He munched on another apple. They were all he had left at this point. The one silver lining in this god-awful situation. And they made a good supplement to his lacking evening meal. He’d been stuck up this tree for a whole hour now, maybe longer, hard to say for sure, given there was no real way to tell the time.

And the whole while, that 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, sneering up at him, throwing a deep grunt every couple of minutes, like it wanted to say: "I know you’re up there. "

But, tasty apple, this. Mildly mud-scented of course. He’d made a passing effort at wiping off as much mud as he could onto the leaves around him. But at this point the action was more ritual than utilitarian (the whole forest stank to begin with). Honestly speaking, he’d sort of gotten used to the smell by now; earthy, you know, made one feel connected with nature.

Being up in a tree is awful uncomfortable at the best of times, but stark nudity truly aggravates the situation. He couldn’t lean back against the bough without the rough tree skin 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 probably the most awkward position he could have imagined for himself and at the same time, unfortunately, the most comfortable one available to him.

He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up; his thighs burned, his back felt knotted up, his shoulders ached. He’d manage maybe ten more minutes, fifteen on a good day, he speculated, thoughtfully chewing on a mouthful of apple. There comes a point when death begins to seem preferable.

He needed to do something, yes, 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 satisfactory answer. It was typically followed by the question: what’s wrong with that damn boar?

Is this what boars do? The animal was obviously trying to wait him out. At first, he’d 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 was still here more than an hour later. Bob grit his teeth and shook his fist at the dirty animal. 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 masterfully 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 that point was the book (“supplies”).

Bob mapped out the position in his mind. And at a glance he understood that he was at a disadvantage. He sat out of range of both reinforcements and supplies. Cut off, he chewed the word. Bob needed to regroup with his allies—that was the obvious objective. But how could it be managed?

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

"Well Sergeant, I was just at the good part and this here is a siege and a protracted one at that; morale, sergeant, morale. If you can’t keep the troops’ morale up, the battle will be over before it is even begun."

In plain speech, if he was going to have spent 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 significant of said book.

"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 very good. There was an obvious objection of course: even supposing he manage to manoeuvre into position, how would get the things up into the tree?

Tricky, tricky, very tricky, quite the puzzler; he’d need all his wits for this one. Bob stroked his chin, the very picture of a general deep in contemplation. A hook, yes, but how? He mumbled into his mud mustache. Magnets? Potential, plenty of potential, but where? No he needed to reground himself. 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, chop-sticks…

"Brilliant general. I mean bravo. Simply a master stroke."

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

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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 neighboring tree, walked out as far as he could safely manage.

It had been the fifth or maybe even the sixth countdown he had tried (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 neighboring tree. There was something in the idea of entrusting himself to the air, while an angry boar looked suspiciously on, that upset his stomach.

He made another attempt at edging a little further along the branch, but he could literally feel it starting to give way under him. No this was the only way. Love of fate and all—he’d just have to chance it. Run and jump that’s was the ticket.

Well, here goes nothing. He ran. He jumped. He… Crack, he slammed into the trunk, winded, scrambling for a handhold, the boar roaring angrily beneath him, he caught one branch, then another, his legs were under him again, safe, he sighed, gasping for breath. His heart couldn’t take much more of this. He’d die of shock one of these days.

He looked down and made a pleasant discovery. The boar’s explosive roar had not been without cause. The force of Bob’s majestic push-off had snapped the branch he’d been standing on, which had proceeded to fall down on the head of the boar below. But as luck would have it, the boar had been looking up at just that moment, and the branch had had just enough height to spin, so that the long and short of it was that the animal had suffered a vicious prod to its eye. No death wound by the sound of it — but the whole incident had certainly enraged the animal. Even to the point that it had started repeatedly head-butting the base of the tree Bob was in.

The tree shook mildly at each impact, but it was a thick apple tree and barely flinched at the boar’s battering. Hell, not even a single apple fell from its branch. And by this time, Bob was plenty secure. With double handholds and solid footing, he was not about to be shaken out of his roost. All told the boar probably did more damage to itself.

So good work Bob, pat on the back; step one cleared with bonus damage to the boar below. Can’t say better than that. Time for step two. He shimmied through the tree’s crown until he stood directly above the dagger. Next he selected two long thin branches and snapped them off. 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 realize 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.

It was really just a minor variation on the initial plan. 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 rushed over to head off Bob’s efforts and quickly managed 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 and the whole eye socket swollen and red. There was a chance here, Bob’s lightning mind quickly observed. The boar was pinned, tusk caught into the tree. If he 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. The boar shook its head, closed its eye, bellowed defiance, but it was only a matter of time before the death blow landed, he’d do it yet, Bob would slay the dragon, one more good shot, Bob reached into himself for that last pocket of strength, that well of heroes, that transcendent spark—the boar got there first. With a momentous effort, the animal pulled its tusk free and scrambled back.

Ugly scratches covered the boar’s face, his bad eye was pulsing with pink goo, but, alas, the beast could still see. Bob’s sally had failed and the siege was renewed. But his enemy had learned caution. It kept well back now, content with trapping Bob in the trees as it lorded over the plains. On the positive side, though, the boar no longer interrupted Bob’s efforts to scoop up book and dagger.

On the negative side, Bob proved utterly unable to recapture his dagger. He spent a good fifteen minutes on the enterprise and a couple times he’d been so close, but the thing was just too heavy. The mud and rain didn’t make things any easier. The knife just kept slipping down or turning over or falling out, like it enjoyed the sound of Bob’s angry cursing. In the end, Bob’s patience ran out. What could he do with a dagger up here anyway?

Bob had better luck with the book. He’d managed to get a branch between the pages and slowly hook it up balanced atop the stick. This was some comfort, because he was cold, his whole body ached and the rain hadn’t let up, so he could well use a distraction. Not to mention the simple joy of knowing that the whole expedition hadn’t been a complete waste.

He picked another apple. It seemed like they were in an apple grove or something; they were all apple trees now that he stopped to look. And started munching not unhappily as he flicked open the book and started reading. Jonny the Man: the Kiwi Warriors. Good stuff this. A real dopamine drip. Life really was all about the simple pleasures.