Page 72 of The Slug Crystal
Jake stands nearby, arms crossed, observing the scene with thinly veiled skepticism. Marco has somehow found himself in conversation with an elderly commune member who appears to be the only person here with actual knowledge of local history. Their heads are bent together, Marco nodding occasionally, his scholarly interest piqued despite our surroundings.
Luca paces at the edge of the clearing, watching the fumbling fire preparations with growing impatience. Finally, he throws his hands up.
"This is painful to watch," he announces, striding toward the commune member struggling with an axe and a log. "Allow me. I grew up spending summers in the Italian countryside. This is basic survival."
The commune member, a young man with dreadlocks and what appears to be a hand-knit beanie despite the warm evening, relinquishes the axe with visible relief. "The energy of the wood resists our intentions," he explains solemnly.
"Or you're holding the axe wrong," Luca replies, flashing his perfect smile to soften the criticism.
I exchange glances with Ben, who raises his eyebrows in amused anticipation. Jake drifts closer to our boulder, clearly sensing the entertainment about to unfold.
With theatrical deliberation, Luca surveys his audience, making sure he has our attention, especially mine. When our eyes meet, he winks, then reaches for the hem of his designer Henley and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion.
"Is the shirtless part necessary?" Jake asks dryly.
"Absolutely essential," Luca responds without missing a beat. "Freedom of movement. Also, wouldn't want to ruin good fabric."
He makes a show of stretching, muscles rippling in the golden evening light. Several commune members pause their activities to watch, appreciation evident in their stares. Luca positions himself beside the chopping block, a substantial log already placed upon it, and grips the axe with confident hands.
"Watch and learn," he announces to no one in particular.
He raises the axe high above his head, his stance comically wide, like a model posing for a lumberjack calendar. The swing starts strong but goes immediately wrong, the axe head connects with the log at an awkward angle, skidding off the side and sending wood chips flying in all directions. The log barely shows a dent.
"That was just a warm-up," Luca declares, brushing wood fragments from his bare shoulder. "Assessing the wood's resistance."
Ben snorts beside me. "Is that what we're calling it?"
Luca ignores him, repositioning for a second attempt. This time, he swings with excessive force, the axe embedding itself so deeply in the log that he can't easily remove it. He struggles for a moment, tugging with increasing frustration, before finally wrenching it free with a jerk that nearly sends him stumbling backward.
"The wood is exceptionally dense," he explains, his accent thickening as it always does when he's flustered. "European hard wood. Very challenging."
"Unlike American soft wood?" Jake suggests innocently.
"I'd be happy to demonstrate on something less stubborn," Luca retorts, glaring at the offending log.
His third attempt produces a mighty crack—not of the log splitting, but of the axe handle protesting the abuse. The log remains intact while several more wood chips explode outward, one nearly embedding into the top of Luca's exposed foot.
Marco chooses this moment to join our growing audience, immediately assessing the situation with scientific precision. "Your trajectory is approximately fifteen degrees off optimal," he offers helpfully. "The kinetic energy is being dispersed laterally rather than vertically through the grain."
"Thank you, Professor," Luca grumbles, wiping sweat from his brow. "Any other insights?"
"Well, actually," Marco begins, adjusting his glasses, "if you consider the physics of force distribution through fibrous material?—"
"It was rhetorical!" Luca interrupts, positioning for yet another attempt.
I bite my lip to suppress a laugh, finding unexpected charm in Luca's determination despite his obvious embarrassment. A flush has crept up his chest and neck, yet he refuses to admit defeat. There's something endearing about this crack in his usually impenetrable confidence.
"Maybe stick to flying planes," Ben suggests with a smirk. "Fewer trees up there to contend with."
"The wood's supposed to split, not explode," Jake adds, the corners of his mouth twitching with restrained amusement.
Luca responds with an Italian phrase that doesn't require translation to understand its meaning. He squares his shoulders, grips the axe with renewed determination, and raises it once more.
This time his swing connects with a satisfying thunk, and the log splits—not cleanly, but enough to count as success. Half the log tumbles from the chopping block, while the other remains standing.
"There!" Luca exclaims, triumph flooding his features. "As I said, just needed to get the feel of it."
"One down, twenty to go," Ben points out, gesturing to the pile of logs waiting their turn.
