The Coppice

7

What seems like the centre. A giant aerie in the middle of the coppice. High carved walls. Perfectly smooth like the bigotry of a true believer. Smooth as bark-less birch. Fifteen feet high. Won't be able to climb. Nothing to grip. Decides he'll chop through its girth.

Discards his uncomfortable fur and sweaty underclothing on a stump. Keeps his mukluks on. Pulls the butane lighter from the pocket of his coat. Places it on a higher stump. Turns to the wall. Inhales primordial rage. Naked. Thin. Muscles like Sisyphus. Dripping. Prepares to attack the wall for what he hopes to find beyond the perfectly round nest.

Violent thoughts of cutting into black and white cataract eyeballs harden his sculpture.

Positions feet upon two stumps closest to the wall. Uneven footing. Good enough. Twirls the hewing axe and begins the work. Swings his Armageddon arms. Chops. Swings. Chops. Wood chips fly. Land in the hair of his chest. On his head. Shoulders. Swings. Chops. Lumber falls in triangle sections. Over and over. The blade and gravity.

Time melts away like an hourglass formed of ice. Reddening cardio skin. Heavy breaths. Veins bulge. Lactic burns.

Something touches his calve.

Stops. Breathes heavy. Peers down into the dim white. A set of eyes watch him. Close slowly, like their intention is for him to witness. He swears God's name. Jesus and Judas and gates of pearl. Figures what's coming will come. The judgement of tautology. Pays for the moment by paying no more mind.

Continues chopping. A big piece of the wall falls into the snow. Disappears. The white surface ripples like a pond made of thick spider webs. What do the depths of such look like? He doesn't want to find out.

Swings. Chops. Swings. Chops. Swings. Chops.

The other side slowly carves open. A foot of gnarling girth. Pushes through the last thin timbre skin. Makes the hole big enough to crawl through. Large on the outside, smaller toward the inside.

Wet like he's been swimming in salt water. Pulls sweaty mukluks off. Places them on his coat. Crawls through the aperture. Cuts his back and shoulders and thighs on sharp bits of pine chops. Bleeds. Wants to bleed. Wants to witness himself in his own mind as menacing.

Drops into the nest on bare feet and bruised palms. Looks up at the gar. His eyes follow its length to the top. Witnesses the decapitated head of a short face bear impaled through its centre. Open mouth. Tongue protrudes. Looks down and across. The Arctodus's torn fur body lays on the other side of the nest. Massive. First glance like a glacial boulder. But it's gutted. Rib cage broken open like fossils of snapped twigs. Intestines lay like roots finding the earth. Stomach contents of flesh and bone. Dead rabbits. A half flesh human foot.

A child whimpers in his right ear. The man stands straight. Turns and runs toward. Crushes twigs and needles under bare feet. Finds a cage of branches. Drops the axe. Kneels. Wrenches and pulls and snaps at the foliage prison.

"I'm a here, boy. You in there?"

"Daddy?"

"I get you out."

"I can't see nothing. Is it night?"

Not dark. Could be night. Doesn't trust the epistemology of this place.

"Yeah, it night. Get ya out."

Wrenches, pulls, snaps. Fingers cut and bleed. Flings branches away. Breaks the final thickness.

Grasps his son under his arms. Lifts him out. Hugs him. Kisses his forehead. Holds him. Squats down. Picks up his axe. Turns. Steps toward the rough chop of hole in the perfectly smooth wooden wall.

Looks his son in the face. No eyes. Hollows. No blood, like they've been plucked clean and cauterized. Feels more rage. Wishes primal vengeance upon the perpetrators. Sets the boy down before the escape aperture.

Crawls through, feet first. Finds the footing of his jagged chops and the two stumps. Guides his son through. Sighs in a fleeting relief.

Turns to find clothing. Looks from stump to stump. All his furs are gone. Everything's gone except the butane lighter. It rests where he left it, like a taunt.