wealthy. That leaves $15 for him. Except, of course, he needs to have a licence to keep his job, which costs $10 a week. So that leaves him with a measly $5 for everything that is not absolutely essential. He is lucky though. Many others go without a fire.

"They don't care whether or not we die," Andy mumbles quietly to himself. "We're just doing the factory jobs that anyone could do." He glances around out of habit, making sure that no one is around to hear him. But he is alone of course. It is night.

And one still has to sleep. Andy changes out of his work clothes, shaking the sawdust and wood chips from his hair, and pulls on his woollen long-shirt and pants that cost him almost a week's worth of bread. Yet it was a good investment. He climbs into bed and blows out the small flame in his lamp. He would buy bread tomorrow morning, not now. He was too tired. Another day had gone. Time to get ready for the next one.

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Bai!