Pinning Things Down

You wake up. In the corner of your room is a shadow that shouldn’t be there. You don’t dare to breathe. If it was me I would close my eyes tight, attribute it to a trick of the light and force myself back to sleep. But it is not me; this is happening to you.
   You work out how close your hand is to the knife under your mattress. You prepare to move. I would be going through supernatural phenomena; you are reviewing a list of your most dangerous enemies and which of them is unhinged enough to be in your bedroom.
   Before you act there is that want or wish that this shadow is inanimate, explainable; did you hang your dressing gown somewhere different? I would be thinking the same. However, as you hope, you see it breathing and whereas I would be wondering where I left my phone and how long the police might take and if you can text 999, you are working out the height of the shadow and the trajectory you will need to throw your knife at to hit its jugular vein.
   Two seconds have passed since you woke and people always count to three, so you know your time is almost up. You grab your knife from its home and you throw it. With precision. Finally you allow yourself to breathe.
   ‘Please God, make it my dressing gown,’ you say as you turn your bedside lamp on.
   I didn’t think you’d be the type to talk to God. You walk over to the corner of the room and look down at the crumpled form. The knife is in my throat but I manage to say, ‘Hello.’
   You shake your head. I see your eyes are filled with tears, which is your second unexpected reaction. Maybe I got you wrong.

The Breeze in the Leaves is like Laughter

Floating, following the current, I dip my oars in less and less; letting go of reality. The sunlight sprinkles through the trees; the breeze in their leaves is like laughter. I am lullabied by the canoe’s rocking. I lean back, then lie right down, cradled by the boat. The sky is a hot midday blue, collaged with spring green leaves. I am filled with warmth and wellbeing. I let my eyes close and enter a world of my imagination’s creation…

 

…Cold, whipping, wet, I am startled awake. I lurch up and grab at where the oars should be, but I’ve let them escape. The canoe is hurtling over rocks, captured in the rapids. I clutch the sides and brace myself. The sky is swollen with mauve and brown clouds. Waves smash over the prow and I desperately and fruitlessly scoop out water. The trees loom over me, the wind in their leaves is like laughter. The canoe judders over more sharp rocks; it catches for a second and then I am pitched forward. Freefall, waterfall, and as I fall I remember Alice and her rabbit hole drop and pray I have not yet woken up.

Flashish: It Had to be Yew

My client arrives. He has a timeless face, familiar somehow. Not reminiscent of a person I’ve known, but possibly a gargoyle or tree sprite I have carved onto a banister or bed post.

‘You are aware of my methods?’ I ask. ‘My technique is a little eccentric.’

He nods. ‘I have procured the tree.’

What I do is beyond carpentry. I like to think of myself as an artist but maybe every good carpenter is. I avoid standard rectangular furniture, I let the wood guide me. The material itself designs the piece. While I try to stay within the requirements of the client I often go off spec; dining room chairs may become ergonomic thrones, a lamp stand may have intact branches expanding out of it. Generally my customers are delighted by my imaginative riffs on their requests. I have become highly sought after by the most artistic and the most affluent.

‘It resides within,’ I tell the client and usher him to my workshop.

The tree has already been delivered but I have deliberately not yet met it. Usually people bring planks or blocks but occasionally I work with a tree in its entirety. I cross my fingers and hope for oak or chestnut or even pine.

He has chosen Yew. It has many colours and intricacies but I always feel uncomfortable using yew. It is so ancient; such a quiet, wise material and usually I have to battle to find my way into it.

I put stools either side of the trunk and gesture for my client to sit. We both place our hands on the bark.

I take a deep breath. ‘Right, give us your brief.’

‘No brief. You have free reign, but,’ the client smiles, ‘I would like to observe.’

Observing and free reign. Usually the customer tells me and the wood what they need. As they describe what they want I study the material and connect with it. Then I dismiss them and begin work, usually in a frenzy, not sleeping, barely eating, until it is complete.

‘This will be more expensive,’ I tell him.

That smile again, cold and amused and so familiar. ‘The cost is not a concern.’

I stroke the trunk and sniff it. The presence of the client is at first discombobulating, both to me and the tree but after a while I forget about him and clamber all over the trunk, inspecting it, feeling it, licking it, listening to it. There is no sparkling chatter as from any birch, or melodic song, like a willow would make; there is silence, and behind that infinity.

I’m not sure if it takes ten minutes or ten hours, the wood seems unwilling to give up its secrets but finally our minds meet. No picture comes into my head but I follow what the tree silently demands, working blindly, obediently, with the client watching all the time.

After many hours or many days or many weeks or a few moments the piece is finished. It follows the grain, it enjoys the whorls of branches; it has purpose. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever made.

‘Perfect,’ the client says. ‘Now, in you get.’