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 The dirt trails of the forest had been replaced by a wooden road, the logs laid upon the soggy peat.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 wink.

As he turned the handle, instead of coffee grounds, a fire fell from the mill. Then a grill. Then a steaming coffeepot and two full cups, two armchairs and a table.

Then the Peddler stopped grinding.

“That should do it,” he said.

The Peddler hopped off the cart and walked over to the coffee. He picked up one of the cups and handed it to the Woodcutter. “Dust free, just as promised.”

The Woodcutter took the coffee cup and smelled it cautiously before raising it to his lips.

The Peddler laid his finger on the side of his nose. “You have no idea how glad I am, too. Far too many people looking for dust, if you ask me.”

He sat in the armchair. “Come, rest your feet. I promise you there is no place to sit for the next fifty miles.”

The Woodcutter accepted his invitation.

“So, do you have a name there, sir?”

“I am called Woodcutter.”

The Peddler blew the steam from the coffee and took a tentative sip. He smacked his lips in appreciation. “Fair enough. So, what brings you out these parts?”

“I am looking for the Crone.”

“Never heard of her. Where’s she live?”

“I am not sure.”

The Peddler laughed. “Well, that does make things a bit more difficult. How are the roads ahead?”

The Woodcutter looked back where he had come from. “You would do best not to enter the Wood. Strange things are afoot.”

The Peddler’s eyes were at once sharp. “There are strange things all over.”

“Not like this.”

The Peddler leapt to his feet, his eyes upon the Woodcutter’s Ax. “While you finish your drink, perhaps I can interest you in some wares for your coming journey.”

He went to the back of the wagon and pulled out a beautiful ax that glistened in the gray light. Its handle was stout and curved for the perfect grip.

“With a name like Woodcutter, you perhaps might be in the market for this beauty.”

As the Peddler brought the ax closer, the Woodcutter winced.

He could hear its cries, the cry of the innocent wood whose sap had been unwillingly spilled.

A thousand voices screamed.

“I have no use for such a thing,” said the Woodcutter.

The Peddler stopped shrewdly. “But such a fine ax…Why, a gentleman like yourself sure could use a backup instrument for your trade.”

The Woodcutter swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. “Put it away, Peddler. Otherwise our time together is done.”

The Peddler tucked the ax back into his cart. “I thought so.”

He returned to the Woodcutter, holding a small object wrapped in a handkerchief. “I believe this is for you.”

The Peddler pulled back the corner of the cloth. Gasping in his palm was a small pixie whose eyes opened and shut, unable to focus.

The Woodcutter’s hand was immediately upon his Ax.

The Peddler did not notice. His eyes were trained upon the tiny creature. “I scooped it up as it fell from the air. It was so close to touching the ground.”

He looked at the Woodcutter. Shadows played upon his face. He was a man haunted, a man who knew what it meant when a pixie touched the earth.

He gently transferred the bundle into the Woodcutter’s hands. “You winced at that ax…I figure maybe, so close to the trees, some of those stories my mother once told me might be true. Figure maybe you might know someone who could help.”

The pixie smiled at the Woodcutter, feeble and weak.

And the Woodcutter knew. He knew that the pixie would not last the journey to the Wood, would not last long enough to reach a tree whose heart was pure enough to heal the life force that had been drained.

He reached down and willingly nicked his thumb upon his father’s ax.

But instead of blood, something else flowed.

Clear.

Sticky.

He held his finger, gashed willingly to allow the sap to flow to the mouth of the fae.

The pixie drank hungrily.

And then fell asleep.

The Peddler stepped back, all cunningness gone. Only fear remained as he said, “I have met many strange men upon my journey…”

The Woodcutter looked at him. “And so you have today.”

“What make of man are you?”

The Woodcutter knew he could not deny the clear blood that seeped from the wound. He looked down at the small sprite that had forced him to reveal his true face. “I am one with the trees, a cutting of my father, and of his father, and of his father before him. I was born of the earth and not the womb.”

The Peddler whistled low and with wonder. “A walking, talking wood cutting. Well, I thought I had seen everything.”

The Woodcutter looked at him seriously. “Do not venture into the Wood, my friend. The danger is great.”

The Peddler took out the coffee grinder once more and began turning the crank in reverse. The objects flew through the air and disappeared back into the grinder’s mouth.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

The Woodcutter felt something in his pocket grow heavy. “I must give you payment for this little one.”

He pulled out the three seeds and poured them into the Peddler’s palm.

“Now what am I going to do with three seeds?”

“They are magic,” said the Woodcutter.

The Peddler turned them over in his hand. “Seeds, you say? They look a bit like beans. Maybe I’ll get someone to trade me a cow for them or something.”

He laughed hard at his joke.

“Well, hardly seems fair, trading one injured pixie for three magic…beans. Seems I’m still in your debt.” He put his finger to his nose. “One pixie for one bean. How about I pass you some information for that second bean?”

The Woodcutter nodded.

The Peddler pointed down the wooden road. “You’ll come to an intersection ahead. Make sure to take the left-hand fork or go straight ahead. There’s an odd house to the right, an odd house with an odder group of people. I went in thinking the kitchen staff might be interested in something I had to sell, but instead I found this little one, practically drained. Keep to your left or straight ahead. You don’t need to be venturing to your right. Beyond that house is a village and a sorry kingdom that has been nothing since the Princess disappeared.”

The Woodcutter looked at him sharply. “Disappeared?”

“Disappeared. She was a sad little thing. Hadn’t smiled in years. The King said anyone that could make her smile, why, he could marry her, sure thing. But one day she went to bed, and the next day she was gone. The King and Queen went mad. Threw themselves from a cliff. Can’t say I blame them, but the town’s in a mess as they try to find an heir from all the people walking around with only red blood.”

The Woodcutter felt the pixie stir.

The Peddler wiped his face with a red handkerchief. “Meanwhile, some boy came through carrying a golden goose, and everyone who tries to touch the boy gets stuck. Don’t know if they ever found a way out.”

The Peddler rolled the seeds in his palm. “Well, seems that I still owe you one more thing to pay off the balance for…these.”

He went to his wagon and closed his eyes. He took a giant breath and allowed his hands to rest upon an object.

“I suppose this is for you,” he said. It was a medium-sized package. “I guess you shouldn’t open it until you’re supposed to.”

The Woodcutter nodded and placed it inside his pack.

The Peddler climbed up into the seat of his cart. “Travel well, Woodcutter.”

“Travel well, Peddler.”

“Well traded, my friend! Well traded!” he cried as his cart and the cowbell disappeared into the mist.