Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(34)

A woodcutter dwelt at the edge of the forest in a tiny hut that was all he could afford, and he could barely hold body and soul together. In his youth, after a night of drinking, he became lost and wandered into the mountains. He lost his right hand to frostbite and was terribly disfigured.

The woodcutter struggled in his work, naturally, and was sometimes forced to borrow money from his brother, who never missed a chance to rail against his foolishness, though the brother was a rich man whose larder was always full.

Near the woodcutter’s house, along a path that was sometimes there and sometimes not, was a faerie tree. Its leaves were red and gold no matter the season, and abundant even in winter, and it was huge and hoary, with knots like windows for the Folk to peep through. Though lovely, it was an off-putting thing, for the sun never touched it, and its boughs were cold and clammy, the ground sodden with dew.

The village priest often visited the woodcutter to complain about the tree. This was in the days when the Church tried to stand against the Folk and sent dozens of poor priests on doomed missions to kill or convert them. But the woodcutter was too fearful of the Folk to cut it down, and the priest went away disappointed.

One winter’s eve, after a particularly frustrating argument with the priest, the woodcutter decided that he might as well see if the faeries would help him—if not, he would consider cutting down their tree, just to silence the tedious priest.

The woodcutter travelled along the path that was sometimes there and sometimes not. The faerie tree was all aglow in the darkness, its golden light spilling over the snow like coins, and the woodcutter heard the distant sound of bells and the clink of cutlery. He knelt and asked for the faeries to give him a new hand. He waited for a long time, but there was no reply; the music played on, and the Folk attended to their dinner. The woodcutter went away disappointed.

In the morning, he woke to find a white cat seated at the foot of his bed. The cat was beautiful, with strange blue eyes, but it would not let the woodcutter touch it. The woodcutter knew that it was a present from the Folk, and while he was disappointed they had not given him the hand he had asked for, he knew that it was dangerous to scorn a faerie present.

As the days wore on, though, the woodcutter grew less patient with the cat. It followed him everywhere, even into the woods, watching him all the while with its unnatural eyes, and it ate all the woodcutter’s food. One night, it gobbled down the lovely ham his brother had given him, leaving only the bone. The woodcutter grew so frustrated that he threw rocks at the cat and chased it into the forest. The next morning, he woke to find it perched at the end of his bed, watching him. The woodcutter’s brother laughed at his predicament, and the priest lectured him even more for keeping such an unnatural beast around, and altogether the cat brought the woodcutter nothing but woe.

The woodcutter’s mother died after a long illness and left him a little money. Shortly after, the woodcutter’s childhood sweetheart, whom he loved despite her vanity and selfish ways, decided she was no longer disgusted by his scars or one-handedness and agreed to marry him. She and the cat did not get along. It was always hissing and scratching her, and if she left any knitting around, it undid every stitch. Eventually, the cat drove the woman mad, and she ran back to her own village, where she hid at her parents’ home and refused to speak to her husband.

The woodcutter was so enraged that he picked up his rifle and chased the cat into the forest, where he shot it. The next morning, though, he awoke to find the cat at the foot of his bed, watching him.

The woodcutter realized that something drastic had to be done. He took his axe and went into the woods, pretending to go about his usual business. The cat followed him, as it always did, purring. Once the woodcutter had reached a quiet spot, he split the cat in two with his axe.

The next morning, there was no cat watching him from the foot of the bed. Feeling pleased with himself, the woodcutter took up his axe and travelled along the path that was sometimes there and sometimes not. He planned to destroy the faerie tree, just as the Folk had destroyed his happiness. But no sooner had his first stroke resounded through the woods than he heard music in the distance. It was not the song of the simple Folk who dwelt in the tree, but the music of the tall ones, and they were calling him. Terrified, the woodcutter tried to stop his ears, and then he grabbed hold of the tree like a drowning man, even as his feet started to move towards the song.

At that moment, the white cat stepped out of the shadow of the tree. The cat told him that it had protected him all along. When the woodcutter’s brother, tired of charity, had poisoned his food, the cat had eaten it. When the woodcutter’s wife had taken the woodcutter’s money in secret and gambled it away, the cat had chased her out of the house. And every time the woodcutter had gone into the woods, the cat had protected him from the tall ones, muffling their song with its purring. But now the cat was dead, and it could no longer protect him.

The woodcutter was never heard from again. Though the faerie tree still stands, the path that is sometimes there and sometimes not has closed to mortals, and it may never be found again.





The Tree’s Bones


A successful whaler lived alone at the edge of a bay. Much of his success came from his fjolskylda,[*] who had sworn to protect him from the tall ones and other wicked faeries in exchange for habitation of his house during the new moon. The whaler found this an advantageous bargain, for he needed to travel to town once a month anyway to sell his catch.