The Wood
by Kathy L
“Once upon a time . . . They all start that way. I think it’s a rule or something. But then, it was once and it was upon a time. I heard it from our girl Jolly and she got it from her Mam, so I know it’s true, even though things like this don’t happen anymore. My Da says it’s ’cause all the magic’s leaked out of the world. He says daft things like that pretty much all the time now. But time was he could spin a dream. Never mind that now.”
The storyteller sat folded in on himself for a moment. Then he began again.
“Once upon a time, there stood a little house in the wood. The wood were always dark, the light dim no matter the season, and never did the slightest breeze filter through the thickets of trees. Great long drifts of gray moss trailed down from their branches, and the only sound were the raven’s croak. And, so right there, you’re thinking, why would anyone build in a wood like that?
“Well, even so, the house weren’t so bad. Built sturdy out of thick timbers, and the shingles were all in good kip. Someone took his craft serious, as my Da would say. One small arched door, a shuttered window, and smoke climbing out of its hole in the roof. Good enough house for just about anybody.
“I don’t have a thought on how long the house stood there in that gloomy pile of woods, but one day a traveler stopped by for a drink of water. That’s how Jolly tells it, though I heard from my Da it were bread he wanted. Maybe it were both. So however it be, this traveler stopped at the little wooden house in the dark wood. And he called out, ‘Hallo, the house!’ None answered. Unless you count the raven who replied with a gargled laugh as he perched on the ridge of the roof, his claws dug into those fine shingles.
“I’d guess you’d a’ been a bit unnerved, but the traveler stood firm and mustered up another call to the house. Of a sudden, a little fellow no taller than a boy of ten appeared in the doorway, standing there all bandy legged and arms akimbo, dressed in a leather jerkin and breaches and wearing a scrim of grey beard along his jaw.
‘Away with yer. We want no visitors.’
‘Kind sir, I ask only a drink of water, and I shall be on my way.’
“The little fellow scowled. ‘No water here.’
“Now, there were a well just beside the house, plain as day and easy to spot, even in the gloom. Just stands to reason it had good water, else no one could live there at all.
“The traveler said, ‘I’ve not had a drop for miles. Just a sip of water is all I ask.’
‘Nay. Move on away. We’ve no water.’
“The traveler, it seems, were not dismayed. Or maybe he were just terrible thirsty. The wood were unkind and stingy, with barely a muddy trickle running through it, and that far from the path.
‘Once more shall I ask—’
“The little fellow jumped and waved his arms. ‘You’ve no right to be in this wood. Begone. There’s no water here.’
‘Thrice have I asked and thrice have you denied me.’
“The traveler stepped toward the little man and with each step he seemed to grow larger. A green flame flickered and flowed from his fingertips, and it brightened to a greenish gold as he raised his hand. Surely so much light had not been seen in the dooryard for many a year. The little fellow quailed before the light. And who would not?
“The light embraced the small man; in a moment he was gone. The raven shouted and took wing. The traveler turned back toward the well he’d claimed, his hands dripping green-gold fire, and everywhere the droplets touched earth, bellwort and buttercups sprang up. He sighed as he raised the bucket, and his antlered head bowed over the ladle.”
The storyteller leaned back and braced his elbows on the table behind him. His audience shifted about in their seats.
“I know you might been expecting something more. Maybe you thought that dark place would shine all green and growing and be healed. But that’s not how it happened. No happily ever after with princesses and such. Though I suppose that woodland god, whoever he be, were fair pleased.”
The storyteller stood and sketched a bow before turning around to the bar. “I’ll take a short one, Tom, if you please.”
Nodding, the barman pulled out the whisky jug. “Whoever he be, Jack?” He quirked a grin at the storyteller. “But let be and let alone, I always say.” He pushed the glass toward Jack. “You might get an actual copper now and again if you allowed for a princess or two.”
“Oh, aye.” Jack tossed back his drink and walked out into the sunlight.
