Once more the axe wedged in the knotty wood. I’d never get the tree felled at this rate. I’d never get my mind made up either, it seemed. Enlist and kill? Stay and be shamed? It was hopeless.

I wrenched and twisted. I seized a rock, and beat on the axe head where it was stuck in the trunk. If Father saw me, he’d be horrified. Finally, the axe came away. A thick knot showed, right where I was cutting. It would take me an hour just to get through that. I stood, gripping the axe. Sweat dripped into my eyes.

Suddenly I felt so angry. Angry at having to choose between war and shame; at how other people didn’t seem to have such problems; at the stupid tree for being full of knots; the axe for jamming. At everything.

I took a stride forward. I drew the axe back, yelled ‘Choose!’, and swung it at the totara, putting all my weight behind it.

Beneath my foot, a wood-chip or something rolled sideways. I lurched as the heavy steel blade flashed down at the wood. It hit the knot, skidded off, and sliced into my left leg, just above the knee.

I felt no pain. But I heard the noise it made: a chock like Mother’s meat cleaver slicing into the roast as she prepares dinner. And then a different sound, as the axe head struck something harder, deep inside my flesh. My leg collapsed under me, and I fell.

There was still no pain, only a feeling of strangeness. But I knew straightaway. I’d done something terrible, something that would change me forever. I sprawled half on my side, among the wood-chips and trampled earth of my chopping. I lifted myself on one elbow, and made myself look.

The axe lay beside my body. Something wet gleamed on its blade. My left leg was stretched out; it looked just ordinary. My trousers had a small rip in them, halfway down. Mother will be vexed at me for making more mending, I thought foolishly.

The leg felt hot, and distant somehow. I dragged in breaths, pulled myself over the ground on my elbows to the totara, wrenched my body around so that I sat with my back to the trunk. I heard myself making grunting, gasping sounds. A terrible fear had begun rising in me.

My left trouser leg was changing colour, even as I watched. A red wetness spread across it, glistening in the sunlight. The whole leg felt weak now; it seemed to only half-belong to me. I sat, mouth open, still gasping. Then I clenched my teeth together and pulled up my trouser leg. It came easily, slipping sodden and heavy over my knee. I closed my eyes for a second, then forced them open and stared down.