CHAPTER 5

The Woodcutter sat by the deep water as it rushed by. He opened up his pack and placed his lunch upon the grass. There was a time and a place for movement, and the wind had whispered, Hush.

So the Woodcutter sat by the riverbank and finished his journey cake to the last crumb before the wind gave him leave to begin.

He took an onion from his pack. Carefully cutting it, he rubbed its juice across his hands and then moved to the water’s edge. His hands unstrapped the ax at his side, an ax that was owned by his father and his father before him. He leaned over and listened to the water, listened to its gentle words as it guided him along. He listened and waited for the build to reach a crescendo.

And then he casually allowed the ax to fall.

“Oh, my ax! My ax!” he cried, wiping his eyes with his onion-laced fingers. As they burned, he made sure his tears fell into the river.

“Honest woodcutter, why do you cry?”

He looked up. A wrinkled old man with white whiskers and beady eyes sat in the fast current as relaxed and calm as if resting in a washbasin.

The Woodcutter felt the magic shape the words that came out of his lips: “I have lost my ax in the river, and without my ax, I shall not be able to cut wood for my family. Without wood for my family, my wife will surely die.”

There was a gleam in the River God’s eye. “Why, honest woodcutter, I would be happy to fetch your ax from the river. Wait here and I will be naught but a moment,” said the god.

The Woodcutter sat. The wind blew the hair on the back of his neck the wrong way.

The River God bobbed back to the surface. In his hand was an Ax of Shining Silver with green emeralds along the handle.

“Here you are, woodcutter. I have brought you your Ax.”

The Woodcutter looked at the Ax and felt a strange warmth settle in his bones. It was the warmth of good memories and the notes of a beloved song. His eyes fell upon the emeralds.

Woodcutter, they whispered.

He could not tear himself away.

Woodcutter, the enchanted emeralds seemed to say. Think of the comforts that just one of our stones could buy. Look at this silver. Think how it could be melted down and made into a necklace for your wife. Oh, how her eyes would sparkle; oh, how her face would light with joy.

But his wife was plain and ordinary, he thought. She would laugh at him if he should even try to present her with such a gift.

Woodcutter, the emeralds enticed.

He thrust aside their call with a violent presence of will. “I am sorry, I am afraid that is not my ax.”

The River God’s face broke into a disappointed frown. “Are you quite sure?”

The Woodcutter shook his head wearily. “Indeed, that one is too fine for me.”

The River God dove back down to the bottom of the water.

The Woodcutter wiped a cold sweat from his upper lip.

The River God came to the surface again. In his hand was an Ax of Gleaming Gold studded in rubies.

“This is the only other Ax I have found.”

The Woodcutter swallowed. The rubies were the color of passion. Such passion, they promised, and such love they could bring him. Red is your wife’s favorite color. A golden comb with red rubies to pull back her hair. If you were a loving husband, the rubies hissed, you would seek out pretty pleasantries for a wife as good as yours.

But he thought of his wife with rubies in her hair as she kneaded the bread and tended the fire. He clung to that image. His wife was simple and pure, he thought, and silenced the rubies’ call.

He shook his head. “I am sorry, kind sir. But that too is not my ax.”

The River God’s teeth ground together, the sound of jagged bone against bone loud enough to be heard over the current. “Are you quite sure?” he asked.

The Woodcutter nodded.

The River God said nothing, but dove once more beneath the surface.

The River God returned, this time with an Ax of Pure Platinum encrusted in diamonds.

“Here you are. I have brought you your Ax.”

Woodcutter, the diamonds sang, and their song felt like drowning. Woodcutter, think of our strength, of our use. We can cut through any material. The diamonds glinted in the sun. Wouldn’t your dear, sweet wife like a gift she could use?

They pointed at their platinum. The Woodcutter could not breathe gazing upon the beauty.

Look, we shall never tarnish. How happy your wife would be for this gift.

He could feel his wife throw her arms around him, feel her hands in his hair and her breath warm upon his neck. She gazed into his eyes and whispered in the diamond’s voice, With just one diamond, I would never have to slave in the cottage one more day. With just one diamond, I could live like a queen.

The Woodcutter drew in a ragged gasp and tried to gather thoughts of his wife, of her smiling face in the garden, grinning up at the sunflowers towering overhead. He thought of her in the deepest night, curled beside the fire to feed a young kitten that had been left by its mother too soon. She was humble and wise and knew how the world worked as it did. She would not wish to live like a queen. And though the diamonds called Woodcutter, he shook his head a third time and said, “I am sorry, I am afraid that Ax is not my own.”

The River God’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Are you quite sure?”

“Indeed, you are most kind, but this Ax is not my own.”

The River God disappeared once more.

The Woodcutter swallowed, his breath tight in his ribs.

The River God returned and in his hand was the humble ax the Woodcutter had dropped.

“Oh, kind sir, you have found my ax!” the Woodcutter exclaimed.

A rumble of thunder sounded overhead. The River God roared in anger. “Since you are so honest and were guided by truth and not greed, all three Axes shall be yours.”

The Woodcutter stood.

Many times, river gods would quietly hand over such gifts, but this god seemed to have played the game before.

The Woodcutter ducked as the plain ax spun toward his heart. He moved again as the Platinum Ax whizzed by his head. He leapt as the Gold Ax narrowly missed his shoulder and the Silver Ax sped at his knees.

The River God disappeared beneath the water, steam marking his exit as the surface boiled with his fury.

The Woodcutter picked up his father’s ax and held it tightly for just a moment before placing it safely in his pack.

His hands trembled.

The ax was his birthright. Its humble iron head and plain oak handle held more power than any crown. Without his father’s ax, there would be no more gifts from river gods. Without his father’s ax, no son would ever find him. Without his father’s ax, the Wood would claim him.

He tied the Gold and Platinum Axes together and stowed them away. He strapped the Silver Ax to his side and continued on in a direction far from the river’s bank.