by Dave Shelton
He get there, and he wait awhile, and awhile more, and then big tall fellow who is chamberlain come and take him to king.
“Your Majesty,” say woodcutter, and he kneel down. “How might I serve you?”
The king, he has forgot all why woodcutter is here, so he ask chamberlain, and then chamberlain start to explain to king. And then after little while king is bored and so he tell chamberlain to deal with woodcutter while king go off and have nap.
“Is curse of Northern Woods,” say chamberlain. “Is problem there, and king, he like you go there and solve, yes?” And he say it like question, but is not question that woodcutter should answer. So woodcutter he stay quiet. He smart cookie, but he look not so keen on going to Northern Woods.
“You very good before, when you kill evil Prince Frederick from land of enemies,” say chamberlain. “Land of enemies make war with us, we win war, we make country bigger, king make more money. Is good thing. King, he hope you like house and lands and money he give you?”
“His Majesty very generous,” say woodcutter.
“Yes, indeedy,” say chamberlain, and he roll his eyes. “So, king have favor to ask.”
And then chamberlain explain about Northern Woods, and people who go missing, and legends about red tree, and there is, too, other legends about silver ghost, and he roll his eyes again and say: “Tch! Country folk! We would take no notice, only queen’s maid’s cousin live in village, and queen say we will do something. So we send you with guards, make sure you arrive all safe. Make sure no bandits in woods slow you down. Then you chop down red tree, lift curse, calm down superstitious local peoples, and everybody happy.” And this time he not even pretend to make question. Woodcutter, he have no choice.
“Is my honor to serve king,” he say.
“You bet your boots, mister,” say chamberlain. “You leave at dawn.”
The next day is long ride to Northern Woods. Woodcutter and escorts not waylaid by bandits on journey. Is just boring. And guards boring, too. Is enough to tell you: all very glad to arrive at village.
Tomas, son of miller, see woodcutter and guards coming and run to tell village elders, and so they come out to greet. But when they see woodcutter and guards they not so happy.
“Is that it?” say one of them. “We send to king for help and all he send is two fat old soldiers and dandy. And for this we are paying taxes?”
Guards not like being called fat and old (because they fat and old) so they say: “We not stopping. We here to deliver this fellow all safe and all sound. We go now.” And they go.
Elders look at woodcutter. One of them say: “What you meant to be, anyhows?”
Woodcutter get down off horse and try to stand all brave and manly and impressive.
“I am woodcutter Yan Haval,” he say, “hero of Southern Woods, slayer of evil Prince Frederick from lands to north, savior of kingdom, and proud servant of King Emil the Wise!”
“You are Yan Haval?” say elder. “You shorter than ballads say. Oh well. You bring ax?”
“Yes,” say woodcutter, and he sigh. “I bring ax.”
“I suppose you will do. Come have soup and we talk.”
So they take him to house, give him soup and bread and they tell him legend of silver ghost and red tree. Only they argue and can’t agree how story go. There is red tree and there is silver ghost, and some children and menfolk go missing in woods, and some cattle and some plants die. This much they all agree. But rest? Oh boy! One say silver ghost live in red tree. One say, no, you fool, red tree grow fruit to protect from silver ghost. Another one say, you both wrong, silver ghost guard red tree. This all go on very long time and woodcutter very bored. Also, soup is no good.
Woodcutter say, “You want me cut down red tree?” and his forehead go all wrinkles like plowed field. The elders, they have little chat between them, all quiet and whispers and secrets. Then they say to him: “Yes, please, thank you very much.”
So they draw him map. Is pretty bad map, because of arguing, but give some idea of where is red tree, and woodcutter wanting to leave, so he pick up ax and walk off toward dark woods. As he go, he pass children singing in street, teasing younger boy. They sing:
“Child, don’t stray in dark, dark wood,
For whether you bad or whether you good,
Where the red tree grow
From the bones below
The silver ghost will drink your blood.”
Is such nonsense, think woodcutter to himself. Such silly superstitions! I find this red tree, I chop it down, I back to city in time for market day. And he smile to himself at thought of chamberlain’s daughter, who he promise to take around market. She very pretty girl with hair all shiny shiny and skin like moon on water. So he stride through woods, following way marked on terrible map, and he look for red tree.
Now, is funny thing: see, he know full well all village folk just silly billies with their fears and superstitions, but as light fade and shadows grow long and dark, woodcutter, he start to find woods all scary and sinister. He feel like when he was little boy. And he realize he see and hear no birds and no animals, all he hear is own footsteps, fern and bracken under feet, sometimes crunch of twig that make heart thump harder in chest. And it get darker and all little shadows join up into one big shadow, like monster made of night that loom over him.
Now, woodcutter, he is used to forests and woods, but even so, he find he feel afraid, just a little bit. Is very annoying and he tell himself off. Silly man! And he set down his pack and he make camp for night. And he make nice fire—to keep warm, not because he is afraid of dark, oh, no. And when he sleep and he keep waking up, is because ground is hard and uncomfortable, not because sound of wind through high branches make him anxious, and not because of dreams of pale figure, glowing all silver, walking toward him with arms all outstretched.
Woodcutter wake at dawn. Fire is out, and he cold and tired, and he not think in straight lines, and dreams he had still in head little bit, like morning mist not cleared, like echoes. But then he start to see right, and head start to clear, and echoing sounds from dream are still there. Is real sound, not dream. And is close.
Something coming.
He really scared like little boy now, so he do what little boy do and he think: I climb tree and hide. When he little boy he hide from village children up tree. Most people is never looking up. Is good hiding place. So he grab pack and he look all quick for good tree, and he very lucky man because straight ahead is very good tree. Bark is pale and stand out in twilight, like is saying: “Pick me! Pick me!” And has low branches make easy to climb.
He race up quick (is like up ladder is so easy) and he find comfy branch, is maybe twenty feet up, and he settle. And he stay very still and he look down through branches and he look for whatever is making noise. Is rustling leaves and cracking twigs, and is louder, so must be closer now, but still he cannot see what. He shift body, just very little bit, and all slow and quiet, looking down all different angles, through all different gaps in crisscross branches. Dawn light is all broken up and branches all shiny frosty, they go all wobbly wibbly for his eyes, make head dizzy. He blink all tight and shake head and he look again, and he hear his own breathing, like sound of sawing, and see breath all clouds in cold morning air.
And he wait and he watch, and noise still is louder, but still he see nothing. And still, and still … Then—at last!—he glimpse some moving thing in down below. Not silver ghost, though. Is something dark. What is? He remember chamberlain talk of bandits in woods. Is man maybe? He see again something, just for little moment, and he hear all snuffling and grunts. Is no man. Then it move to where he see good through big gap in branches, and he see is boar! Is big fat boar! And boar is very not ghost! Woodcutter, he laugh, all relieved. Very short laugh like stab or punch. “Ha!” Like that. He feel like fool. He laugh again, loud, with head back and mouth all open wide.
This when he see. Through tangly branches above is something glinting all sparkles near top of
tree. He decide to climb and see. Is easy at first, like before, like tree is helping. Always is place for foot to go, always is branch for hand to grip. So he climb up very fast, and he keep seeing glinting shining metal above but only little bit, and always not clear what is.
But then is tricky bit. Is place where big branch has broken off. Is only jagged sharp stump that stick out from trunk, then next branch up is long way and hard to reach. He take off pack, and jam into forked branch at feet, then he jump up. Is brave thing. Is very high up now and if he fall, is killing him. He grab branch above with both hands, but one slip off, and he swing and he nearly fall. Leg bash into sharp stump of broken branch and he cry out painful. But he hang on, and he grab on with other hand and pull up himself. He look at leg. Is cut all bloody, but not so bad.
He look up again. Flashy metal shining is easier to see now, but still not see what is. And now, also above, he see dark shapes in branches, maybe like nests or some other something like? But big nests. He climb some more. His leg hurt little bit and he go slower and have to concentrate quite hard, but he go up and up okay, and eventually he reach the shiny metal thing and is medallion. Is pretty thing. Maybe is good gift for chamberlain’s daughter. He wonder how is getting there up tree. Maybe bird carry it up and it fall from nest. He look up now at nests.
Is not nests.
Is raggedy cloth, all torn up and tangled, rags swaying in breeze. And in rags is bones. Is human bones. Woodcutter, he see rib cage first, then other thing else. Maybe arm, maybe leg. And is more nests than one. Is five or six, all same, all rags and bone bodies. He make no cry, but his breath go all fast and loud, and his heart same. He think he is far enough high up tree now. He think now he go down.
But he look down and see no way. Branches is all wrong now. He try to see way he come up, but is not what he remember. Is very strange. He trying to reach leg down one way and he scrape cut against knot on trunk and, oh, it hurt very much! He howl all loud, then he try to pull leg back up, but somehow is stuck. Foot is caught between two branches somehow, and pain is hot and wet. He reach down left hand to feel, bring back up to face. Fingers dripping very red. Is bad cut. And foot still stuck.
He reach up high and take hold of branch above head, ready to pull leg free with strong pull. With bloody hand he grip branch tight and he see blood drip onto bark, run into grooves in bark. Blood is drawing red lines on branch and he is watching.
And blood disappear.
Is like blood evaporate. Or is like blood is sucked into pale bark. Is very scary strange, even to brave woodcutter. And seeing is making woodcutter all stiff and still, and he is feel like leg is stuck more tight now. He try to pull up, but only more pain. Is not moving. If only he have ax! But is below with pack. He tell himself when back down to ground, he is making revenge and chopping tree down. Is good practice before he chop also down red tree. And he smile one second.
Then he scream.
Is new pain now in right hand. He twist his head and look up and he see impossible thing. Is new twigs grown from branch this second. Is like fingers grasping hand. Is crushing hand. He try to pull it free but is no good. Twigs go more thick and more tight and hand is gripped very, very strong. So now is one leg and one hand trapped and is much pain. Woodcutter pull and twist and kick, wild and all panic, but is no good. More twigs grow, and they go thicker and they grip free hand and leg and they pull them and make still.
So now woodcutter all still all over. He cannot move one thing except to twist his head a little. And he call out to empty forest for help. He cry and scream. But only for just little while, because is new branch growing, wrapping around chest like is big snake, and it go tight, and more tight, and is squeezing air out of lungs. Is crushing big strong hero, Yan Haval, like is eggshell.
Breath of woodcutter is just tiny thing now. In, out, just little bit. Is little gasps. All he do now is watch and feel. Even to cry out, now he cannot do. And he feel chest all very so tight, and all pains is everywhere.
Very slow and all agony he twist neck and look up, up into highest branches, all frosted in cold morning air. And he see branches is all icy silver. Is silver like ghost.
And all slow, tree is growing new twigs. Is like teeth of wood, like teeth of snake, like wooden fangs all biting in his flesh, growing into him. Is so much pain. Is no words for this pain.
And woodcutter feel blood is all spilling out, running down his body, running down onto tree. And he strain his head to look down, to see his blood. Staining clothes all torn and ragged, and dripping down all fast. Is like red stream flowing down grooves of bark. Is painting bark.
Is making red tree.
Jack sits bolt upright, his arms stretched down by his sides, his hands clutching at the seat of his chair. His chest feels tight, as if he is himself caught in the crushing branches of the red tree, and his breathing is rapid and shallow. He fixes his eyes on the table in front of him. He doesn’t want to look at anyone else just at the moment, not until he’s calmed down. He looks at the pattern of the grain in the wood.
Then, when this makes him think of the tree, he moves his attention to his candle, sees the molten wax dripping down the sides, like the woodcutter’s blood. So he stares very hard at the candle holder. It is a dull bronze dome with a hole in the top and it doesn’t remind him of anything. It is the plainest, most boring thing, and he studies it closely until he is breathing more or less normally again.
Piotr, his enormous hands gripping the edge of the table, is leaning forward and swinging his head from side to side, surveying the others, gazing at them with wide puppyish eyes, looking for their reaction. Weather-beaten Mr. Fowler is the first to respond.
“Well, that’s a grand tale, sir, and well told. I’ve heard few finer, and you know I have heard very many in my time. Thank you.”
“So glad you like,” says Piotr, and continues to swing his nodding head from side to side in a grateful arc, taking in the smiling approval of all but one of the others around the table. He doesn’t notice the exception at first, but Jack does.
Next to Frances Crane is a woman in her fifties, with cruel eyes and a hooked nose. She makes a tiny snorting noise, and Jack looks over at her, but without moving his head: just darts his eyes in her direction. She has a rather sour expression on her face. Jack imagines it must be one she finds a lot of use for.
Piotr frowns massively, his face a caricature of disappointment. “You do not like, Mrs. Professor?” he says.
“Oh, it’s a jolly enough little tale of its kind, I suppose,” says the professor. “But it’s not really what we’re here for, is it? More of a folktale, really. Folktales from Eastern Europe were something of a specialty of mine back at the university, you see, so I do know about these things. Your little story seems to be nothing more than a slight variation on an old Polish tale, with a few elements of one of the Mother Adela stories from Romania thrown in for flavor. This sort of cross-fertilization is fairly common in—”
“Is not Polish story,” says Piotr quietly and slowly. “Is not Romanian story.” He is staring Professor Cleary straight in the eye. “Is my grandmother’s story. Is true story my grandmother tell.”
He stands up, and he’s even bigger than Jack thought. He leans forward, palms flat on the table, arms braced, looming over the professor. She looks a lot less sure of herself now.
“She tell with little true words. Not your long fancy-pants words, Mrs. Professor Fancy-Pants.” His voice is still quiet.
Professor Cleary blinks. “No. Quite.” She blinks again. “And, ah … that very simplicity is what gives the tale its charm.” She forces an amateur smile. “Very well done, Piotr. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you, Piotr. Your grandmother would be proud, I’m sure,” says gray-haired Frances, smiling warmly and tapping the fingers of one hand lightly against the palm of the other in polite applause. The bangles around her wrists make more noise than her clapping. The others murmur and smile their praise, too.
Piotr’s be
ard splits open again to unleash a wide, unruly grin, full of childish delight and bad teeth.
“Thank you, Piotr,” says pale Mr. Osterley.
Piotr blows out his candle, then lifts his chair back and away from the table and sits back down on it.
“And now, perhaps, Professor Cleary, you might take your own turn?” says Mr. Osterley.
“Er, yes. Yes, of course. I, um …” The professor gives a little cough. She leans stiffly forward, her bony arms knotted tightly across her chest, and she looks at her candle for a moment rather than facing anyone. Then she blinks and turns her head, slowly unwraps her arms as if she’s trying to conceal the fact that they were folded in the first place, and subtly shifts her expression, pulling a grimace into a false smile.
She starts to speak, in a voice made of dust.
“Well, you may think my story rather dreary and down-to-earth compared to Piotr’s, I’m afraid, but I hope you’ll still find it agreeable. It concerns a fellow of my former university, albeit many years before my time there …”
Professor Seabright could not sleep. He could not sleep and he did not know why, and this annoyed him.
He was certainly tired. It had been a long day, and he had walked a good deal in the hot sun. Past experience suggested that exercise, sun, and plenty of sea air during the day would usually ensure a very good night’s sleep to follow. But not tonight, it seemed.
He thought back to try to find some cause. Well, there had been that funny turn he’d had at lunchtime, but that had been quickly over, and he hadn’t thought of it since. He had eaten nothing unusual at dinner and drunk no more nor less wine with it than usual, and he had come up to his room and to bed at the usual kind of hour. So he had expected to fall asleep at the usual time, too. He had changed into his nightwear and stacked his neatly folded clothes on a chair. The mattress had creaked a quiet hello to the weight of him as he lay upon it, and the cold bedclothes had warmed their welcome. He had lain there in serene comfort and warmth and turned off the lamp and closed his eyes.