Anthonology

WOOD YOU?

I was raised on a farm without electricity; we used kerosene lamps and a wood stove. Today I am raising my children in the forest so they can share the advantage I had. We do have electricity, but also a wood stove that we use to heat our house and water. I cut up fallen wood—I don't like to hurt living trees—and split it, and that stove keeps us comfortable in winter. I sit by it and write the first drafts of my novels, saving the typing for spring when my unheated study warms. Our bill for heating is zero, but that's an illusion. My working time as a writer is worth an amount you probably wouldn't believe, so that wood actually costs more in lost income than electric heat would cost. But the work is good exercise—I am about as fit physically as any figure in the genre—any mundane figure—and I like that feeling of independence and self-reliance. If civilization collapses tomorrow, we will still be warm. So this one time I drew on my wood-splitting background; perhaps I can say that in this case fiction is the splitting image of experience. "Wood" was published in the Oct-ogre 1970 F&SF "All Star" issue. Say—I had become a star at last! One critic remarked sourly that I had once again left a moral sticking out at an odd angle. True—but how those critics hate any suggestion of meaning in fiction.

Buddy was an only child in a family of eight. Specifically, he had five adult sisters ranging in age from the neighborhood of ten to the neighborhood of sixteen, the least of these more bossy than it was possible to be. In the distance beyond these were one or two harried parents, almost always away at work or home asleep, and of these only Dad was male. It was not a bearable situation for a young man, and Buddy kept to himself as much as possible.

When he was two he found a long, sharp kitchen knife under the sink, and brought it proudly into sight. There was an extraordinarily unpleasant fuss. So that diversion was a complete washout.

When he was two and a half he uncovered a broken rusty jackknife in the dirt under the back step. Since he was not stupid, he kept it out of sight. When unobserved—and this was much of the time, for the adult sisters had numerous and trivial concerns of their own—he studied it at leisure. The blade did not taste good, but it was fine for digging, and gradually the pitted, brownish surface became more shiny.

Behind the house a fair distance was a tremendous chopping block, where Dad periodically wielded a massive axe in an effort to reduce unruly chunks of wood to fireplace kindling. Chips and bark were all around, and the ground was scuffled intriguingly. It was a fascinating region, and he liked the smell and feel of the wood, and the fat cockroaches that scuttled under the bark. Because he knew from observation that this was Man's work, he took his knife there and commenced his private apprenticeship as a Split.

At first he cut himself, but had the presence of mind to hide the knife before the distaff commotion centered on him. The second time it happened he managed not to scream, and after a while the blood got sticky and hard. Judiciously applied dirt concealed the wound, and it didn't hurt any more. Soon he found out how to avoid such mishaps by bracing the blade away from his hand. He became adept at carving kindling.

When he was three he was able to render a given wood chip into sections hardly thicker than matchsticks. It was a matter of following the grain and being careful.

Then he came across a battered, gap-toothed hatchet in the garage. This was a splendid find, though it was horrendous to swing. Once he mastered this he was able to split larger sections of wood and do it with real dispatch. Here the lie of the grain was even more important, for if he struck a piece incorrectly, the hatchet could bounce back and fly out of his grasping little fingers. He also discovered that some chunks were harder than others, and some sappier, and others twistier. For each type he evolved a special technique.

At three and a half, Buddy discovered that he could split even the largest logs by hammering in a wedgelike scrap of metal until the wood strained and sundered. But his wedge was brittle and bent, and the hammer he used had a loose handle, so he had to be very careful. Not only did he have to study the grain, he had to analyze the general configuration of the segment, discover any natural cracks, and determine the general type of wood. There was quite a difference between soft, straight pine and hard, curved yellow birch! He also had to work around the knots, and sometimes to flake off outside sections along the circular growth-rings. But one way or another he could, in time, split any piece at all.

In fact, he was an expert wood-splitter by the time he achieved the independent age of four. His adult sisters had long since given up and let him play with his tools, for he could put up a respectable battle when balked. They had no comprehension of the intricacies of woodcraft and were forever and unreasonably scornful of what they called his tall stories about grains and types. "He's out of bounds!" they exclaimed, not knowing that all boys his age were out of bounds, but few were as specialized as Buddy.

One day a free-lance field agent for the Snurptegian Confederation happened by, attracted by the measured tapping of loose-handled hammer on brittle, bent wedge. The creature ascertained that no adults were present (for they tended to be narrow-minded about extraterrestrials), approached the scene of activity, and waited politely while Buddy completed his incision. A final series of blows, a judicious poke with the jackknife, and the piece fell cleanly cloven.

—Bravo! the Snurp agent exclaimed.—A masterful job.

Buddy was taken aback. He hadn't noticed the visitor, and no one had ever complimented him on his talent before. "Gee," he said shyly.

—One is truly skilled at the art, the Snurp said. —What might one do with superior equipment?

Buddy looked at it. The Snurp had bug ears and worm eyes and slug feet, but was otherwise rather strange. Buddy did not understand all the words, but he liked the tone.

—How would one like to compete in the regional wood-splitting junior championship tournament?

Buddy didn't know what "compete" meant, or "regional," and the last three words were beyond human assimilation, but he certainly grasped the important part: "wood splitting." "Is that good?" he asked, knowing that it was.

—Very good, the alien said. —All one has to do is split wood fast and well. There are prizes for the best.

"Is that fun?"

—Much fun, especially for the winners.

Buddy knew his sisters would object, so he agreed to go with the Snurp. He was about to take his hatchet and hammer and chisel and penknife along, but the alien said —One must employ standard equipment.

He followed the glistening trail of the Snurp to a structure resembling a giant washing machine. They climbed in. Actually, the Snurp didn't climb so much as slide uphill. The lid settled down, warm bubbly fluid flowed into surround them, and the thing went into a violent spin cycle.

Buddy was frightened, for he had never been inside a washing machine before when it was running. But the Snurp reassured him: —One must endure transspace only momentarily.

Sure enough, the spinning stopped and he wasn't even dizzy. The wash water drained, leaving him comfortably dry (he'd have to tell Mom about that!), and the lid lifted. They climbed/slid out.

The sunlight was green and the bushes were transparent, but aside from that the scenery was unusual. Buddy ignored it.

—One is just in time, the Snurp said. —Familiarize oneself with the equipment while one's agent attends to the registration.

Buddy paid no attention to the incomprehensible sentence. He went directly to the nearest chopping block. It was a marvel: great and square, with pockets in the sides for wonderful splitting tools. There was an elegant axe, a hatchet, a maul, six graduated wedges—all smooth and new and brightly colored. The top of the block was sturdy and flat, without even any chop marks or splinters. Of course the axe and maul were too big and heavy for him to manage, but it was nice having them there to look at.

**Contestants! a voice proclaimed, and Buddy looked up to find a metal eyeball poised above his block. **Assume your stance.

The Snurp reappeared. —Here is a smaller maul for one. Will this suffice?

"Can I use your hammer?" Buddy asked eagerly. "That's just right!"

The Snurp gave him the small maul. —Excellent. Now one must stand by the block, as the others are doing. Commence attack the moment the initial sample appears.

"Can I have some wood to split?"

**First phase, the eyeball said. **Purple Ash, bias facet. Proceed.

A chunk of wood appeared on the block, startling Buddy. But he saw that the same thing had happened on every block, and the birdlike and lizardlike and crablike aliens were hefting their tools. It was time to split!

The chunk was beautiful: deep blue-red with burnished black grain-ridges that angled through it strangely. It was like no wood he had ever seen, and certainly not like Earthly white ash. But it could be split! His feel for the difficult grain assured him of that.

He pondered, then placed the smallest wedge at a critical nexus, and tapped it in three times, just so. He did not dare hit too hard, here, for that would foul the interior cleavage. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. And of course he had had long experience with difficult wood. Then he placed the next larger wedge against the appropriate stress point and struck it four times, harder.

On the last blow the log fell open, neatly halved.

—Time! the Snurp cried.

The metal eyeball appeared again and winked open. Buddy saw no support for it; it was just hanging in midair. **Approved, it said, and disappeared.

—Excellent! One has superseded Phase One with credit to spare! the Snurp exulted.

The split pieces vanished. Buddy looked around, having nothing better to do. This was fun, but he was beginning to feel hungry.

Next block down, a rooster with octopus tentacles was pounding at a large wedge. The placement was wrong, and the wood was resisting and cracking the wrong way. Buddy knew it would finally split, but messily and not into halves.

On the other side a beaver with four monkey-arms was using the axe to chop at his chunk. Chips were flying, but the wood refused to split.

**Disqualified! the official voice said, echoing down the line of blocks wherever wood remained unsplit. All those who had failed retired regretfully. There were still a great many funny-looking creatures in the contest, however.

**Second phase. Vinegar Maple, twitch grain.

Another chunk appeared. Buddy saw at once that it was a really nasty piece. The grain went every which way, folding back on itself jaggedly, and the wood was very hard. It smelled like salad dressing, making him want to sneeze. But it could be split. His head spun with the formless calculations involved, but he finally saw the correct procedure. He tapped five wedges into place, carefully considering each location, so that they were sticking out all over. Then he pounded on them in what he felt to be the proper order. The log began to tick, unevenly. He tapped some more, until the ticking was loud and even. At last he took the hatchet and plunged it into the heartwood exposed between the two largest wedges, severing the twitchiest strand of all.

The chunk stopped ticking. It shuddered, fired off a crackling volley of splinters, expired, and fell apart along the tortuous crevice opened by the wedges. Sap dribbled out, its lifeblood, and in that death agony the salad smell wafted aloft strongly.

—Time! the Snurp cried, heedless of the carnage.

**Approved! the inspector eye said. The wood vanished. Buddy was relieved; there was something he didn't like about the split.

He looked about again. The rooster and the beaver were gone, having been eliminated in the first phase. The adjacent blocks were now occupied by a fish with six handlike fins and a monster ladybug. The ladybug had split her chunk; the fish had misplaced one wedge and was unable to reach the heartwood cleanly. An agonized keening emanated from his wood.

**Disqualified! the fish's eye cried. He swam away sadly, but Buddy was glad that chunk of wood had survived.

Now there were only a dozen splitters left, including Buddy. He was enjoying this, though he was more hungry than ever. Time seemed short when he was working on a sample, but he had been here pretty long.

**Third phase. Scorch Punk, medium rare.

A huge, blackened, grainless mass appeared on his block. He didn't have to worry about killing this; it was more than dead already. And he was in trouble, for he knew the wedges would merely sink into the spongy punk without splitting it. And as for his hatchet—

He saw the ladybug swing her axe at her chunk. The blade cut right into the center—but the wood closed in above it and wouldn't let go, no matter how hard she yanked. It was as though the punk had become stone, anchoring the tool.

Buddy had a bright idea. He struck the wood with his maul, using no wedge. It hardened on contact, and softened again only gradually. He struck it harder, repeatedly, making a pattern of hardness around the top. Then he chopped with the hatchet—and the block cracked along that hard line!

It was cracked but not split. Now he had to place his wedges quickly in the crevice, tapping each to make the hardness form inside, then removing them before they were trapped. Again he chipped, slicing deep into the crack—and it broke open wider.

After the third round, the entire block clove in two—Just as the eye appeared and yelled **Disqualified!

—One succeeded in time! the Snurp cried. —Not disqualified!

The eye peered down. **Correction: Approved.

The Snurp relaxed, relieved.

Buddy hoped there would not be much more of this. The splitting was fun in its way, but his stomach was growling.

Only six contestants remained.

**Final phase. Petrified Poplar, veneer grain.

The wood appeared. It was monstrous: a yard wide, and as hard as rock. Buddy found three suitable stress points, but they were impervious to his wedges. It would take far more strength than he possessed to make headway there—and it looked as though three wedges would have to be pounded at once, to unlock this complex boulder.

At the next block a muscular doglike contestant circled the chunk with his front paws, heaved it up, placed three wedges points-up on the block with his prehensile tail, turned over the chunk and dropped it on top of them. It shattered into thirds, spraying pebbles. //Time! his second called jubilantly.

Buddy gazed at his own stump with dismay. He could never do that! The wood was twenty times his own weight.

He tried the little hatchet on it, hoping for the best. The blade rebounded from the surface, leaving only a scratch. He tried to swing the axe, but this was even worse. He had gotten nowhere, and time was passing.

—One must turn the—the Snurp began.

**Disqualified! the inspector eye said immediately. **No advice permitted from the sideline during the phase.

And the wood vanished, and Buddy had to step back, disappointed and humiliated. He had really wanted to split that ponderous segment—the biggest slice of wood he had ever seen or imagined.

—Why did not one turn the poplar over to reveal the veneer-ravel point? the Snurp demanded furiously. —One was intolerably stupid!

Buddy took this as a rebuke. He bore up in silence, as he had learned to do under the constant abuse of his sisters, but he was miserable inside.

The inspector eye appeared.

**This contestant places sixth, raw score, it said. **Award ratio now being calculated. What is contestant's maturity index?

—One must provide the information, the Snurp told Buddy.

"Can I go home now? I'm hungry."

—How mature is one? Of what physical/mental duration, relative to the adult of the species?

Buddy looked at the Snurp in perplexity. "What?"

—How old?

"Oh, I'm four."

—That would be four sidereal revolutions of one's planet about its star, the Snurp said to the eye. —This species is mature at fifteen or twenty revolutions.

The metal eye focused on Buddy. **One quarter or one fifth of maturity? Standard for this tournament is one half. That would place contestant at par times two plus. First on index, despite failure on final phase.

—The winner! the Snurp cried joyously.

**However, contestant is beneath tournament age of consent. Provide evidence of parental permission.

—Conditions were too pressing to obtain—

"Can I go home now? Everybody'll be mad when they find I'm gone."

**Conditions too pressing? Violation of regulations, Snurptegian agent. Your species has bad recruitment record.

—Unintentional! Oversight! Misunderstanding!

"Can I go home now?" All this talk reminded him too much of the bickering of his sisters.

**Immediately, the eye said grimly. **There will be a full investigation.

And suddenly Buddy was standing beside the chopping block behind his house, alone. That ** was certainly prompt!

"There you are, you little brat!" one of his middle sisters exclaimed. "Oh, are you going to get it! You're late for supper and Mom's beside herself!"

That meant a spanking, gleefully delivered by massed sibling might. Buddy managed to bite two fingers, but otherwise got the worst of it. Afterwards, he received some leftover food.

At bedtime Dad came to see him. "Whatever mischief did you get into today, Son?" he asked in his pleasant man-to-man way.

"Wood split." Generally, it was safe to tell things to Dad.

"Would split what, Son?"

"Purple Ash. Scorch Punk. And funny things—but the last one was too big. And hard. And I was hungry."

"That's very interesting, Son. You have a fine imagination."

"The Snurp took me. In the washing machine."

"But if you try to tell a story like that to your mother—"

Buddy understood that he was being gently reprimanded. Dad didn't believe him.

"Keep my wedge, Dad?"

"Certainly, Son." Dad reached out for the small red section of metal. "Where did you find that?"

"I stole it from the wood split."

Dad's face became grave. "You will have to return it, Son. Right now. Stealing is wrong."

Dad could be just as unreasonable as Buddy's sisters, when he put his mind to it. Reluctantly, Buddy led the way out into the dark and toward the chopping block. "The Snurp was here, Dad. He took me to the wood split. Where I stole the wedge."

"You're sure, Son?" The tone was dangerous.

"And the eye sent me back. Here."

Dad sighed. "That's not exactly a story I can accept, Son."

It sounded suspiciously like another spanking. Buddy didn't know what to say.

Then a light appeared above the chopping block. It was the eye! **Regret uninformed decision, it said. **Investigation discloses Snurptegian agent at fault. Immature should not have been disqualified.

Dad's hand was on Buddy's shoulder, and it clenched painfully. "Is this the owner of the wedge?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Then give it back."

Buddy held out the wedge. "Here. I stole it."

**Can not alter decision after the fact, the eye said. **Innocent immature was exploited by Snurptegian field agent. Tournament forwards regrets. Herewith, consolation prize: permit to compete in next regional junior championship tournament, and matched set of samples.

In the dim light shining from the house, or perhaps it was the glow around the eye, Buddy saw a pile of wood rise from nothing. Some chunks reflected the light metallically and some glowed on their own. Elegant wood, faerie wood—all he could ever split. Purple Ash, Vinegar Maple, Scorch Punk—and even the monstrous Petrified Poplar. And countless other exotic varieties amounting to at least a cord. The alien tools were there too—axe, maul, hatchet, wedges.

Dad looked, amazed. "My son was spanked—for telling the truth."

**The Snurptegian agent was spanked too, the eye said. **Trust consolation is adequate.

"No," Dad said. "My boy will not accept goods he has not earned. Take back your shipment."

**As desired, the eye said. The wood vanished. **Respects.

"Respects," Dad replied. The eye winked out.

Buddy was left with nothing. He began to cry.

"It was a payoff," Dad explained gently, as they walked back to the house. "You'll have many opportunities in life to earn your way properly. You wouldn't want to prejudice it all by accepting something like this now, would you?"

"Wood you?" Buddy repeated, not comprehending.

Not then.