Read Online The Woodcutter by Kate Danley; © Lolloj / Fotolia - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kate Danley; © Lolloj / Fotolia
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Dryad.
Another bough came forward, cradling him as the trees transferred his body from one to the next.
“Remember your promise.”
The trunks began closing behind him. The eyes of the pink dryad never left his face until the final moment of the bark’s embrace.
Swiftly the trees moved him through the swamp, high above the chill of the water.
A small light darted curiously to his face. The newborn pixie was the size of his thumb and as round as baby chick. Its large black eyes studied the Woodcutter before laughing and darting away.
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 The dirt trails of the forest had been replaced by a wooden road, the logs laid upon the soggy peat.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
Another bough came forward, cradling him as the trees transferred his body from one to the next.
“Remember your promise.”
The trunks began closing behind him. The eyes of the pink dryad never left his face until the final moment of the bark’s embrace.
Swiftly the trees moved him through the swamp, high above the chill of the water.
A small light darted curiously to his face. The newborn pixie was the size of his thumb and as round as baby chick. Its large black eyes studied the Woodcutter before laughing and darting away.
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
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