The Woodcutter (9 page)

The pixie’s laugh tickled its way down the Woodcutter’s body, warming and wiggling as it went. It sloughed away all sorrow. It carried away all worry. The Woodcutter’s mouth spread into a wide grin and he leaned his head back, laughing deep from his belly.

The lights in the trees glittered back in response, the tinkling sound of the faerie filling the night.

The Woodcutter passed by another treetop. Tucked within the knots and indentations of the wood was a pixie nursery. Curled in blankets of leaves, snuggled into the gentle support of the wood like pussy willows, the pixies blossomed and grew. As the Woodcutter laughed, the baby pixies’ eyes opened and they were awake like Christmas morning.

They rose from their beds and brushed up against the Woodcutter, touching his hair and wondering at his buttons, even as the trees tried to shoo them back to bed.

And then he passed a tree of bleached white wood and all the pixies withdrew. A forgotten moth drifted through the empty branches. The nursery had been robbed and the tree’s dryad was dead. The silence and emptiness of that tree burned itself into his mind.

He would not forget his promise to the trees.

He traveled for hours, finally falling asleep in the gentle movement, like a child cradled in a parent’s arms.

He woke as his feet touched the marshy ground at the edge of the Woods.

The sun was rising.

Chapter 27

The morning haze did not burn off in the midday sun.

The trees had become sparse and his skin crawled.

He did not like the world without the dappled shadows from the sun filtering through the leaves. He did not like the size of the sky.

Bogs lay to the right and to the left. The dirt trails of the forest had been replaced by a wooden road, the logs laid upon the soggy peat.

His shoulders ached and he longed for his wife’s fingers to work out the knots.

He shifted his pack.

Too long,
his feet seemed to patter.
Too long,
he had been away.
Too long.

The faint clank of a cowbell was the first warning that he was not alone.

A man’s voice pointlessly instructed, “Gitup,” to the sound of wheels and hooves.

The Peddler’s wagon emerged from the mist, red and blue, hitched to a single ox. The Peddler pulled back on the reins and pressed the brake down with his foot.

He and the Woodcutter regarded one another.

A heron cried.

“Well, there, sir. I didn’t seem to think I’d find a fellow out these parts,” the Peddler smiled as he pushed back his hat. “You wouldn’t be in the market for a…”

The Peddler looked at the Woodcutter, trying to size him up.

“I suppose I might have some items that might interest you. Why don’t you stop a spell with me? I’ll brew some coffee and we can talk some business.”

The Woodcutter said nothing.

The Peddler shifted uncomfortably in the silence, “Of course, if you prefer something stronger, well, I might be able to find something to suit your taste. Nothing like a little dust to relax a fellow.”

The Woodcutter held up his hand, “No dust. Plain coffee would be fine.”

The Peddler slapped his thigh, “There we go. Thought the cat got your tongue, there.”

He turned around and ducked his head into a small doorway in the cart. He pulled out a large coffee mill and gave the Woodcutter a wink.

As he turned the handle, instead of coffee grounds, a fire fell from the mill. Then a grill. Then a steaming coffee pot and two full cups, two armchairs and a table.

Then the Peddler stopped grinding.

“That should do it,” he said.

The Peddler hopped off the cart and walked over to the coffee. He picked up one of the cups and handed it to the Woodcutter, “Dust free, just as promised.”

The Woodcutter took the coffee cup and smelled it cautiously before raising it to his lips.

The Peddler laid his finger on the side of his nose, “You have no idea how glad I am, too. Far too many people looking for dust, if you ask me.”

He sat in the armchair, “Come, rest your feet. I promise you there is no place to sit for the next fifty miles.”

The Woodcutter accepted his invitation.

“So do you have a name there, sir?”

“I am called Woodcutter.”

The Peddler blew the steam from the coffee and took a tentative sip. He smacked his lips in appreciation, “Fair enough. So what brings you out these parts?”

“I am looking for the Crone.”

“Never heard of her. Where’s she live?”

“I am not sure.”

The Peddler laughed, “Well, that does make things a bit more difficult. How are the roads ahead?”

The Woodcutter looked back where he had come from, “You would do best not to enter the Woods. Strange things are afoot.”

The Peddler’s eyes were at once sharp, “There are strange things all over.”

“Not like this.”

The Peddler leapt to his feet, his eyes upon the Woodcutter’s Ax.

“While you finish your drink, perhaps I can interest you in some wares for your coming journey.”

He went to the back of the wagon and pulled out a beautiful ax that glistened in the gray light. Its handle was stout and curved for the perfect grip.

“With a name like Woodcutter, you perhaps might be in the market for this beauty.”

As the Peddler brought the ax closer the Woodcutter winced.

He could hear their cries, the cry of the innocent wood whose sap had been unwillingly spilled.

A thousand voices screamed.

“I have no use for such a thing,” said the Woodcutter.

The Peddler stopped, shrewdly, “But, such a fine ax. Why, a gentleman like yourself sure could use a backup instrument for your trade.”

The Woodcutter swallowed down the bile rising in his throat, “Put it away, Peddler. Otherwise, our time together is done.”

The Peddler tucked the ax back into the back of his cart, “I thought so.”

He came back to the Woodcutter, holding a small object wrapped in a handkerchief, “I believe this is for you.”

The Peddler pulled back the corner of the cloth. Gasping in his palm was a small pixie, whose eyes opened and shut, unable to focus.

The Woodcutter’s hand was immediately upon his Ax.

The Peddler did not notice. His eyes were trained upon the tiny creature, “I scooped it up as it fell from the air. It was so close to touching the ground.”

He looked at the Woodcutter. Shadows played upon his face. He was a man haunted, a man who knew what it meant when a pixie touched the earth.

He gently transferred the bundle into the Woodcutter’s hands, “You winced at that ax… I figure maybe so close to the trees, some of those stories my mother once told me might be true. Figure maybe you might know someone who could help.”

The pixie smiled at the Woodcutter, feeble and weak.

And the Woodcutter knew. He knew that the pixie would not last the journey to the Wood, would not last long enough to reach a tree whose heart was pure enough to heal the life force that had been drained.

He reached down and willingly nicked his thumb upon his father’s ax.

But instead of blood, something else flowed.

Clear.

Sticky.

He held his finger, gashed willingly to allow the sap to flow to the mouth of the fae.

The pixie drank hungrily.

And then fell asleep.

The Peddler stepped back, all cunningness gone. Only fear remained as he said, “I have met many strange men upon my journey…”

The Woodcutter looked at him, “And so you have today.”

“What make of man are you?”

The Woodcutter knew he could not deny the clear blood that seeped from the wound. He looked down at the small sprite that had forced him to reveal his true face, “I am one with the trees, a cutting of my father, and of his father, and of his father before him. I was born of the earth and not the womb.”

The Peddler whistled low and with wonder, “A walking talking wood cutting. Well, I thought I had seen everything.”

The Woodcutter looked at him seriously, “Do not venture into the Wood, my friend. The danger is great.”

The Peddler took out the coffee grinder once more and began turning the crank in reverse. The objects flew through the air and disappeared back into the grinder’s mouth.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

The Woodcutter felt something in his pocket grow heavy, “I must give you payment for this little one.”

He pulled out the three seeds and poured them into the Peddler’s palm.

“Now, what am I going to do with three seeds?”

“They are magic,” said the Woodcutter.

The Peddler turned them over in his hand, “Seeds, you say? They look a bit like beans. Maybe I’ll get someone to trade me a cow for them or something.”

He laughed hard at his joke.

“Well, hardly seems fair, trading one injured pixie for three magic…beans… Seems I’m still in your debt,” he put his finger to his nose, “One pixie for one bean. How about I pass you some information for that second bean?”

The Woodcutter nodded.

The Peddler pointed down the wooden road, “You’ll come to an intersection ahead. Make sure to take the left hand fork or go straight ahead. There’s an odd house to the right, an odd house with an odder group of people. I went in thinking the kitchen staff might be interested in something I had to sell, but instead I found this little one, practically drained. Keep to your left or straight ahead. You don’t need to be venturing to your right. Beyond that house is a village and a sorry kingdom that has been nothing since the Princess disappeared.”

The Woodcutter looked at him sharply, “Disappeared?”

“Disappeared. She was a sad little thing. Hadn’t smiled in years. The King said anyone that could make her smile, why he could marry her, sure thing. But one day she went to bed and the next day she was gone. The King and Queen went mad. Threw themselves from a cliff. Can’t say I blame them, but the town’s in a mess as they try to find an heir from all the people walking around with only red blood.”

The Woodcutter felt the pixie stir.

The Peddler wiped his face with a red handkerchief, “Meanwhile, some boy came through carrying a golden goose and everyone who tries to touch the boy gets stuck. Don’t know if they ever found a way out.”

The Peddler rolled the seeds in his palm, “Well, seems that I still owe you one more thing to pay off the balance for…these…”

He went to his wagon and closed his eyes. He took a giant breath and allowed his hands to rest upon an object.

“I suppose this is for you,” he said. It was a medium sized package. “I guess you shouldn’t open it until you’re supposed to.”

The Woodcutter nodded and placed it inside his pack.

The Peddler climbed up into the seat of his cart, “Travel well, Woodcutter.”

“Travel well, Peddler.”

“Well traded, my friend! Well traded!” he cried as his cart and the cowbell disappeared into the mist.

Chapter 28

The Woodcutter went straight at the crossroads. The chosen path left the Twelve Kingdoms, but provided a shortcut to the far side of the Wood. He felt the Kingdom end and the Duchy begin the moment he stepped foot across the border. The colors were duller and the shadows were without mystery. It was a land without magic.

It was the Kingdom of the Pure Ordinary.

The lowlands were no place for wheat fields and corn. The saturated peat rotted the roots of any plant besides the tall grasses and rice paddies. The natural iron that filled the bogs repelled any magic that tried to take hold.

Which is why he was started when he first saw the butterfly.

Its wings were beating slowly in the mud. It was made of gold and encrusted with jewels. The Woodcutter bent down and lifted it from the mire, brushing off the filth as best he could. The butterfly rested for a moment and then took off, limping through the air towards the Woods.

The Woodcutter wiped his hands upon his trousers and watched it as it flew away.

The bejeweled butterfly was far from its home. It was far from the boundary of the Twelve Kingdoms and deep in the Kingdom of the Ordinary for a butterfly.

It was not unheard of, but odd.

The Woodcutter turned back to the road, but the hollow wind made him uncomfortable and he did not like to be without the counsel of the trees.

Hours later, he saw before him a low rising hill, which seated a stone city where the Duke of Plainness made his home.

The Woodcutter walked through the gates to look for a place to spend the night.