A long time ago, on an unusual island where only birch trees grew, there lived a strong and good-natured woodcutter. The Woodcutter was a good man, he was kind to everyone he met and he worked hard at his occupation. Every day, he chopped down birch trees and made sure every weak and weary family had wood to warm their homes at night.
The Woodcutter never dreamed about a life beyond the island of birch trees. However, he did have a dream. Along with being a talented woodcutter, he was a talented carpenter and he wished his talents would be recognised and applauded.
He could make and carve countless furnishings, clocks, toys, and trinkets but his talents could only create so much with the resources he had. True, birch trees were beautiful but they did not have the strength and versatility he needed to create strong and lasting creations.
The Woodcutter knew there were stronger trees beyond his small island but the waves were too dangerous to cross, he had to push his dreams aside and make do with birch.
On one quiet day, shortly after dawn, the Woodcutter left his home and set off to work. He was barely a few hundred steps beyond his threshold when he heard a sweet, quiet voice.
“Good morning to you, good sir.”
The Woodcutter paused, he looked around the forest, he could see no one else. He feared that a faerie was trying to play a devilish trick on him but he reminded himself, faeries only played with children. The Woodcutter began to walk again.
“Please, sir, look here,” the voice croaked. “Down here.”
And the Woodcutter did exactly that, he looked down to the ground. He could not believe what he saw. A small, yellowing sapling gazed up at him.
“I’m really sorry for disturbing you but could I trouble you for a cup or even a drop of water?” the sapling asked. “My roots struggle to reach down far in this dry crust of earth and I’m suffering from thirst.”
While it was certainly a strange sight, the Woodcutter poured his entire water bottle onto the ground around the sapling. In seconds, green returned to the sapling’s complexion and he sighed with relief. The poor sapling was convinced he was going to wilt and die but the Woodcutter had certainly saved his life.
It was here where the sapling told the Woodcutter his story. He had been born in a land where many oak trees grew. While he had been a happy acorn, he had heard tales of an unusual island where only birch trees grew and he wanted to see it for himself. He knew as soon as his roots started to grow, he would not be able to travel so he knew he could not delay. If he wanted to fulfil his dream, he had to act. He said farewell to his friends and family, for he knew he would never see them again and asked a sparrow to carry him across the channel.
The little bird carried the acorn above the waves and delivered him to the island of birch trees. However, when the acorn settled into the earth and sprouted into a sapling, the sapling realised the ground was too dry and the countless birch trees made it impossible for him to drink or bask in the sun. As the weeks passed, the oak sapling presumed he would eventually wither away. If the Woodcutter had not saved him, the sapling surely would not have survived another day.
The Woodcutter was saddened by the sapling’s story and he feared what would become of him if something was not done.
“I have an idea,” the Woodcutter began. “You can live with me. There are acres of clear land beside my home, you can grow your roots and bathe in the sun freely.”
The oak sapling could not believe what he was hearing, he was so touched by the Woodcutter’s offer.
“Thank you, sir,” the sapling gushed. “Thank you so much. I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”
“Please, do not worry about it. I can’t let you suffer and struggle alone in the wilderness.”
The Woodcutter dug into the dirt and carefully lifted the sapling into his arms and carried him home. He fulfilled his promise and planted the sapling in the wide clearing beside his house so the baby oak could bask freely under the sun, away from the shadows of the birch trees.
While the sapling’s roots were still juvenile and could not reach deep into the earth, the Woodcutter sprinkled water on the ground every day for the sapling to drink.
In the evenings, after the Woodcutter had finished work, he would sit beside the sapling and play his flute or they would talk late into the night. The Woodcutter told the sapling all about his life and his dreams. He told him how he dreamed about being a carpenter but he became a woodcutter instead.
When the Woodcutter went to bed, he always kept one window open so the sapling could call to him if he was scared or feeling lonely.
It was not long before the sapling stopped calling the Woodcutter “sir” and instead called him “my friend.”
Over the years that followed, the Woodcutter cared for his friend and the sapling grew into an almighty tree. The oak tree grew tall, taller than all the birch trees. In fact, if you tried to look up at the tree, you’d be sure to say that the branches almost touched the clouds.
When the Woodcutter gazed up at his dear friend, his neck ached but he smiled proudly, pleased to see the tree looking so grand. The oak tree smiled too, for he felt blessed to have a caring and devoted friend. He knew he wouldn’t have survived if the Woodcutter had not walked past him that day many years ago.
As the oak tree became the tallest tree in the land, he started to attract popular attention. At first, the crowds were few but soon enough, the tree attracted a daily gathering of people who came to gaze upon the almighty wonder that was the oak tree.
The oak tree enjoyed seeing so many new faces and hearing so many new stories. As his roots were firmly stuck in the ground, he knew he would never move again. When the crowds started appearing, the Woodcutter was uncomfortable, he was not accustomed to seeing so many people at once but then the oak tree gave him a marvellous idea.
“This is your time, my friend,” the oak tree encouraged. “Yes, I’ve brought the crowds but take this opportunity to show them your incredible talents as a carpenter. Impress them with your skill.”
So, he did. Every day the Woodcutter took out his birch tree furnishings and laid them out for people to see. The oak tree was right. People were impressed by the Woodcutter’s skill. They were surprised to learn a simple woodcutter had a divine talent. The Woodcutter beamed with pride and smiled till his cheeks burned. However, he soon realised that while people admired and acknowledged his skill, nobody wanted to buy his work.
“Aye, this jewellery box is exquisite,” one man agreed. “But all your creations are made from birch. In comparison to the almighty oak tree, birch wood looks dull and cheap.”
The Woodcutter looked at his creations and soon enough they looked dull in his eyes too. He looked up at his friend and for the first time felt the weight of the oak tree’s shadow over him. The oak tree looked down and noticed an unfamiliar expression on the Woodcutter’s face, he asked.
“Are you well, my friend? Are you sick?”
“I’m fine,” said the Woodcutter, quietly.
“Are you sure? Your skin looks almost green.”
“I said, I’m fine,” the Woodcutter repeated, this time rather shortly. “Perhaps my skin is only green because of the light that shines from your leaves. It’s almost blinding. I’m going inside to lie down awhile.”
The oak tree watched his friend return to his home. He hoped the Woodcutter was not sick, he could not imagine a world without his dear friend. He tried to distract his mind with the smiling and enchanted crowds around him. As the oak tree entertained the crowds, he did not notice as the Woodcutter closed every single window and curtain of his house.
That night, while the oak tree slept soundly, the Woodcutter was awake. He drank every drop of alcohol he could find. He thought the drink would soothe his anger but the more he drank, the more he imagined what it would be like to attract the fame the oak tree had. He had cared for the tree since he was a sapling but no one looked at him with wonder or amazement. It was unfair.
The Woodcutter's eyes seemed to burn, his hands twitched as he reached for another bottle, he gripped it tight and was sure the bottle cracked in his hands.
*****
The next morning, the Woodcutter struggled to open his eyes, for his head pounded like a saw and axe, gnawed and chopped against his skull. He groaned as light seeped into his eyes, making him almost blind.
When the Woodcutter tried to rise, his hands stung terribly. He grimaced as he saw hundreds of splinters in his palms. As a woodcutter, he was often injured by tiny shards of wood but he knew these splinters were different. His hands continued to bleed and his skin was turning yellow from infection.
As he saw the bloody mess of his hands, he realised he was not lying in his bed but was lying on the ground outside with his axe beside him. The axe was blunt and cracked like it had been smashed repeatedly against rock.
The Woodcutter’s heart shuddered as he saw large chunks of broken wood upon the ground. The wood looked as if it had been ripped apart by a raging beast. He turned and could not believe what he was seeing. He shrieked at the battered and fallen remains of the oak tree. The Woodcutter scrambled to his feet and ran to the tree.
“My friend! Please, speak to me!”
The tree did not speak. There was only silence.
“What have I done?” The Woodcutter cried. “Oh, my dear friend! I listened to my jealousy. I did not mean for this to happen. I am sorry, please forgive me.”
The Woodcutter cried but the tree was silent. The Woodcutter knew his friend would never speak again. They would never talk and sing together again. The tree would never give him shade from the summer sun and the Woodcutter would never play his flute to help his friend sleep.
The Woodcutter shrieked, the pain of his loss struck him, like splinters piercing his heart. Eventually, the Woodcutter took his axe, returned to his house and closed the door so he could not see the crime that lay outside.
Later that day, when the crowds started to appear, they gasped at the remains of the fallen tree. They asked the Woodcutter what had happened. He wanted to tell them the truth but he could not utter the words, so he said,
“It was a storm. It raged through and tore the tree down.”
“That’s terrible,” one woman cried. “But it is strange, I did not hear any storm last night.”
“Perhaps the skies grew jealous of the tree and struck him down,” one man pondered. “Maybe they did not like him nearing their heavenly domain.”
The Woodcutter said nothing.
“It’s a shame to leave the tree in such a way,” another man said. “He was a glorious creation. It would be terrible to see him rot into nothing.”
That was when the Woodcutter had an idea. He knew the oak tree would never speak again but he could not bear the thought of his body wasting away.
For months, the Woodcutter chopped and sawed at the tree, he carved tables, chairs, wardrobes and many household furnishings. People were amazed by the Woodcutter’s skilful talents and he did not struggle to sell them. Furniture and objects made from the oak tree filled homes throughout the birch tree forest and were even taken abroad to other lands. In his dreams, the Woodcutter achieved some contentment at the thought his friend was no longer rooted to the ground but was able to see and travel the world.
With the last remaining sections of oak wood, the Woodcutter built himself a house. He thought building a house would bring him closer to his friend and give him some peace but over time, the Woodcutter could not dispel the guilt and sadness he felt. The splinters he had suffered from cutting down the tree remained in his hands, festering and eventually making it impossible for him to hold an axe ever again.
In the first few months of living in his new home, the Woodcutter found himself feeling weaker and suffering from illness. When he saw himself in the mirror, his skin was wrinkled, yellowed and dry. His tongue was constantly parched. No matter how much water he drank, he was always thirsty.
Sometimes, usually during the night, he would hear voices.
“Murderer...” a voice whispered. “Villain...”
The voices followed him everywhere in the house. He wondered if he was going mad. While he wished for the voices to leave him alone, he knew he deserved the torment.
The Woodcutter found it harder and harder to sleep so he would spend his nights wrapped in a blanket, sat in his chair by the embers of the fire. The warmth did not reach him but the voices always did.
“Murderer...”
The Woodcutter pressed his swollen hands against his ears, trying to block out the words.
“Murderer. Liar. Monster.”
“Stop!” The Woodcutter winced, he cried out. “Stop it, foul voices! Get out of my head. Be gone, I beg you, give me some peace.”
“I’m not in your head,” a voice replied.
The Woodcutter opened his eyes, cold sweat glazed his skin as he looked around the house. He could not see anyone but he was unable to see into the darkest corner of the room. He was not sure whether it was the fire and the shadows playing tricks or if there was really a figure dwelling in the dark, staring at him.
“W-who’s there?” The Woodcutter whimpered.
“It’s me, your friend,” the voice said. “Do you not remember, your dear companion, the oak tree?”
“Oak tree?” The Woodcutter stumbled to his feet, his knees shaking. “How are you here? You should be dead.”
“How am I here, you ask?” The oak tree’s voice was undoubtedly familiar but his sweet and friendly tone was gone. “Are you a fool? What did you expect when you chopped me up and made a house out of my corpse? I must admit, you’ve done a very fine job, people must be in awe of your fine work.”
The Woodcutter wept, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to chop you down. I was overcome with a blind rage. ”
“I know. You don’t need to tell me. I wasn’t blind.” The oak tree’s voice echoed around the room. “I was very much awake when you sawed through my bark and tore apart my flesh. I begged you to stop but you didn’t listen. You chose your jealousy over any love you had for me.”
“Please, forgive me,” the Woodcutter fell to his knees. He held his hands out in a desperate prayer as he cried, “Please, I beg you, please give me your forgiveness.”
The oak tree did not speak. The entire house fell into an uneasy silence. The Woodcutter looked around as the house started to creak.
“I came to this land because I heard such wondrous tales about it,” said the oak tree, softly. “I thought I would flourish and live a peaceful life alongside the birch trees but that did not happen. I loved you and you chopped me down because you despised my success. If you want my forgiveness, I will not give it to you.”
The Woodcutter sobbed.
“I wasn’t going to do anything,” the oak tree continued. “When I awoke from the darkness and realised I was no longer a tree but a house, your house, I was going to drift away into the darkness again but then I watched how you were enjoying the benefits of my fall. That was when I thought, why should you live a life of comfort when my life is bound forever in this unnatural state? I knew I had to do something. In these last few months, I’ve watched my plans for revenge grow.”
“What do you mean?” the Woodcutter gasped. “What are you saying?”
“What causes your sickness?” The oak tree asked. “Why do the splinters in your hands never heal? What ails your body?”
The Woodcutter stared at the infected cuts in his skin. His heart slowed as he began to realise.
“I’m killing you,” the oak tree whispered. “The wood in your skin is poisoning your blood. The air you breathe is full of toxic spores of my own making. I’m slowly consuming your energy. Your flesh. Your soul.”
The Woodcutter shrieked, he clambered to his feet and ran.
A beautifully carved oak wood chair suddenly flew across the room, knocking the Woodcutter down. He fell and the oak wood floor gnawed on his hands and chin, chewing his flesh, making him bleed. He ran for the door and grabbed the handle but it did not budge. The oak wood door seemed to swell in the doorway, making it impossible to open. The wooden window shutters slammed shut, closing every option of escape.
The Woodcutter fell weakly as he whimpered, his body slowly draining of energy.
“I came here for a new beginning and a long, peaceful life but you stole it from me,” the oak tree said. “So, I’m stealing yours. And after you’re gone, I will take any life that steps across my threshold.”
The Woodcutter closed his eyes and let the darkness in. In the far distance, he saw a faint bright light. As his eyes adjusted, he was sure he could see a small green sapling. The fragile plant waved at him.
The Woodcutter cried, for he knew the sapling, his friend, was truly gone, and all that remained was a terrible horror.