The Mind of Man

Bob munched on an apple. Yes, he was stuck up an apple tree. And thank heavens for apples. Comforted the soul, a good apple did. Bob even swore he felt the stinging of his scratches lessen a little. The sugar placebo. He dropped his finished core into a hollow in the trunk.

First rule of a siege: don't feed your enemy.

Yes, Bob was under siege. The infernal boar hadn't moved an inch. The thing had practically set up camp right under him. The sheer audacity of the creature! It took Bob's breath away.

It sat down there and sneered up at him, throwing a deep grunt every couple of minutes as though to say: "I know you're up there."

Trees are rather ill-suited to the human form. Especially to the naked human form.

Bob couldn't lean back against the bough without the rough bark biting into his back. Sitting down, on the other hand, was out of the question for obvious reasons. That left him, half crouched, leaning forward with arms crossed against the trunk. It was perhaps the single most awkward position imaginable.

Bob didn't know how much longer he could keep this up—his thighs burned, his back was all knotted up, his shoulders ached. He'd manage maybe ten more minutes, fifteen on a good day. In the end, there comes a point when death begins to seem preferable.

He needed to do something. Damn right! He needed to act. Action that's what he needed. But that thought had been popping into his head every thirty seconds for the last hour without a satisfactory answer. It was typically followed by the question: what's wrong with that damn boar?

Was this what boars do? At first, Bob had figured the boar would bugger off after ten minutes when it got it through its thick skull that it couldn't reach him up in a tree. But the brute hadn't budged. Far from it, the brute was digging in. The brute was setting up for winter.

Bob grit his teeth and shook his fist at the dirty animal.

It didn't help.

Focus, Bob, focus. Where's that laser focus you're known for?

He needed to act. Bob gathered himself together for some serious thinking. First, he surveyed the field of battle: the boar was entrenched at the foot of the tree. Ten yards to the south was the dagger ("reinforcements"), and two yards to the west of the dagger was the book ("supplies").

Bob mapped out the position in his mind. It was a grave and unfavourable position. He sat out of range of both reinforcements and supplies. Cut off. Somehow or other, Bob needed to regroup with his allies.

"General, would you illuminate me on the strategic significance of the book?"

General Bob scowled at Sergeant Bob. Bloody non-commissioned officers. Barely enough brainpower to button up their uniforms.

"Morale, sergeant, morale. This here's siege warfare. A battle of wills. A struggle for endurance."

In plain speech, if Bob was going to spend a couple more hours up in this god-forsaken tree, waiting for that boar to die of thirst or at least piss off somewhere, he sure as hell wanted something to read. Hence the strategic significance of the paperback.

"Following, Sergeant?"

"Yes sir."

Objectives clearly defined, Bob gave thought to the means of execution. The forest was dense, and he might with sufficient luck and skill, climb between the trees and so approach both dagger and book. All to the good. But here was where things got complicated, because how could he get the objects up into the tree?

Tricky, tricky, very tricky, quite the puzzler. Bob would need all his wits for this one.

General Bob stroked his chin, the very picture of a leader deep in contemplation.

"A hook, yes, but how?" He mumbled into his mud moustache. "Magnets? Potential, plenty of potential, but where?"

No, he was going about this all wrong. What did he have on hand, what materials could he use?

"Leaves, yes, true, apples, plenty of apples, yes, very true, sticks, hm... sticks, there was something in that. Sticks, you say, chopsticks..."

"Brilliant, General! I mean bravo. Simply a master stroke."

"Sergeant, what a thing the mind of man! Sometimes I take my own breath away."

Well then, down to business. Execution, execution, execution.

"Off we go, three, two, one!"

Bob didn't move. He didn't even attempt to move. He stood exactly where he had been three seconds ago, which also happened to be exactly where he had been thirty seconds ago, on the closest branch to the neighbouring tree, walked out as far as he could safely manage.

It had been the fifth or maybe even the sixth countdown he had tried (it was unclear whether giving up on two should be counted). But somehow Bob's body absolutely refused to cooperate. Insubordination, that was the word! Why wouldn't it obey his commands? A simple thing like jumping between two branches.

But every time, at the last second, Bob's body seemed to balk at the prospect of flinging itself to the neighbouring tree. There was something in the idea of entrusting himself to the air, while an angry boar looked suspiciously on, that upset his stomach.

"Man up, Sergeant. And you call yourself a soldier."

He'd just have to chance it. Run and jump, that was the ticket.

Well, here goes nothing.

He ran. He jumped. He—

Crack!

Bob slammed into the trunk, winded and scrambling for a handhold, the boar roaring angrily beneath him. He caught one branch, then another, then his grip slipped...

He was falling—

Thud!

His leg jammed painfully into a foothold.

Safe! He was safe. Bob gasped for breath. His heart couldn't take much more of this. He'd die of shock one of these days. Just freeze up and fall over.

That cursed branch had broken under his feet! Broken under his feet, toppled down, and oh, the boar wasn't looking so hot.

The beast had been looking up at exactly the wrong moment and had taken the pointy end of the stick straight into its left eye.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

The animal was currently venting its frustration by repeatedly head-butting the base of Bob's tree. The tree shook mildly on impact, but Bob was taking worksite safety seriously. With double handholds and solid footing, a tornado would have struggled to shake him from his roost.

So good work, Bob, pat on the back. Step one cleared with bonus damage to the boar.

Time for step two.

Bob shimmied through the tree's crown until he stood directly above the dagger. Next he selected two long thin branches and snapped them off. Then he worked his way down the tree, climbing as low as he could without exposing himself to the boar's weaponry. There, with a branch in each hand, he started trying to sandwich the dagger between them.

It took Bob a full two seconds to realise the utter futility of his plan. The sticks weren't rigid enough. They bent and sagged at the slightest weight. He could hardly budge the dagger, let alone haul it up.

So much for Bob's master plan.

But adaptability is the real proof of brilliance, he'd always said.

And in a few moments, Bob had a new and improved plan: Master Plan 1.1.

He decided to abandon the romantic notion of chopsticks. Instead, he would get himself a thicker, more rigid branch. Then he'd roll or drag the dagger as close as he could to the trunk of the tree. From there, he'd press it against the trunk and sort of drag it up against the bough until it came into hand's reach.

A good plan, all said and done, but the boar wasn't taking this sitting down. It roared displeasure and rushed over to head off Bob's efforts, quickly managing to snap off the end of his branch.

"Damn brute," Bob screamed (the unfairness of it all!) and jabbed wildly with the remainder of his stick. His aim was true. And the boar took a second blow to the already wounded eye. It howled and rammed itself into the tree, tusk penetrating wood.

The eye was oozing horribly (Bob had a good aerial view from where he stood), blood dripping down, the whole eye socket swollen and red. There was a chance here, Bob's lightning mind quickly observed. The boar was pinned, tusk caught in the tree. If Bob could blind the beast while it was unable to move...

One-two, one-two. The branch flickered in Bob's hand as he prodded savagely at the boar's one good eye.

"En garde! En garde!"

Bob was the raging hurricane, his branch-sword jabbing forward again and again and again.

He was the hammer of justice. The sword of destiny. The hero of ages.

The boar shook its head, closed its eye and bellowed its defiance. It wrestled against the mighty apple tree. It strained and tensed. It yanked on the captured tusk. But the tusk was jammed fast. The mighty tree took no prisoners. On and on it struggled but to no avail.

It was only a matter of time. Any moment now. Bob had the boar right where he wanted him. He would slay his dragon. One more good shot. Bob reached into himself. He reached into that last pocket of strength, that well of heroes, that transcendent spark, and—