The Woodcutter's Wife - Short Story 1

Page 1
The stove kettle whistled as the woodcutter’s wife waited patiently by the window, watching her husband fell the tree outside their cottage. She was glad. 

‘Nothing but old wives tales’, was her typical response whenever anyone brought up the subject. This often happened when someone from the village came to visit the house. However, even on a summer’s day, she felt uncomfortable every time she her eyes fell on the tree for more than a couple of seconds. Not once did a leaf grow from its dark heavy branches, which would frequently fall to the ground with a thud, sending ripples through the floorboards. Too close, it towered intimidatingly over the house, casting a spidery shadow over the brickwork and through the window, blocking any natural light from entering the kitchen. On evenings like this, the log fire would be crackling, and the curtains drawn. They were used to the stormy weather in the valley. 

Visibility outside wasn't always good and admittedly, she thought she was going mad every time she saw it, but every now and then she’d blink and for a split second, a red hat would appear, swinging gently on the lowest branch, then vanish.

Blowing off the steam from her hot tea, she thought about all the times people from the village had asked her about the monstrosity residing in her back garden, and all the times she had assured them that the stories didn't bother her. But in this moment, the realisation that it would no longer be a part of their lives gave her an overwhelming sense of relief.

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The hat, the hat. Every day she would dread seeing it, dread noticing. But once she had noticed, she couldn't stop thinking about it. Who did it belong to? Why was it there?

All the while the woodcutter, to his dismay, continued to swing his axe against the base of the tree trunk. He felt ashamed. ‘What will people say when they know I destroyed the tree? Surely they will think that I actually believe these ridiculous rumours’, he thought to himself. The wood shavings whipped across his face as the force of the gale became stronger. Through squinted eyes, he could still see the silhouette of his wife watching from the window. Secretly he hoped she would change her mind and invite him back in.

It was dark by the time he finished felling the tree. The woodcutter’s wife had been standing in the same place, waiting, watching, listening. Still holding the cup, her tea had been cold for a while. Although the fire burned low, the embers flickered in the shadows, illuminating the floor where she stood.

The hat, the hat. It was there, swaying back and forth on the branch of the fallen tree, but it was not a figment of her imagination, it did not disappear. 

She blinked and blinked, and there it was. But where was he?
Where was the woodcutter?