THE TRIALS OF THE WOODSMAN
by Cassandra Wright
The Trials of the Woodsman
Published by Cassie Wright at Smashwords
Copyright 2013 Cassie Wright
Once upon a time there was a Woodsman who lived by a very dark wood in a cottage with his only son. His wife had passed away while giving birth to his boy, and ever since the Woodsman had treasured his son as the light of his life. Each morning he would tend to the babe and then carry him into the woods with him so that as he worked and chopped down trees he could keep his boy close by and safe. As the years passed his son grew, and many were the days that the Woodsman chopped while his boy played and laughed in the long dark grass, chasing black butterflies and marveling at the ancient trees.
Each night they would return home, several large trees stripped and bound to an axle which their two horses would pull along a rutted track until their cottage came into view. Each night the Woodsman would entertain his son with stories of the woods, of the monsters that lived there and the adventures that young princes had had beneath the great canopy. He would set a fire burning within the fireplace, cook a pot of stew, and sharpen his ax as his boy sat close by, listening with his little chin in his hands of talking foxes and white ravens, of witches and wizards and gnomes and wolves. Each night the Woodsman would tuck the boy into bed, and each night the boy would ask him, "Father, are there really such monsters in the woods?"
And each night the Woodsman would smile and say, "No, my son, they are but tales. Sleep, and know that I love you."
This continued for many years. The Woodsman grew strong and broad-chested, his beard thick and his hands powerful. He made enough each year to keep them in house and home. Eventually his son grew old enough to cherish independence, and one morning he asked his dad if he could explore the forest alone.
"Alone? I'm not sure that is a good idea, my boy."
His son, nearly ten years old, looked at him imploringly. "I've been in the woods my whole life, father, but never left your sight. I know the song of the thrush and can follow the path of the fox, I know elderberry from poisonous nightshade, and I just want one morning to explore."
The Woodsman set down his wooden spoon and considered the boy. His young face was earnest and his eyes shone, and with a sigh the Woodsman realized that he could no longer keep him close by his side every day. "Very well, my son. Today you may explore where you will. But be by the glade where I'm working by midday so that we may lunch together. Understood?"
His son leapt up with a whoop and ran round the table to embrace the Woodsman. Grabbing his coat, he ran to the door, and turned with a brilliant smile. "I'll see you at lunch, and what tales I'll have to tell you!" Then he ran out the door and was gone.
The Woodsman smiled for awhile, and then slowly his smile slipped away. He looked out the small open window at the forest close by, and thought of his wife dead these nine long years. He thought of her smile and her merry laugh, her way with animals and her infinite patience. He thought of her hips as she walked, the sinuous way she moved that would drive him mad with passion, and how she would always pause and look over her slender shoulder at him in a manner that he could not resist. Sadness washed over him, and he said out loud, "I miss you, my love. I miss you more each year. Our boy is growing, and soon he will be gone, and then I will be alone in our home, alone with memories of a life we should have shared together."
He stood then, and took up his ax. It was a mighty ax, with a haft of yew and a blade of black metal that his father had told him had been forged from a fallen star. It could bite into a tree so deeply that only four swings were needed to fell even the greatest of oaks, and once a passing noble had offered him five gold coins for it, but he had refused. The handle was smooth and polished from years of his holding it, and it was his most prized possession. With his ax in hand, the Woodsman left his cottage, harnessed his two horses, and entered the wood to work.
There was a pleasure in hewing down trees, though he also felt sadness at their having to fall. He would find a fine and mighty oak or mahogany tree, and then measure its height and girth and gauge where best it should fall, then after loosening his shoulders and swinging his mighty arms, he would take up his ax and get to work. One swing and the blade would bite deep. Two and a great wedge of wood would fall lose. Three and the crack would be driven deep, and four and the tree would groan and sway perilously before falling with a mighty crash that would sound throughout the forest.
All morning he worked, searching for the perfect trees in a glade deep in the woods, felling them and stripping away their branches and leaves. When he finally stopped and looked up at the sky his brow was wet with sweat and his shirt clung to his muscled torso. All was silent. He took a deep breath and rested his ax on his shoulder. It was just midday, and yet there was no sign of his son. He walked to his horses and took up a waterskin from which he drank deep. He set it down, and looked at the path that led back to the cottage, seeking the familiar form of his son running to meet him. There was nobody there.
The foreboding grew stronger, but he resolved to stay calm and wait. His son was no doubt carried away by his liberty and had merely forgotten the hour. He sat on a stump and waited, his ax across his thick thighs, and watched the path. The sun slowly slipped across the sky, and an hour passed with agonizing slowness. The foreboding turned to fear, and when two hours had passed and his sweat had long since dried, the Woodsman stood and gathered the reins of his horses and led them back to the cottage.
"No doubt my boy mistook what I asked and is waiting for me there," he said to Dollop, the white horse to his left. "He'll be sitting at home, and with a laugh will spring up at the sight of me and ask what took so long." Dollop nickered, but Hessop, the black horse, stayed quiet.
There was nobody at the cottage. He put the horses in the paddock, and then turned to survey the great woods. His fear was great now, and he thought of all that could have befallen his son. He took up his ax, put on his coat, and strode into the woods. "Wherever he is, I shall find him," he said to himself. "No matter where he is, or what has happened to him, I will find him and bring him home."
He left the path and walked into the wild wood. The trees were young at the edge, and there were bushes and undergrowth aplenty at first, but soon the trees grew old enough to lift their crowns high, and the only sun that reached the forest floor came in narrow rays of golden light.
The Woodsman passed badger holes and bushes of berries, paused to examine the tracks of deer and to sniff at the wind, but always he followed the marks his son's shoes had left on the soft floor. His sharp gaze never erred, and on and on he went, following the path his son had chosen. The path followed a narrow brook for awhile that gurgled and sang as it poured over mossy stones, and then turned away to circle around huge trees as if in a game. He saw signs that his son had paused to sit on a smooth gray stone, and there were crumbs around the rock that hinted at a quick meal. Onward the tracks went, ever deeper into the woods, and soon the Woodsman realized that he had gone deeper than he had ever gone before.
At the point where his son should have turned back in order to return by midday, the Woodsman saw that his boy had come to a stop. Kneeling down before the tracks, he examined the dirt and saw sign that his son had turned slowly back and forth, as if seeking something, searching for something in the woods before him. Then he had set out, ever deeper into the woods, but where he had skipped and meandered before he now moved with purpose, in a straight line, his stride long as if he were nearly running.
On and on he followed the tracks which never strayed, never paused or and never stopped. The trees had grown so old and mighty that they seemed as large as his cottage;
behemoths that rose up to such heights that the Woodsman could barely make out the great branches above him in the gloom. The ground grew covered in a rich golden moss that was so thick and springy beneath his boots that he felt almost half his weight. With the fear now gripping him about the throat he set out at a run. Each step was so buoyant that soon he was running ever deeper into the woods with great bounding strides, springing from step to step so that he covered ground faster than he would have even at a flat run.
A snarl drew him short. The Woodsman froze, and dropped his ax from his shoulder into both hands. A predatory figure emerged from behind a tree and the Woodsman beheld a great lion, tawny skinned and with a mighty mane about its neck. Its eyes glowed like amethysts and its tail lashed the air behind it. Gripping his ax tightly, the Woodsman watched the great beast without fear. If it had slain his son, then it would pay with its very life.
Slowly the lion approached him, tail whipping from side to side. Then, just as the Woodsman prepared to draw back his ax, the lion seemed to relax and snarled no more. Its tail dropped down and it lumbered up to him without any threat in its face. Surprised, the Woodsman stayed still, not believing his eyes. When the lion reached him it rubbed against his thigh and curled about him, purring deep within its chest, a sound so powerful that it sounded as if boulders were shifting within the depths of the earth.
The Woodsman put out his callused hand and ran it down the length of the lion's muscled body. It was warm and powerful to touch, and seemed not to mind the Woodsman's caress at all. It pulled away and purred once more, and then began to walk into the woods. The Woodsman watched it go, but when the lion paused to look over his shoulder at him, he realized that it desired to be followed, so he set out after it.
It grew dark as he followed the lion, and the Woodsman knew that soon it would be night. He thought only of his son, and vowed over and over to the memory of his wife that he would do whatever it took, even if it meant following this beast to its final destination. As they walked they were joined by a wolf, a great rangy beast with massive jaws and fiery eyes and a coat of black fur, and then a second wolf and a great bristly boar with tusks as large as the Woodsman's forearms. These great beasts fell in line with him, as more and more of them emerged from the shadows to escort the Woodsman as he followed the lion. Soon he walked in the midst of a great crowd of predators and powerful animals, each dangerous to the extreme and worthy of a great hunt replete with nobles and princes and hounds and horns; but here, tonight, they seemed only to wish to walk with him as he was led into the heart of the wood.
The forest grew dark, and finally they reached a glade. The wolves and boars peeled away, so that only the lion was left to lead him into the open. Out from the trees they walked, and the Woodsman saw a beautiful house standing all alone in the center of the glade, glowing under the light of the full moon. Amazed, the Woodsman looked up into the dark sky and saw that night had fallen while he walked under the trees. The sky was clear of clouds and the moon so bright that he cast a shadow upon the grass.
The lion let out a roar, and then turned and slipped away into the trees, leaving the Woodsman all alone. He turned back to the house. It was large and ornate and beautiful, looking as if carved from ivory, with a grand entrance and large windows, all of which were dark but one on the top floor. The door, he saw, was open.
No normal house should exist this deep in the woods; this he knew with a certainty born of a life spent amongst the trees. Yet here it was, fit enough for a king, well kept and elegant and beautiful beyond desire. The Woodsman shifted the ax from one shoulder to the other, and then took a breath and walked up to the front door.
"Hello?" He looked inside, but all was dark. He cupped one hand to his mouth again and called, "Hello? Is anybody home?"
There was no answer, but he knew the house was not abandoned; the light upstairs was testament to that, though nobody returned his call. Carefully, as if stepping out onto glass, the Woodsman entered the house. The entrance hall was grand and imposing with a massive staircase curling up around one side to the second floor, while numerous doors led deeper into remote and silent rooms.
"Hello?" This time he didn't expect an answer. He mounted the staircase, one hand moving along the smooth and cold balustrade as he rose, step by step. No answer. No sound. Yet he could feel a presence about him, an awareness. The owner of the house knew he was there, of that he was certain. He felt goose bumps rise along the back of his neck, but the fear he felt was only for his missing son, so with firm resolve he climbed the stairs and stepped out into the landing.
The hallway was long and passed many doors before reaching the open door at the end from which golden light streamed. The Woodsman took a deep breath. Though light poured forth from the open door, he couldn't see within. Lowering his chin, he marched down the hall, step by weighty step, and when he reached the door he pushed it open with one broad hand and stepped inside.
A woman was seated with her back to him, brushing her long golden hair in a tall oval mirror. A great bed stood to one side, large enough for five, and everything was luxurious and beautiful, though nothing as beautiful as the woman. He could see her reflection in the looking glass; she was young and delicate and her lips were ruby red and her eyes lined with a mascara so dark that her eyes seemed to see through his soul. She wore a black dress on which was printed an endless and complex floral pattern, except down her back which was covered with black lace. Her skin was porcelain white, perfect and smooth, and her hair was so long that it fell almost to her hips. It was golden like the sun, golden like his son's laughter on a merry morning, golden and perfect and so was she.
All this time she had observed him in the mirror, not turning, nor ceasing to brush her hair. With slow languid strokes she ran her brush through her locks, watching him with neither fear nor amazement nor anger at his presence in her bedroom. With a each stroke, the Woodsman realized that was exactly where he stood, uninvited, himself a stranger and intruder in her most private of spaces.
"My apologies," he said, taking a step back. "I'm lost and searching for my son. A lion brought me here, and I called at the door, but nobody answered." His voice sounded gruff in the elegance of her bedroom, rough and unpolished, and for the first time in his life the Woodsman felt awkward and out of place, unsure of himself and his manner. All the while the woman brushed her hair, and watched him, and finally a small smile tugged at her lips.
"Don't go." Her voice was as light as the wind passing through the trees, at once unnatural in its cadences and filled with yearning. The Woodsman stopped at the door. She set the brush down carefully, deliberately, and then twisted on her seat to look at him directly.
Her eyes were a blue so dark they could have been black, so large and rimmed with shadow that he could not have looked away if he tried. Her skin was without a line anywhere, as if she had never seen the rays of the sun, and her features so fine that she could have stepped forth from a dream. With tremendous effort he broke her gaze, not wishing to be rude, and lowered his eyes. Her waist was as narrow as a child's, but her breasts were full and strained against the black dress, with only black lace covering her cleavage. The Woodsman felt his face burn, and then looked away, to the side, where a large white cat slept within a wicker basket filled with rainbow hued balls of wool.
"I had you brought here," she continued, voice firm and with a confidence of one much older than her appearance. "I knew that you would follow your son."
"He is here?" The Woodsman started forward. "Where?"
"Outside." Her smile was wicked, but the Woodsman didn't care. He rushed to the window and threw it open. Outside all was dark, but he could see golden eyes in the woods around the glade, watching him from between the trees.
"With those wolves and lions?" He turned furiously to the woman, and saw that she had risen to her feet. She was tiny, barely over five feet tall, her thick head of golden hair falling in cascading curls to her waist. She watched him, and there was no fear in he
r gaze, no discretion or propriety.
"He is. Even now he walks amongst them, but don't fear. He is quite safe."
"Safe with wolves? Are you mad?" The Woodsman took three long strides toward her, and just barely managed to stop himself from gripping her arm. "I must go to him!" With that, he stepped around her, and made for the door.
"You will not find him!" Her voice was a clarion call, and the authority in her tone stopped him before he could cross into the hall. "You may search all night and tomorrow and forever after, but you will not find him. He has become one of them."
The Woodsman felt his heart clench, and he turned to stare at the woman. She stood, hands behind her back, chin lowered, and watching him through her thick lashes. "What do you mean, he is one of them?"
"A wolf. He walks on all fours even as we speak. I turned him into a gray haired beast when he arrived, and in such form will he stay until I release him."
The Woodsman gaped at her, and then shook his head. And yet. The lion had led him on. The wolves and boars had walked beside him, as calm and quiet as domesticated dogs. This house. This room. This woman. He knew, deep in his soul, that he believed her.
"Turn him back. Return him to me."
"Such is within my power."
"Then do so!"
"Only if you pay the price."
The Woodsman raised his ax and rushed toward her, only to stop with the ax held high, the blade shaking in the amber light of the room. "Turn him back, or I will strike you down!"
Fearless, the young woman gaze up at him. "I know you will not. For one, should you do, you would never see your son again. He would slip away amongst the trees like a fish into the ocean, never to return. And two." At this she reached out with her hand, and with one icy cold finger traced the curve of his bicep, tracing it slowly, savoring the swell of the muscle and the power in his arm. "And two, you are not the kind of man to strike down a woman, no matter how much you wish it were otherwise. Am I wrong?" She looked up at him with wide eyes, darkly amused at his plight.
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