Well I quite enjoyed rewriting that. The conclusion was just as I remembered. Very exciting. I was very much into gestures and still am.
Messny had lived in this harmonious manner for over five years, apart from humanity. Fortune had favoured him for he had never so much as encountered another man.
It was in the course of his sixth year that life changed and his peace was shattered.
They began to construct a road across the hills to connect the cities. This was the modern age. Time was money. They were no longer content to skirt around the moor. Progress demanded growth, speed and expansion. Profit was the only consideration. Now that the construction industry had the means to deal with the inhospitable terrain there was nothing to hold them back.
The first Messny knew about it was when the team of surveyors appeared on the moor to reconnoitre the area. He watched them from afar. They were soon followed by the bulldozers and construction crew. A paths was gouged. Mounds of rock and soil was strewn around. The moors around were soon strewn with discarded junk and waste.
As the weeks progressed they blasted through the rock leaving jagged, scarred passes like gaping wounds. Clouds of fumes and dust rose into the air and the serenity of the moors was shattered by the roar of the massive earth moving monsters as they ripped and clawed at the living land.
Messny watched helplessly as the strip of tarmac grew, the wild-life fled and the green plants were covered in the cloying dust. He stood and watched as the hills vibrated with the impact of each body blow and he winced.
Messny’s heart was moved to pity. It was the first time in his self-imposed exile that he had felt helpless. He grimaced in pain as the rape of the land continued and saw that his way of life was doomed to end. Once the road was laid the traffic would roar along day and night. The wildlife would retreat, the peace would be gone and his ability to carve a living out of the desolate wilderness would be compromised. There was no place left for him or the creatures out here in this forgotten space. There were all to be harried and chased away.
Messny saw the future. It would be the same where-ever he went. Each new place would only provide a temporary respite. Each time the bulldozers would come to bury the land in concrete. They would never be content until every hill was flattened, every tree felled and even the remotest places were beset by fumes and noise. The tourists would come to stop and take their snaps, to leave their litter and marvel at the beauty they were busy destroying with every single step.
Messny stood helpless before the onslaught of a relentlessly expanding civilisation. He could on watch in agony as it grew and engulfed every part of the thing he loved and felt part of.
At night Messny lay under the blanket of stars and explored his heart. There was no escape. There was nowhere left to retreat to. He had no alternative. They would seek him out where-ever he went. He could not shake that vision of the future out of his mind.
It was time to make a stand and face the problem head on.
He waited until darkness drove the workmen from the hills back to the light and warmth of their homes, their meals, families, TVs, central heating and computers – perhaps down to the pub for a pint or two. Messny waited.
When they were gone he struck. The walls of the compound were no barrier to one such as him. He destroyed, set fire to and wrecked everything he could lay his hands on. He vented his hatred in an orgy of destruction. By the time he had finished everything on the site was laid to waste.
But even as he wearily returned to his home he was engulfed in sadness. He knew it was futile. It would not make any real difference. In the big scheme of things it was a minor set-back. The equipment would be insured and replaced. The project would continue.
The next morning, concealed in the undergrowth, he watched the men return, as they drove up and surveyed the smouldering ruins of their machines. They milled around in confusion.
Police were summoned and they poked around among the wreckage for clues. The site was sealed off and swarmed with people like a freshly disturbed ant-heap.
Over the ensuing days it calmed down. Repair teams arrived. The destroyed vehicles were removed and, as predicted, replaced.
There would be no end, no quarter or respite. Ahead lay only futile escalation tinged with a gesture of defiance. But Messny was aware that this was all any man could ever hope to achieve. To stand up for what you believe was at least something worthy.
Messny resolved to continue to the bitter end.
In the beginning he remained unseen, coming at night to evade the guards, thwart the dogs, to block the road, to damage the machines and cause the maximum destruction and chaos.
He could see that it was not going to stop them. It became a battle without any hope of victory. The police activity grew until the whole area was a mass of uniforms and security cameras. The work was slowed but not halted. In the day they had sniffer dogs out and helicopters hunted him. He had to use all his skills to evade them.
Messny decided to alter his strategy and bring it all to a head. It was time for total war. He could not continue like this. It was only a matter of time before they tracked him down. Already the wildlife had moved away and he could no longer hunt in daylight he had been reduced to raiding the sheep from the adjacent moorland, cooking the meat a distance from his home and spending time covering his trail. He knew they would soon stumble across his home no matter how cautious he was.
Messny gathered his weapons together. They were rudimentary but lethally effective. He had crafted spears, bows, arrows and knives. He had developed the necessary skills. He knew how effective they were through his success with large animals such as the deer. He selected his best. He was set on using them on something more than game.
That night Messny ventured off to the outskirts of town and commandeered a horse. Returning to his camp he set about his preparations. He bathed himself in smoke and sat immobile as the image of the flames purified his mind. He made his peace with the world, allowing his thoughts to journey back through all the places and people he had known, to thank the spirit that flowed through them all and connected them, to give thanks for the beauty and pleasures and to say his farewells. By the time he had completed his rituals he was prepared for death.
Using pigments he had created from the minerals and herbs he painted himself and the horse using symbols and designs that flowed out of his spirit. He discarded his clothes, cut his long beard and plaited his hair. The only thing he wore were the belts necessary to carry his weapons.
When all was ready he led the horse to the top of the hill overlooking the moors and stood on the tor as the sun began its journey above the rim. He watched as the light crept into the clouds and drove the darkness back. He watched the clouds festooned in their purples, mauves and rosy reds and he gave thanks. He was saying goodbye to the beauty, wonder and mystery he had shared. He was making peace with the universe for the last time.
He stood bathed in that glow, silhouetted against the sky – a man.
Some things were worth dying for.
When the sun was up and the last star had been swallowed he turned his back, mounted the horse and headed off to his destiny.
Messny breasted the hill and looked down at the crew below. They had opened the gates of the compound and were milling around preparing for the work ahead. Nobody noticed the lone horseman on the hill.
Messny urged the horse into a trot and as he approached he set it into a full-blown gallop. As he neared the startled faces, hearing the thudding of the hooves, turned to register the horse with the painted man bearing down at them.
He raced through the gates and into the compound sending people diving out of the way with shouts and warnings. He had already, like any hunter of worth, selected his target, the foreman supervisor who was standing in front of the office with a look of shock horror on his face.
Messny wheeled the horse and let fly with a single arrow. It struck dead centre through the heart. Without pausing he turned the horse and galloped back through the compound and out as the man crumpled and fell.
People were yelling; there was pandemonium, yet for Messny it was as if he was encapsulated in a bubble of silence where the entire world was slowed into a surreal unreality. Around him the faces were screwed into grotesque caricatures, mouths were open, screaming, but he heard nothing. Men were turning towards him, some appeared to be hurling rocks, some waving fists, some scrambling to their feet, some towards some away, but none of it penetrated his bubble. He guided the excited horse through the uproar and out through the gates.
As he headed back up the hill it unfroze, everything speeded up and the yells and fury followed like an explosion in his wake. At the top of the hill he turned the horse and stood looking down at the scene below. Below, in the chaos, men were shouting, pointing and gesturing; a bunch of them were gathered around the body on the floor. Messny could not see if the man he had shot was still alive. He doubted it. He could tell when he had loosed a shot that was true.
In among the calmness of his thoughts there were those of regret. That man had not been to blame. He probably had a wife and children, friends and relatives. Taking a life was a terrible thing to do. But who was to blame? He dismissed the thoughts and returned his mind to stillness. It was not over yet. There were still things to be done.
He sat on his nervous mount, holding it in check as it snorted and pawed the ground. He watched and waited. The time would surely come. The people in the compound continued to mill around, standing in small groups, gesturing wildly and pointing towards him. The angry noises drifted up to Messny on the wind. But not one of them made a move towards him.
Within an hour vans arrived. An ambulance on full blue light rushed up. Police spilled out of a variety of vehicles. Two big vans pulled up and armed police in full protective uniform slid out in well-oiled drill, weapons at the ready. They took up positions around the compound with many training their guns on him. But no shots rang out. He could see a discussion going on between those in charge. A helicopter appeared overhead. The ambulance roared away but there were no blue lights this time.
Messny waited patiently.
Finally he could see a decision had been arrived at. The armed police, anonymous in their flak-jackets, helmets and uniforms headed out of the compound and moved in an arc towards him. They spread out at the base of the hill responding to the guttural commands. All the rifles were pointing at him. The helicopter hovered lower overhead.
‘Dismount!’ A voice commanded from the sky. ‘Get off your horse! Lay down your weapons and raise your hands!’
Messny showed no sign of having heard the instructions. He stared passively down at the troops below as they fanned out through the undergrowth.
‘You have no escape! Get down off your horse now!’ The voice boomed.
Messny ignored it. His eyes swept along the line of troops assessing the strongest point. His mind was as clear as a mirror. His emotions were quiet. He knew he would know when the moment came. He blotted the voices out along with the chattering of the helicopter.
He looked back over the moors that he had called his home. There in the distance was the corrie he had lived in. All the colours of the heather, bracken and gorse glowed in such vividness that they brought tears to his eyes. What a beautiful world to have lived in. He looked up at the sky and imagined falling into that vivid blue. Gentle clouds drifted in the distance. The sun’s warmth was on his skin. It was a perfect day.
At that moment the time arrived.
With a shrieking whoop of delight he kicked the horse and sent it careering down the hillside towards the troops below. As he stormed towards them with one arm raised bow in hand shouts rang out, the loudhailer blared and he could see the gun barrels pointing as the troops raised their weapons to their eyes and sighted. He roared a great defiant whoop, gripped the horse tightly with his knees and tried to fit an arrow to the bow-string.
A series of cracks rang out. Messny felt as if he had slammed into a brick wall. He was smashed off the back of the horse as it careered madly on.
The media had a field day. There were photos of the painted madman who had killed the supervisor. There was even footage of his last stupid charge towards certain death. The whole world was enthralled by the ridiculousness of the White Indian and his war against the machinery. There was speculation about drugs and mental illness as well as conjecture and recrimination for his heartless killing of the poor foreman. The pictures of a painted Messny mounted on his painted horse became a common sight. Magazines and newspapers wrote endless articles as they delved into all the aspects of his life and picked over the remains of his campsite. Some environmental groups even adopted him as a symbol of rebellion against the madness that was destroying the world.
The road was built without further hindrance and in the days to come the traffic zoomed past oblivious to the spot where Messny had made his last gesture.