The Woodcutter (5 page)

Odin eyed the hanging body of the Huntsman, “A sacrifice.”

The observation was tinged with pleasure. Odin pointed his finger and the hellhounds stalked towards the corpse. But then they stopped, unable to pass beyond the ring of fallen fae. One turned and whimpered to his master. Odin pulled on Sleipnir’s reins and drew close. He looked down upon circle of pixie corpses.

The clouds began to rumble.

“Who would commit such an atrocity?” he roared as Sleipnir reared up against the night.

As the wind tore the words from his throat, the Woodcutter extended his arm and shouted, “Him that hangs from the branch. I have bound him to this earth for anyone who can mete out proper justice.”

The world became very still as Odin looked down upon the Woodcutter, “You are sly, my friend.”

And then Odin began to laugh. He laughed a terrible, horrible laugh that splintered the sky, “Indeed, someday I shall hunt you, but, tonight, your revenge shall feed the Wild Hunt.”

Odin barked a guttural command and the hellhounds’ noses shot to the ground. He turned back to the Woodcutter, his voice full of menace, “And now I name the price. There are those that meddle within my realms. One of my very own hounds refuses to answer my call.”

A cold grain of fear burned in the Woodcutter’s belly.

“Return to me my hound.”

It was a command, not a request. The Woodcutter bowed his head, feeling the weight of a million worlds placed like a yoke upon his shoulders.

“Do not look so down,” Odin laughed. “Afterwards, if you wish to Hunt, you can join the Ride.”

A mournful howl rose from the throat of a hellhound.

Sleipnir snorted fire from his nose.

“We Hunt!” Odin commanded.

The mounts screamed and the hellhounds cried as the wild magic broke like a wave upon the shore, led by Odin into the night.

A single Valkyrie grabbed the Huntsman’s corpse. She swung the body in circles above her head by the tail of the hangman’s noose as she disappeared between the trees.

Chapter 18

The Woodcutter watched as the Hunt’s noises faded into the chaos of the storm, a storm that would rage until dawn.

He looked around the clearing. The grass had not been touched by the hooves of the Wild Hunt’s beasts.

The circle of the fae seemed so small and sad, now that their purpose was done.

He turned.

Snow White stood, silhouetted in the moon. Her eyes held the wildness reserved for beasts. They were eyes that had seen too much.

She had seen the Hunt.

And she had not run.

The Woodcutter knew the price she must have paid to still her legs and will them to hold their ground.

“Princess…” he said as he stepped towards her.

She shook her head as her blue blood, blood thick with ancestry of fae, claimed a mind that no longer wished to be human.

“Princess…”

Like a hind, she stood ready to fly. Like a creature of the Woods, she dared him to follow.

“Princess…” and he waved his hand, quietly striking her with his spell.

She slumped to the ground.

He was suddenly tired.

Very, very tired.

But the night was not over, for, at that moment his ears picked up the most peculiar sound – a million tiny bells, pinpricks of gladness within the wild night.

The wind stopped abruptly, although the trees outside the clearing still swayed.

All exhaustion left him.

He reached a hand to the tree beside him to keep the glamour from his eyes. He could feel its sap beat in time with his heart. He breathed in, trying to force his mind to remember that which was drawing close.

The bells awakened a memory from a lifetime ago.

A memory at his father’s side.

Honeysuckle.

Night blooming jasmine.

He breathed out and welcomed the soft purple light as two small creatures flew into the meadow and then another two.

Faeries filled the clearing, their radiance chasing away the darkness. A happiness settled into his heart as the trees whispered glad greetings.

And then his heart seemed to stop.

It was a sight not meant for human eyes, but he had seen it once before.

On a litter, supported by four cloven-hoofed fauns, rode an impossibly beautiful couple with skin so pale it seemed to capture light and reflect it. Flowers bloomed at their feet in a never-ending cycle of birth and fell from the litter, leaving a trail of life wherever the couple was carried.

The Woodcutter fell to his knees, his hand still pressed against the tree.

The fauns lowered the litter to the ground and the couple rose. Their slender limbs seemed to glide.

“Your Highnesses,” the Woodcutter whispered.

Queen Titania smiled gently at him before touching her husband’s sleeve, “Oberon, we have found here our greatest friend.”

The glamour was almost too strong, the ecstasy of being in their presence too much.

Only one finger remained on the tree.

Only one finger guarded him from madness.

Oberon looked at the tiny bodies of the murdered pixies. His face held such infinite sadness. He walked to their circle and waved his long fingers over their forms, “Sleep my young ones. No longer children of air, I give you to the earth.”

Quietly, the earth cradled their bodies and, quietly, the earth covered them in a blanket of dirt as soft as an embrace. Soon, there was nothing but a barren ring of freshly turned dirt.

“Until we meet again,” he said.

Oberon walked to the hangman’s tree and touched the elm’s sturdy trunk, “Gentle friend, we thank you for your sacrifice. By my touch, I remove the deed from your sap and once again you grow untainted.”

The tree seemed to lean into King Oberon’s hand, seemed to almost sigh.

But then, Queen Titania raised her chin, listening to a gentle whisper. “But there is reason to celebrate,” she said. She walked to the outstretched limb of one of the trees and ran her hand across the fresh cut that covered the injured pixie, “Gentle friend, within you rests one who otherwise would have died.”

A million lights danced in the night.

She lowered her lips and laid a silver kiss upon the wound, “In the spring, indeed you shall blossom and, in the spring, such life you will bring forth. You will live for many ages and your kindness will not be forgotten by my people. Gentle rains shall wash you and gentle winds shall be your friend. Forever will this grove be protected, forever, because of your love.”

She passed her hand once more across the cut, and where it passed, the bark was restored.

Then she stopped, staring at the fallen Princess Snow White, who lay in silent slumber.

The Queen raised her hands and a host of her handmaidens flew to the girl. Titania looked fondly upon Snow White and whispered tenderly, “Good Princess, gentle soul of mortal and faerie, we are bound by the blood of the Huntsman to bind you to our realm for eternity. But because your deed was committed in defense of those our most beloved, you shall be our honored guest and shall be protected by us, your shared people, until the need is no more.”

Queen Titania’s ladies came forward and surrounded Snow White in glowing light. Slowly, her body lifted from the ground, lifted up on ribbons of color and air.

King Oberon returned to the litter and held his hand out for his wife to join him. She ascended, her movements like a summer’s doe. King Oberon turned to the Woodcutter as the litter was raised, “We thank you for honoring our fallen brethren. We have heard the Wild Hunt and know that justice will be done.”

King Oberon observed the sky, “Too much magic has been taken. The veil between the mortal and immortal is crossed by one whose foot should never pass. We have learned that Odin’s hound runs free. Seek out the Crone for the answers. We shall meet when the Hunt rides again.”

Queen Titania raised her palm in blessing, “Like your father before you, and his father before that, these Woods shall be your friend for as long as you remain our servant. We shall be your people until beyond the time your soul outgrows such mortal trappings. Terrible dangers walk the night and to you alone falls the task of setting these Woods right.”

The Woodcutter reached out in thanks.

And his last finger left the safety of the tree.

His eyes closed, overwhelmed by the glamour.

A million bells rang sweetly in his ears.

A million feather touches passed over his skin.

A million quiet voices whispered and giggled.

Seek out the Crone…

Seek out the Crone…

His eyes opened to the dawn. A perfect ring of forget-me-nots grew in wild profusion beneath the gentle shadows of a dark green elm tree.

Chapter 19

He strapped the Platinum Ax to one side and his father’s ax to the other. He had one more chance before he would have to return to the River God and risk a trial that could lose his father’s ax forever.

Seek out the Crone.

He turned his head in the wind and closed his eyes.

A soft breeze blew across his cheek.

He stretched his senses to the earth and a golden glow seemed to come just off to the left of where he was standing.

He opened his eyes, settled his pack more comfortably upon his shoulders, and began his journey.

Chapter 20

The mansion was new.

Sometimes the landscape would shift to confuse weary travelers and those who should not wander in the Woods, but the Woodcutter could feel the true paths. He knew this one and the mansion had not been there before.

It rose five-stories, with slender white pillars supporting a darkly gabled roof. Surrounding it was a carefully tamed garden, its pruned bushes and manicured lawn sharply contrasting against the wildness of the Woods, the property line divided betwixt the two by a curled-iron fence.

It must be dealt with. The Woodcutter loosened the Platinum Ax. The Woods did strange things to humans, especially humans who had a distant touch of the fae within. It turned them from ordinary people into mad hermits, cannibals who ate children thinking they were made of gingerbread, and people who swore they had been asleep for one hundred years.

If a person’s blood ran royal blue and their magic was powerful enough, they might survive the Wood. To live, it was either full magic or none at all.

Or none at all…

None at all…

His wife.

His hands rested upon the gate to the mansion and he could almost feel her plain fingers upon his shoulder.

Her caring, ordinary touch as she brought him his pipe as he sat by the fire at night, as she brought him a steaming cup of coffee in the morning, for no other reason than to tell him that she loved him, for no other reason than to express in an ordinary way that she cared...

A cup of steaming coffee…

The steam from the tea he had set before the Princess…

The water in the basin, red with the blood of the Huntsman…

He forced the memory away.

He opened the gate and stepped onto the grounds. A low mist appeared, swirling around his legs as if tasting him. He kicked it away and walked to the imposing house.

He knocked upon the door and when no answer was forthcoming, he knocked again. The door swung open silently.

He stepped into the entry, tiled in grey and white marble. The windows were swathed in heavy black drapes. Odd music trickled down the hall, echoing empty, hollow notes. He walked towards the music and found himself before a large double door that stood ajar.

Inside was a ballroom with lit candles that flickered dim in the gray light of day. The room was filled with snoring bodies of lords and ladies reclining upon mutely colored couches. They were sleeping, yet dressed in evening splendor. Feathered heads and powdered wigs leaned against jewel-bedecked bosoms and tilted shoulders.

But one person was awake – a frighteningly pale gentleman with blood red lips and dark circles under his eyes. He sat at a piano, playing the drifting tune that called the Woodcutter.

The Gentleman looked up as the Woodcutter picked his way through the room. His words lolled out casually, “Come to sample the dust? Or merely to be a part of such lively company?”

Even relaxed, the Gentleman moved like a panther in the jungle. The Woodcutter’s hand never left the Platinum Ax.

“How did this House come to be in my Woods?” asked the Woodcutter.