By Tim Borella

If the boss said the new guy’s name, Hempel can’t remember it. No matter. New Guy will do. The kid seems to know his way around a chainsaw, but Hempel hates him already. Long hair, weedy. Talks like a know-it-all student. The kind you’d expect to find chained to a big old tree, not cutting it down.

Lohan Logging doesn’t bother with fancy safety rules, and surprisingly, New Guy doesn’t argue when Hempel orders him to ditch the goggles and hi-vis. They bounce deep into old growth, Hempel wrestling the banged-up jeep while the kid gapes like a hick seeing skyscrapers for the first time. The massed foliage mutes bright sunlight, giving New Guy’s pasty skin a greenish cast.

They work all day, dropping mountain ash with branches that are as big as trunks themselves. Hempel sweats and puffs, ready to down tools when the sun dips. New Guy can work, he’ll give him that.

Then the damn jeep won’t start. 

“Nobody’s gonna come lookin’ till tomorrow,” Hempel says. “Make yourself useful and build a fire, numb-nuts.”

But when darkness falls, another fire flickers through the trees. They investigate. Campers shouldn’t be here. What in hell? In a clearing, a circle of naked people, leaves and feathers in their hair. Mostly women.

“Holy shit,” Hempel breathes. “Suit yourself, New Guy, but I’m making some new hippie friends.”

They don’t seem surprised. Instead of hiding their bodies, the women smile, offering food and wine.

Some hazy time later, Hempel’s naked too, warm, feeling no pain. What’s in that liquor? Now they’re carrying him to a corral of logs, throwing him over the rail. He drags himself up, recoiling from a press of other male bodies. One rushes up, swinging, and suddenly he’s fighting for his life. They all have his face.

Hempel punches, kicks and bites until he can fight no more. Unbelievably, he’s the last one standing. He’s dragged out and dumped in front of a tall, regal woman. His prize? No, her green eyes are icy, like her voice. “So, you survive your first challenge, not that you deserve to. Now go on, if you can.”

They bind Hempel to a huge ash with plaited vines. Insects bite and burrow into his body; choking weeds wind around him. Rain starts, growing from patter to deluge. Water rises higher and higher until his head’s tilted back, only nostrils showing. Hours pass, or it could be years.

The water recedes at last, but there’s no proper relief. A burning sun takes its place, fixed overhead, blistering Hempel’s tortured, wrinkled skin. The now-dry grass chars and catches fire. As the flamefront approaches, acrid smoke fills his lungs. There’s no more defiance left in him. He slumps, utterly spent.

But somehow he still lives, surrounded by a press of forest people with green-tinged hair and skin, fur, even wings. The tall woman takes him by the chin, forcing him to look at her. Now she has antlers. “Destroyer! The challenges you’ve faced are as nothing compared to those of the majestic giants all around us. From germination, every minute of their existence is competition — fire, flood, drought; an endless fight to reach maturity. Then you come! I see your shrivelled soul. You won’t learn; you’ll just keep killing. And so it must end.”

She nods, and a man steps forward. It’s New Guy, naked, with a thorny crown and a glistening chainsaw. “Call me Pan,” he says, cold-eyed. 

Hempel’s scream becomes a sickening gurgle as the roaring, hungry saw bites into his neck.

About the Author