DWP - the woodcutter prompt

the woodcutter

he takes his usual place in the living room, as he does everyday, for many months now, after he has neatly piled all the firewoods he had been cutting the whole day and the other tedious chores that needed to be done. now, he removes the large tarp covering his masterpiece ensconced on his work table, and takes his tools from out of a drawer, organizing them to one side. the masterpiece has been transformed into the shape of a head, a woman's head. he had carved out her hair, long and flowing in the wind, as well as the shape of her face. he caresses the cheeks with the back of his hand, almost as if she was alive.

"i think tonight, she will come," is the thought that dances in his head.

he looks out and the trees beyond have cast long shadows down the frozen pond. he imagines her standing right in the middle, beckoning him. and he will, he will come and take her hand when she beckons.

he picks up a knife and a small chisel and starts to carve, first her mouth, as he has seen her in his dreams last night, so full and soft, with a smile that makes his heart melt. he slowly and carefully chisels, not wanting to make a mistake. when the shadows have disappeared, he leaves his masterpiece only long enough to light the logs in the fireplace, and soon the crackling flame casts a soft glow about the room. he sits back on his bench and looks out the window one last time as the sun sets, the thin strip of the sky in the horizon taking on the colour of the fire that now lights the room.

it is almost midnight when he finishes and the fire is almost dying, too, but there she is, with her tiny nose and her large eyes staring at him. she is exactly how he's seen her in his dream last night. exhausted, he kneels on the floor, cupping his face in his tired hands. she has come to his dreams in choppy bits for so many months and her transformation in his hands has been painfully slow. but he has persevered, willing his dreams and always ready for when he sees her face, for always, it is obscured by the light or the shadows. all this time, he could only make out her silhouette. but all that does not matter now for tonight, there she is.

but something still eats at him since waking up in the morning. he feels certain he has seen her face before, perhpas a long time ago. it is not one of the nymphs in the forest that begged him not to cut the trees. no, she is more beautiful than them.

he hears a moan, faint at first then becoming louder. he looks out towards the frozen pond, the surface sparkling like a polished silver from the moonlight that seeped through the bare branches. but she is not standing on the pond as he has always envisioned her. the moaning continues until he realizes that the sound is coming from the table where the masterpiece stands.

blood starts to pour out on the side of her mouth, her eyes staring at him. he takes a step back, and another until he feels the wall behind him. he covers his ears as her loud moans battered his brain.

then, he suddenly remembers: it was a long long time ago. he was cutting a tree deep in the forest, when a young woman appeared and asked him to stop. my lover promised me that he will come back and this is tree where i have to wait for him. look, he had carved out our names on the trunk. please don't cut this tree. any other tree but this one, she had begged. but he was sure she was just another pigment of his imagination. the nymphs were playing with him again. he swung his axe, the sound of metal against the tree drowned her voice and her fervent begging.

when at last the tree fell with a deafening sound that echoed through the forest, the animals scurried away and the birds flew far and higher. but now there's blood in his hands, on his clothes, on the stump, everywhere! he could not understand what happened, but all he could see was the woman's severed head.