The Woodcutter (25 page)

He opened the handkerchief and took out a bone, placing it upon the edge of the parapet.

He heard the guards’ footstep drawing closer.

The fishbone stuck and grew larger.

He placed the next bone upon the last.

He picked up his precious cargo and stepped upon the ladder.

The ladder held.

Bit by bit, he climbed through the sky.

Halfway up, he looked down upon the castle, down upon the raging guards as they poured out onto the roof, down upon the raging Queen, who stood shouting orders, down as the guards began to climb up the ladder behind him.

But still he built, the bones in his handkerchief magically replenishing themselves after each bone that he took.

When the ladder reached the clouds, he climbed upon the stone path that bisected the dust fields. He turned and kicked the ladder.

He watched the fish bones break. Piece by piece, they shrunk and fell. He watched the guards scurry backwards and fall, tumbling to the earth.

He looked down upon the castle, no larger than a pinprick, so far beneath him.

There was nothing the Queen nor the Gentleman could do to stop him.

He opened the bag and gentle wings fluttered.

One by one, he lifted the pixies from the bag and placed them upon the clouds. One by one, they looked up at him from upon the soft pillows of stolen dust.

As far as the eye could see, he placed their bodies. Their pinks and blues and greens became an undulating ocean of wings and flickering light.

The Woodcutter did not stop. He continued until, finally, he lifted the last pixie from the empty sack and placed it upon the last cloud.

With gentle gasps, they gulped in the life force that had been stolen. With gentle gasps, they began glowing stronger as they left barren holes in the field of dust clouds, absorbing and reclaiming the captured magic.

Tentatively, a pixie lifted from the clouds, and then another. They hovered, almost unbelieving, and then swooped and then soared. They joyfully sped to the earth, suddenly aware that they were alive and well.

The Woodcutter sat upon the path, the path that once, a million lifetimes ago, he had walked to reach a Giant’s home. He sat, suddenly weary, and watched that final pixie waken. He watched as it shook off the stupor and stared at the world in awe.

The pixie took off as the last rays of the sunset faded.

And it was done.

The Woodcutter looked out over the dusky farmlands, over the forests, off to the horizon. He looked down at the lives that did not know he hung his feet over the edge of a world above theirs.

And he felt peace.

Peace.

But even as the Woodcutter marveled, the light of the pixies began to gather, began to swirl and grow larger until the faces of those that he had carried to safety were level with his.

Thousands of faces shone at him with gratitude, thousands of faces opened their mouths and thanked him with gentle bell like sounds.

The pixies drew closer and touched him, soft gentle fingers against his skin, upon his clothes, gentle hands that felt like soft wind on a summer’s evening.

Those soft hands lifted him, lifted him like water, and together, they rose into the sky.

He was flying.

He laughed, exhilarated, supported by the wings of thousands of pixies, supported and carried through the night, past the milky moon, past stars and shooting lights, and he did not know whether they were heavenly bodies or heavenly fae.

His flight lowered and his foot touched down upon the earth, touched the soft green grass of his Woods.

His heart filled so that he thought it would overflow and break with happiness.

He stared at the cloud of the tiniest fae, those fae whose lives had been large enough to fill his entire world. Slowly they began to dart before him, and then faster they came so that he couldn’t even see beyond a wall of their sparkling light, couldn’t hear beyond their tinkling laughter.

Each touched his cheek, soft as a feather’s kiss, before flying away.

He watched them go, spreading out against the sky, like new constellations playing amongst the stars.

Chapter 74

He woke, his head cradled in the crook of his arm.

The earth did not chill his bones, but was a tender embrace.

He looked up at the blue autumn sky, a blue sky without a cloud in sight.

He knew the wrath of the Queen and the Gentleman would be great, but their power was weakened.

He had struck a fatal blow.

Those who falsely sat upon the thrones of the Thirteen Kingdoms would have the blue within their veins fade to red without the dust. The Kingdoms would appoint rightful rulers.

The Kingdoms would not look kindly upon the false faces of the Dancing Ladies.

The Woodcutter stood and stretched. His path now led him elsewhere – to the hellhound that the Queen and her Gentleman had freed, the Beast that they had made an unwitting partner to their greed.

His heart sank.

He knew what it meant to face the Beast.

He drank in the sun as if he would never see it again.

For indeed, he never would.

Chapter 75

A wind chime tinkled in the breeze whispering,
Hush
.

He could feel the presence surround the house, the silver fear that had haunted him his entire journey, but for whatever reason, it did not materialize.

The Woodcutter pushed open the door and shut it behind himself. His hand was upon his Ax as he walked up the steps.

He had met this Small One like he had so many before her, gathering flowers in a field.

Small hands clutching flowers.

She had been going to visit her grandmother who was not feeling well.

His mouth became dry.

Golden curls against the red velvet cape.

He had followed her here, like he had all of the other Small Ones he had been unable to save, unable to help, for sometimes the fae called their mixed-blooded brethren home.

He breathed deeply and turned the handle to the bedroom.

The flowers the child had gathered lay scattered upon the floor.

But the Grandmother sat up in the bed and the Small One sat at her feet.

The Woodcutter felt like weeping.

She was alive.

They were alive.

The Grandmother held a finger to her lips.

The Woodcutter lowered his Platinum Ax as the wind began to roar. He crossed to the bed and sat next to the Small One. The Woodcutter’s fingers toyed with the straps of the secret pocket of his pack, which held Odin’s horn.

The house shook and the wind rumbled at the eves.

The old woman closed her eyes.

And the wind swept past.

“You have journeyed long to meet us, Woodcutter,” the Small One said.

Her voice was to wise for a child. Her eyes bore deep into his soul.

The Woodcutter took her dimpled hands in his and replied, “I have met your true mother and learned of your true father and I am afraid that you are in danger, Small One.”

The hellhound howled into the darkness.

The Small One’s eyes grew large, but her voice was clear as she asked, “Will you protect me?”

Her tiny hand gripped the Woodcutter.

He nodded, accepting his fate.

The Grandmother looked at the Woodcutter sadly.

“You know what you must do,” said the Grandmother.

The child reached into her basket and withdrew a small silver tin. The Woodcutter took it, staring at the shiny surface, knowing what lay within.

The child reached up and patted his cheek gently.

The Woodcutter rose to his feet.

He took the final Ax and walked to the front door.

He stepped from the threshold and looked at the trees and willed away their voices as they whispered,
Quiet!

His fingers left the Ax and he stood exposed to the growing darkness. He opened up the tin and threw the contents, the handful of faerie magic, up towards the sky.

He heard the Beast’s panting and growling, the massive feet as they tore through the distance to the Woodcutter.

And the Woodcutter allowed himself to be frightened.

Standing at his father’s side, holding the ax for the first time.

The garden they planted outside the little cottage in the Woods.

The harvest dance and his wife looking over her shoulder at him in the firelight.

The fae trapped in cold iron.

Sitting upon the top of the world and watching the lights far below.

His wife’s shy smile and her hands upon his face, kissing his in tender goodbye.

The memories flashed before his eyes.

He was afraid.

So afraid, he dropped the Platinum Ax and his soul leapt from his body and ran from his mortal shell, willing to do anything to get away.

His spirit soul touched the earth, and the sound echoed through the trees.

A silent reverberation of such depth it shook the gathering darkness.

The spirit souls of trees looked at him, their faces visible for the first time in his life.

Eyes that watched and pleaded.

His leg stretched out to run.

He felt the presence of the fae gather in silent witness.

He reached out with his other leg and it was matched by the sound of a mighty paw behind him.

He turned and looked over his shoulder.

The Beast’s vacant eyes met his, gray and soulless, knowing nothing but the hunt.

His leg stretched for another step and he heard the cries of the world begging him to stop running.

But the light was before him, a doorway caught in the empty air.

He knew it would mean peace.

But those voices still cried, still screamed at him to stop.

And then he saw her eyes in the top window of a house.

Eyes in a house from a memory of something he once heard.

Blue eyes framed by curls the color of autumn straw.

He felt a mighty force pulling him away from the doorway.

He felt his feet dragging him backwards, with force equal to his as he ran

And the child’s lips whispered, “Stop.”

Her whisper cut through the wind. Cut through the darkness. Cut through immortality.

And he stopped.

He turned.

And the Beast was upon him, knocking him to the ground.

The creature’s jaws flashed towards the Woodcutter’s throat. He lifted his arm and felt the hellhound’s teeth sink through to the bone, shaking and ripping, throwing the Woodcutter to the side before pouncing upon him again.

The Woodcutter rolled to a crouch and flung himself upright to dodge the Beast.

A frightened cry escaped his lips, a cry that seemed to come from someone else’s throat.

His hand was at his waist and his hand felt an ax of wood and iron.

He tried to remember what it was…

Where it came from…

And then he remember…

It was his father’s ax.

He withdrew it from his side and he held it before him.

The hellhound licked his jowls and the Beast sprang.

The Woodcutter slashed with his ax as he ducked to the side.

He heard a whimper as the blade struck the Beast. The blood that ran was silver and blue. The wound shimmered as the Beast snarled and leapt to attack again.

The Woodcutter caught him, flipping him over his head.

The hellhound landed on his feet next to the body of a middle aged man who appeared to be sleeping.

The Woodcutter yelled at the man, “Get away!”

But he did not move.

Then the hellhound charged once more at the Woodcutter.

Out of the corner of his eye, as he held back the Beast, the Woodcutter saw the doorway of light fade and disappear.

Panic overtook him as he flung the dog away.

Once again, the hellhound charged, knocking him down, and he landed next to the sleeping man.

The man looked so familiar.

Then he remembered.

He remembered what the hellhound was.

He remembered why he was here.

He remembered why a Platinum Ax lay discarded upon the ground.

He was the Woodcutter.