The Woodcutter Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Kate Danley; © Lolloj / Fotolia
Woodcutter looked upon the ground.
His eyes caught the faintest flicker of light and he sprinted to its side.
It was alive. One small pixie was still alive.
He gently picked it up. It was so tiny it fit in his cupped hands. It was pale blue with such black eyes. It did not weigh as much as a feather.
Its light kept flashing in and out as it gasped for breath.
He hurried to the closest tree, an oak that had lowered a limb to take the tiny one.
He placed the pixie in the bough and the tree whispered, Yes .
He would never cut unless invited, unless absolutely necessary. But the tree had whispered yes and so he did.
He removed the Golden Ax from his side and sliced down the middle of the branch. The Ax cut the bark like a hot knife through butter.
He felt the tree shiver in pain.
The sap ran dark as the wound deepened, as the tree pulled itself apart to widen the incision.
The Woodcutter transferred the dying pixie into the wound.
He felt the pixie and the tree sigh at the contact.
He held the Ax above the cut as it dissolved into water – clean, purifying water to wash away the evil.
The pixie raised its head, drinking in the gift of the River God.
The Woodcutter caught a sleepy smile as the wound sealed the pixie within the tree, to be fed and nurtured until the next spring when the pixie would be reborn within the first flowering of the first blossom, healed and whole once again.
He rested his hand against the tree in thanks for the sacrifice and the gift.
Two Axes gone.
Chapter 16
The Woodcutter placed the small forget-me-nots upon the hearts of the remaining pixies.
He stepped away and a swaying shadow fell across his face, the swaying shadow of the dead Huntsman, now hanging by his neck from the dark green elm.
The Woodcutter checked the knot holding the noose.
The bodies of the fae circled the Huntsman’s feet, binding him to walk the earth. They kept his soul from rest. He would be bound until one could be called to deal with him as was fit.
The Woodcutter looked down at his pack, fingering the pocket that held the black bag.
He did not need to do this, he told himself.
The trees whispered, Revenge.
He looked at the pixies, their tiny shapes lying so still upon the ground. They should never have touched the earth.
Such small hands.
Small hands.
Blonde curls.
A little leg turned at a wrong angle.
Flowers on the floor.
He pushed away the memory.
Sunset was fading and the Woodcutter shivered.
He settled himself at the base of the tree and lit his pipe, waiting for midnight to come.
Chapter 17
The Woodcutter jerked awake, disoriented at first. The hanging Huntsman reminded him where he was. He looked up at the sky, at the full moon on the rise. It was almost midnight. He had not slept too long.
He stood and the trees around him slowly stirred as his hand moved towards the bag. He felt them form a sleepy barrier, knowing what was to come. He heard their leaves whisper the spells. His hand grasped the black bag and the whole forest seemed to hold its breath.
He opened the bag and shivered as a current of raw power surged up his arm. His fingers wrapped around the humble instrument inside and lifted the horn to his lips.
And he blew.
The sound that emerged was a hurricane. The trees bent. The wind whipped. The air tasted of fresh rain. The sound reverberated across the Wood, across the Twelve Kingdoms, across the Land.
Dark clouds rolled across the moon and pitched him into the blackest of night.
The trees screamed out warning to any that might hear, “Stay to the middle of the path! The Hunt rides!”
The Woodcutter lowered the horn and waited.
The baying of dogs echoed across the clearing, echoed as they came down from the
His eyes caught the faintest flicker of light and he sprinted to its side.
It was alive. One small pixie was still alive.
He gently picked it up. It was so tiny it fit in his cupped hands. It was pale blue with such black eyes. It did not weigh as much as a feather.
Its light kept flashing in and out as it gasped for breath.
He hurried to the closest tree, an oak that had lowered a limb to take the tiny one.
He placed the pixie in the bough and the tree whispered, Yes .
He would never cut unless invited, unless absolutely necessary. But the tree had whispered yes and so he did.
He removed the Golden Ax from his side and sliced down the middle of the branch. The Ax cut the bark like a hot knife through butter.
He felt the tree shiver in pain.
The sap ran dark as the wound deepened, as the tree pulled itself apart to widen the incision.
The Woodcutter transferred the dying pixie into the wound.
He felt the pixie and the tree sigh at the contact.
He held the Ax above the cut as it dissolved into water – clean, purifying water to wash away the evil.
The pixie raised its head, drinking in the gift of the River God.
The Woodcutter caught a sleepy smile as the wound sealed the pixie within the tree, to be fed and nurtured until the next spring when the pixie would be reborn within the first flowering of the first blossom, healed and whole once again.
He rested his hand against the tree in thanks for the sacrifice and the gift.
Two Axes gone.
Chapter 16
The Woodcutter placed the small forget-me-nots upon the hearts of the remaining pixies.
He stepped away and a swaying shadow fell across his face, the swaying shadow of the dead Huntsman, now hanging by his neck from the dark green elm.
The Woodcutter checked the knot holding the noose.
The bodies of the fae circled the Huntsman’s feet, binding him to walk the earth. They kept his soul from rest. He would be bound until one could be called to deal with him as was fit.
The Woodcutter looked down at his pack, fingering the pocket that held the black bag.
He did not need to do this, he told himself.
The trees whispered, Revenge.
He looked at the pixies, their tiny shapes lying so still upon the ground. They should never have touched the earth.
Such small hands.
Small hands.
Blonde curls.
A little leg turned at a wrong angle.
Flowers on the floor.
He pushed away the memory.
Sunset was fading and the Woodcutter shivered.
He settled himself at the base of the tree and lit his pipe, waiting for midnight to come.
Chapter 17
The Woodcutter jerked awake, disoriented at first. The hanging Huntsman reminded him where he was. He looked up at the sky, at the full moon on the rise. It was almost midnight. He had not slept too long.
He stood and the trees around him slowly stirred as his hand moved towards the bag. He felt them form a sleepy barrier, knowing what was to come. He heard their leaves whisper the spells. His hand grasped the black bag and the whole forest seemed to hold its breath.
He opened the bag and shivered as a current of raw power surged up his arm. His fingers wrapped around the humble instrument inside and lifted the horn to his lips.
And he blew.
The sound that emerged was a hurricane. The trees bent. The wind whipped. The air tasted of fresh rain. The sound reverberated across the Wood, across the Twelve Kingdoms, across the Land.
Dark clouds rolled across the moon and pitched him into the blackest of night.
The trees screamed out warning to any that might hear, “Stay to the middle of the path! The Hunt rides!”
The Woodcutter lowered the horn and waited.
The baying of dogs echoed across the clearing, echoed as they came down from the
Similar Books
Hard Core (Hard As Nails Book 3)
Hope Conrad
No Horse Wanted
LLC Melange Books
The Society Wife
India Grey
The Claim
Billy London
Lady of Ashes
Christine Trent
About Last Night
Ruthie Knox
At the Drop of a Hat
Jenn McKinlay
Deadly Chase
Wendy Davy
Swindled
June Mayes
Otis
Scott Hildreth