The Decline and Fall

The father lay unconscious on a rust-colored pillow of blood and dust, having descended from demi-god to martyr.  The felled culprit lay beside, solemn and still.  The air was laden with musky diesel exhaust and the tangy smell of sap from freshly-hewn trees.  The mishap would strip him of many things-ultimately, his life-but his stubbornness could not be counted among them.  He would recount mistakes neither on the part of the cat operator nor the man who dismissed safety-caging as a needless expense-particularly since he was both of those men.

Though he would lose a taste for many things in his dwindling years, he would acquire a taste for painkillers, which he would seemingly never be able to keep in stock.  His power over the two boys was not diminished by his virtual confinement to his recliner-alternately tricking and intimidating them, particularly the youngest.  The oldest boy would stay out of range, but circle around him like a stray dog, both in admiration and hatred.  The youngest was unaware of the boundaries set out by the declining patriarch.  This transgression was forgiven: the father knew that the boy would have plenty of time to struggle with such issues.