MRS MOSS AND THE WOODCUTTER

Woe betide the one who stumbles upon the little log lodge of the Moss People, particularly if he or she should choose to wander lunchless.
This is the sort of advice that Joseph the Woodcutter could have done with hearing before he set off into the forest, in frantic search of timber to sell at the Saturday market. It was still very early spring; fuzzy buds were barely peeping through, and the forest floor was still littered with leaf skeletons as tiny forest folk busily prepared their lodge for spring. Mrs Moss, a diligent wood-wife who had popped out to forage for berries, saw Joseph striding through the clearing, his dark blonde hair swaying confidently in the breeze, his axe swung over his shoulder. She scurried through the undergrowth towards him, her little green boots pattering over lichen and twigs. It is a well-known tale, dear reader, that a wood-wife will ask any passer-by for only the tiniest of meals, and it is customary for her to offer something small in return. No matter what it is that’s offered, however, one would be most wise to accept this gift, as it is highly offensive to a wood-wife if her gift is refused, landing the passer-by in dire trouble.
But, that is a story for another time.
So, little Mrs Moss, all clad in her earthen dress and leaf-laced boots caught up with the young woodcutter, parading along with his axe.
“Pardon me, good sir,” she squeaked, her voice no louder than that of a field vole’s. Naturally, Joseph was rather perturbed, having assumed he was alone on his woodland venture. “Who said that?” he demanded, narrowed eyes glancing around suspiciously, his axe firmly within his grasp. Mrs Moss sighed. “Down here,” she chirped, as usual. “Save me the whole ‘get-thee-gone-damned-wood-sprite’ speech, please. Have you any bread?”
His eyes widened as he watched the tiny, hairy woman chitter on below him. His mouth fell open. “Well, have you, or haven’t you?” she chirruped, folding her tiny moss-clad arms across her chest.
“No,” he replied. “I haven’t. I have no food at all, hence my being here to fell a tree to sell for money.”
“But sir, I am hungry. All my people are, after this hard winter. Have you nothing at all? You shall not go unrewarded.”
Joseph regarded Mrs Moss with puzzlement, followed by dismissive irritation. “No, you strange little creature! I have nothing for you. Now, leave me be.” Mrs Moss felt herself growing red in the face, as crimson as the ring of toadstools on the grass. “Please,” she called out to him as he took off into the trees. “It is not often we find someone so deep into winter, and we wood-folk have so little left to eat.” She felt frightfully embarrassed; begging was the stuff of ancient tales. “So, how about a little piece of whatever it is you’ve got in your pocket?” Both laid their eyes on what appeared to be a lump in Joseph’s coat pocket, which he’d not thought about while in conversation. He suddenly remembered the biscuits he’d had with him the last time he ventured out, and now he held onto them with furious greed.
“Please share some with me, and I’ll be on my way,” Mrs Moss persisted, all the while glimpsing the shimmering, sharpened blade of the woodcutter’s axe. “As I said, you will be rewarded.” She thought of the thirsty traveller who had offered up some barley and walnuts, so she’d told him where to find the river, or the weary, old beggar, who had given her his very last bit of bread, and she had presented him with an acorn, which to his delight had transformed into solid gold by the time he reached his destination. This man was not like the others. He would need a little bit more than persuasion.
Joseph’s grip around his biscuits tightened, as her determinedness only deepened his frustration into entitled, hoity-toity bitterness. He flew into a rage, both hands now grasping the axe vehemently, and he swung it into the nearest tree. “NO,” Joseph bellowed, his voice smacking like the crack of a whip. “You shall NOT have my biscuits, you nasty, green imp! The impudence!” he boomed, followed by a maniacal cackle at his own wit. He went to swing his axe again.
“Stop!” Mrs Moss cried, not wishing any harm to come to her or any of her trees, but soon her fear dissolved as she realised exactly which tree he was hacking away at. She stepped backwards. “If you continue to chop at that tree, woodcutter, you will be sorry. Mark my words,” she admitted quietly. Joseph turned to look at her, having heard quite clearly that warning she’d given, even over the frenzied thwacking and thwocking of his awe. “Never!” he screeched, possessed by his desperation to keep what little he had and his bewilderment of being challenged by such a small and dainty creature. Mrs Moss stepped back again, watching intently as the bark of the tree he was chopping began to morph and come to life. The wood began to crinkle and creak, rippling like pulsing muscles. Joseph’s eyes, burning with fire, gleamed greedily as his axe met the heart of the trunk, then… SNAP. The teetering tree snatched itself back upright, swallowing the axe up with it. The shining metal axe head was gobbled up by the twisting bark, the wooden handle pulled apart by grappling branches until it was one of them, the once-smooth wood now gnarled and knobbled with ridges. “That,” Mrs Moss announced as she arrived by the woodcutter’s side, “Is an ash tree, repellent of all evil and wrongdoing. It’s the Tree of Life, woodcutter. And now it has your axe.”
Joseph was silent, his eyes fixed on the place where his axe had been slicing only moments ago. He continued to stare, trembling like a leaf in the wind. The tree was still once more, perfectly untouched. Blubbing tears filled his eyes as he realised the error of his judgement and selfish intentions. His shaking hand reached for the pouch of biscuits, then dropped them on the ground, Mrs Moss with a satisfied smile spreading across her hairy face.
“Can you bring it back, little fairy?” whispered the woodcutter without an axe. Mrs Moss regarded him for a moment. First an imp, now a fairy?
“No,” she responded, without a hint of sympathy, marching off towards the little log lodge with the biscuits slung over her shoulders. She whistled a little merry tune as she went, the melody light and carefree, dancing over the haunting howls of Joseph, who stumbled home empty-handed.

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