The Woodworker's Guest

The first house that Drazhen built sat atop a hill in a small clearing in the woods. With help from a few friends, he cut down towering pines and shaped them into logs that locked one atop another. From these he built first the foundation and then the walls. Next he laid planks for the floors, cut out the windows, and built a large white stove in the center. And over it all he placed a great sloping roof covered with hay.

But Drazhen was a woodworker, and a masterful one at that, and he could not rest until his house rang with all the beauty his hands could craft. He shaped the front end of the roof’s ridge into a dragon’s head, flames spewing from its mouth and smoke from its nostrils. Into the wooden shutters he chiseled flourishes and flowers, painting their petals bright hues of orange and red and purple to match the merry blossoms that grew in his wife’s garden. And lastly he built a magnificent porch, covered by a gabled roof, whose stairs and rails and columns were made of the same strong pine as the house.

It was a masterpiece, a work of art without comparison in any village in Mailenstead, and a testimony to the light that burned so brightly in his heart.

From his seat on the porch, Drazhen could look out across the tops of trees and down upon Forsbyr, watching the comings and goings of miners and farmers and friends. And in the evenings, those in the town below would gaze up at the hillside, see the warm light from his windows and the smoke puffing from his chimney and smile at the thought of him happily whittling away at some project inside.

“He’s the luckiest man alive, he is,” said Vern, his pipe dangling from his lip.

“Aye,” agreed Rikkar. “But it’s nothing short of what he deserves. He’s a good lad. And a harder worker I’ve never seen.”

The other men nodded their heads and echoed their agreement, raising their cups to “good old Drazhen.”

“And where’s he tonight, Rikkar?” asked Alf. “Too caught up in work to have his weekly drink with us?”

“Work? More like he’s caught up with that rosy-cheeked wife of his! If I had a woman like that, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you lot!” Vern let out a roar of laughter so deep that his big belly shook the table.

Alf shot the old man a stern look. “Best not let mom catch you talking like that. She’ll box your ears!”

Vern waved him off but gave the inn a quick sweep with his eyes to be sure his wife hadn’t wandered in.

“More likely he’s busy chasing Niklos around the house,” Eivar chimed in. “When Ilsa learned to walk, I spent all day trying to keep her out of trouble. And she wasn’t all that bad as far as little ones go. Niklos though, he’s a wild one! Drazhen’s probably at his wit’s end and just wants a bit of sleep.”

“Nah,” Rikkar said. “He left early this morning for Huulthorpe. I caught him just before dawn, lugging a table and chairs in his cart. He won’t be back for several days.”

“Then we’ll catch up next time,” Alf said, and they all went back to their drinks and their pipes.

The night wore on, and when their speech had grown slurred and their eyelids had begun to droop, they staggered out of the inn. They were bidding one another farewell when something bright in the distance caught Vern’s eye.

“Say, what’s that up there? On the hill?” The men turned to see what he was pointing at. “Is that Drazhen’s house? It looks like it’s on…”

“FIRE!” Rikkar shouted, and they were quickly shaken from their stupor. “Niklos and Svana! We’ve got to hurry!” He rushed up the road as fast as he could, the others trailing behind.

But by the time they had reached the house, they found a raging inferno. Fire shot forth from the windows and stretched from wall to wall, consuming everything in its path. Plumes of smoke rose into the air and the dragon on the roof, aglow from the flames, hovered like a rageful demon over the fiery carnage as the wood snapped and hissed below.

The men called out until their voices were hoarse but were only met with silence. When the morning came and the fire had dwindled and died, they found the bodies of Svana and little Niklos, charred and blackened in the ruins, and they fell to the ground and wept.

*****

The second house that Drazhen built was hidden away and lost from sight deep within the gloomy tangle of the woods. By himself he hewed the trees and shaped the logs and assembled them into a small hut. No grand porch surrounded the structure, no embellishments adorned its shutters, and no carved dragon crowned its roof. It was bare and shabby, a hollow, empty home without a heart, like the woodcutter who dwelt within its walls.

No longer could Drazhen look down upon Forsbyr and watch the people come and go. Nor did he wish to. He much preferred to retreat into shadow, keeping his distance from the life and friends he once knew.

The times he wandered into town on business, folk hardly knew him. His cheerful countenance had withered away like a blight-stricken field. His once bright eyes had dimmed, his cheeks had sunken in, and his frame had grown so slight that he seemed more a shade than a man.

“Poor old Drazhen,” said Vern, then took a swig from his cup. “Never been an unluckier fellow than him.”

The others murmured their agreement, shook their heads, and finished their drinks in silence. With downcast eyes they gazed at the empty chair beside them and thought of the friend they had lost.

*****

The light that shone through the window was faint and bleak and did little to brighten the dreary room. Drazhen sat on a stool in the corner, bent over his workbench with a chisel and mallet, tapping away. The air had chilled overnight and the day had dawned cold and gray. Rain was coming. He could feel it in his bones.

He set his tools aside and rubbed the swollen joints of his fingers.

Svana had always known how to ease the pain. After a long day’s work she would brew him a tea from the rue she grew in their garden. And as they lay in bed at night, she’d take his rough hands in hers and trace his fingers softly until he drifted off to sleep, her head nestled in that cleft between his chest and shoulder that seemed made just for her.

He shook himself from his thoughts and picked up his tools. It didn’t do to dwell on such memories. The more he lingered in the past, the darker the pit he found himself in when he came to.

Rap, rap, rap…

Drazhen jerked his head toward the door and frowned. He hadn’t expected visitors. Everyone in town knew better than to show up unannounced. He set down his tools again, walked across the room, and opened the door a crack.

“Yes?”

A short, stumpy little man — smaller even than a dwarf — stared back at him. His clothes were a patchwork of mismatched colors and he wore a wrinkled blue cap on his head. His red beard was scraggly and peppered with spots of gray. Drazhen had never seen him in town before, but then again, he hadn’t ventured much into Forsbyr over the past few years.

“Ah, yes, well I was told that I could find the woodworker here. Would you happen to be Master Agapov by chance?” the man asked. His voice had a strange lilt to it, and his eyes a dash of madness.

“I would,” Drazhen answered sternly. “And what exactly is it that you want?”

“Might it be possible for me to come in for a short while? It’s quite cool out today and I didn’t dress for the weather.”

The visitor raised his bushy eyebrows and smiled wide, showing off a row of crooked, yellowing teeth. Drazhen looked the odd little man over. Any other time he would have slammed the door and walked away, but the man presented such a comical sight that he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pity for him. He sighed and opened the door.

“Come in. You can take a seat at the table by the stove. But I really must be getting back to my work soon.”

“Yes, yes,” the little man nodded as he shuffled inside.

Drazhen watched as the guest turned about, his wide eyes sweeping over every corner of the house.

“A bit small, I think,” the man mused as he hoisted himself on a chair. “Not as elaborate as I’d imagined. Not too homelike either. A bit drab. Missing something, perhaps.”

Growing more irritated with each word, Drazhen took a seat across from the man and spoke.

“I’ve been kind enough to invite you into my home. Now please, who are you and what have you come to me for?”

The man smiled, oblivious to the annoyance in Drazhen’s voice.

“You’re a legend, Master Agapov, back in my part of the woods. Every home I’ve seen with your work is so warm, so comfortable, so cheery! Oh, and the toys—the toys! What a smile they put on children’s faces. But…” He took the hat from his balding head and set it on the table. His green eyes grew large and sad. “We’ve seen less and less from you lately. And the homes are less inviting for it.”

“Yes, well, I lead a different sort of life nowadays. I don’t do much business outside of a few nearby towns. And where exactly did you say you are from?”

The little man ignored the question and hopped from his seat.

“What’s this!” he exclaimed, making his way to a chest that sat open by the fireplace. He rummaged through it, pulling out painted figurines of animals and carts, blocks and balls, and even a small wooden flute. “Toys! Master Agapov, these are superb! The quality! The love! Oh I can feel the love that went into these.”

Drazhen was across the room in an instant. He snatched the wooden flute from the man’s hands and ushered him towards the door.

“I’ve had quite enough of this! It’s high time for you to go back to wherever you came from.”

He opened the door and shoved the man outside, but the visitor caught it with his hand before it could close.

“Pardon me, but I’ve one last thing I must say,” The jovial glint in his eyes had disappeared, and his voice had a sudden gravity to it that surprised the woodworker. “I know that grief has shadowed your heart these past years. But there is still an ember burning, tucked away deep inside. I can feel it. You have too much light to give the world to let it wither away and die. Be blessed, Drazhen Agapov.”

Drazhen watched dumbfounded as the little man turned on his heels and disappeared into the trees.

After a few moments, he closed the door and walked back to the fireplace, stooping to one knee and running his fingers lovingly over each toy as he placed them back into the chest.

Oh, how Niklos would have loved these!

All of Niklos’ toys had been burned to ash in the fire. And in the long, lonely evenings since that fateful night, Drazhen had whittled away to pass the time, making replicas of the toys he’d lost. As if by doing so he’d awake one morning to find his son playing once more, as happy and carefree as he’d been the last time he’d seen him. His hair, golden as wheat in the morning sunlight, eyes clear and blue and pure as a mountain stream, and his smell…that sweet smell of a little boy who spent his days among the flowers of his mother’s garden.

A tear fell down Drazhen’s face and he tore himself from his thoughts. He slammed the lid down on the chest and glanced at the table, where the little man’s wrinkled cap still sat.

“What a fool!” he muttered. “Shadow and grief is all that’s left of me.”

And he went back to his bench and labored away until the sun had set and the storm had rolled through and he could stay awake no longer.

When he awoke the next morning, he was startled to find the chest open and all the toys strewn out across the floor.

“What the devil happened here?”

He knelt on the ground and gathered them up, placing them inside and carefully closing the lid. Slowly he scanned the room, looking for any other signs of disturbance, but all else lay untouched. Bewildered, he rose and started a pot of porridge.

As his breakfast cooked, he thought back to the day prior and remembered plucking the flute from the odd little man’s hands. And once the visitor had left, he had put away the rest of the toys. He was sure of it!

Or was he?

He glanced at the table. The wrinkled blue cap sat there still, unmoved. Yesterday had been an eventful day, and strange. And there was something off, something different about his guest that he just couldn’t put his finger on. He shook his head in frustration.

“Visitors!” he grumbled as he thrust a spoon into his bowl.

He ate his porridge in silence and then went back to his bench, chisel and mallet in his hands, tapping away. But try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he really had put the toys up and that someone—or something—had come while he slept and took them all out.

That night as he was putting out the candles, he looked the room over. Everything was quiet and tidy, and the chest sat by the fireplace with its lid fastened tight. Satisfied, he went to bed and fell easily asleep.

Yet when he stumbled into the room the next morning, he found the chest open and the toys scattered about the floor once again. At first he was startled, as he knew now without any doubt that something had happened, that someone had been in his home while he slept.

But the shock soon turned to anger. How dare someone intrude upon his home! And to rummage through his things, the most precious things he owned, the toys he’d made for little Niklos!

Furiously he searched the house, flinging open cabinets and cupboards, peeking into every crack and crevice and shadowy hideaway, but he could find nothing. His eyes fell upon the blue cap that still sat upon the table and he frowned.

“You! It must be you. Up to some mischief. And for what reason only some devil knows why.” Drazhen picked up the little man’s cap and held it in his hands. “Well I’ll catch you tonight and you’ll plague me no more.”

That evening he made himself a sleeping pallet on the floor. The fire crackled warmly in the fireplace, casting its soft hues of golden light throughout the dark room. Drazhen had resolved to lie awake, watching with half-closed eyes until the intruder should appear, but as the night wore on he drifted off to sleep and dreamed.

He dreamed of orange and red and purple blossoms, blooming bright and fragrant in a garden; of soft, amber tresses that framed the loveliest face he’d ever beheld; of the joyful sound of a child who danced and sang as he picked flowers for his mother; and of a house with gables and a great porch and painted shutters, and a dragon upon its roof.

But, as all dreams must, they ended, and with great reluctance Drazhen opened his eyes.

There before him, by the fireplace, sat a child. Its back was turned toward him so he could not make out a face, but it was small and seemed to be the figure of a little boy. It sat cross-legged among the toys that were splayed out on the floor, rolling a small wooden cart back and forth over the ground.

Drazhen rubbed his eyes, but the child was still there. He wasn’t imagining it. His heart began to pound so hard and so fast that he felt it might burst forth from his chest. It was Niklos! He was here, before him now, just as he’d yearned for in a thousand dreams. He sat up and called out with an excitement he could no longer contain.

“Niklos! Niklos! It’s me. Papa!”

The little figure froze and slowly turned its head. As the firelight fell onto its face, Drazhen’s heart sank inside of him like a weight.

It wasn’t Niklos.

It was a child — of some sort. A boy. But he was smaller than Niklos had been and yet somehow appeared slightly older. His tiny ears ended in soft points, and his hair had a coppery sheen to it. His eyes were wide with fear.

Drazhen’s mouth fell open in surprise, the breath taken from him, and in the blink of an eye the figure had vanished. He had been too stunned to tell where it had disappeared to, or even how it had gone.

A sudden draft of cold air brought him back to his senses, and he went to the stove and lit a fire. There’d be no going back to sleep tonight. He was too shaken, and too heartbroken. Whatever he’d seen, it wasn’t Niklos. His son hadn’t returned, and he never would.

After breakfast that morning, he took a blade and shaved the overgrown beard that had become a long forgotten fixture on his face. He felt the strange, bare lines of his jaw and wondered when they had become so narrow, so sunken in.

He grabbed the blue cap from the table and stuffed it into his coat pocket, then emerged from his hideaway in the woods and wandered into town. People on the road nodded their heads and greeted him with a friendly enough “Good morn,” but he could feel their curious stares as he passed them by.

When he reached the smithy, Rikkar hailed him.

“Drazhen! What brings you into town today?”

Drazhen looked the smith over as he approached. He was as big and burly as ever, though he’d grown his hair long and wore it in a topknot on his head. And while his blue eyes still shone with their familiar warmth, now they were tinged with concern.

Standing under his friend’s gaze, he suddenly felt rather frail, aware that he had become a mere shadow of his former self. And he remembered why he had retreated into his hut in the woods. It was much easier to wither away into nothingness on one’s own, and that’s all he had wanted to do.

“I was looking for Scholar Ulstead. I needed his help with…a private matter.”

“Ulstead’s been gone half a year now. But the Guild’s just sent us a new one. Last month. Her name’s Neea. She lived here when she was a girl — not far from the house you and your father bought when you first arrived — but it was a few years before your time. She’s staying at the Nightgate and should be there now.”

“Thanks, Rikkar.”

“Any time.” He placed a hand on Drazhen’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Drazhen. It truly is.”

Drazhen nodded at his old friend and headed for the inn.

When he reached it, he lingered at the entrance lost in a cascade of memories. From his earliest days in Forsbyr, when he and his father had fled their famine-stricken home and braved the open sea for a chance at a better life, he had been welcomed in its warm, hearth-lit hall. Hedda, the washerwoman who still tirelessly cared for her grown, simple-minded son, had taken him under her wing and taught him the language at a table in the corner. His father, before he’d taken ill, had stood at the front and played his fiddle, filling the air with old songs from back home as the town folk danced. And when his father had passed, the men of the village had rallied around him, taking him into their fold. How many nights had he spent with them, huddled around a table by the fire, drinking ale and sharing the highs and lows of their days?

He opened the door and stepped inside. It was the first he’d set foot in the place since the fire. The hall was empty — normal for the morning — but the hearth burned bright and warm as ever. Behind the counter in the back stood a man he’d never seen. He had a solid build and he wore his hair in the close cropped style of a soldier. A patch over his left eye made his face all the more grim.

“Welcome. How can I help you, sir?”

Drazhen was taken aback. The man had a deep, jolly voice that belied his stern appearance. He approached the counter.

“I was looking for the Scholar. Neea, I believe her name is.”

The innkeeper smiled and held out a hand.

“Ah, you must be Drazhen. The accent gives it away. I’ve heard much about you — good things all! Name’s Tyr.” Drazhen shook his hand. “I’ve not been in Forsbyr long myself. Just about a year. Came here with my sister all the way from Karvastead. But back to the Scholar. She’s got a room and a study set up on the second floor. It’ll be the hallway on the right.”

Drazhen nodded his thanks and trekked up the stairs.

The first room he came to was wide open. He peered in and saw shelf upon shelf of books, maps tacked onto the walls, vials of potions and poultices, sachets of ground flowers and dried herbs, and even a crossbow that hung by the door frame. And in the corner, hunched over a desk with her face buried intently in a heavy tome, sat the Scholar.

She was younger than he had imagined, certainly no older than him. Her brown hair was pulled back behind her neck, though a few loose strands found their way across her cheek. She was rather pretty, he thought, in a simple, natural sort of way.

He cleared his throat.

“Excuse me for interrupting, but are you the new Scholar?”

She looked at him as if she’d just been shaken awake from a dream.

“Yes. Yes I am.” She closed the book, straightened a pile of parchments on her desk, and yawned. “I apologize. I’ve been reading all through the night. Researching all the known causes of crop failure and blight, and I can’t find anything that makes sense.” She rubbed her forehead, let out a frustrated sigh, and smiled. “Neea Kallenen. How may I be of service?”

“I am Drazhen Agapov, the woodworker. I live a few miles outside of town.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you. You came all the way from Lyesh, if I recall correctly? Rikkar has told me all about your work and how talented you are. And about the beautiful house you built.” Her voice softened. “I am sorry for all that happened.”

Drazhen lowered his gaze. He could never bear to look anyone in the eyes when that night was spoken of. He hurried to change the subject.

“Yes, well, what I needed to speak to you about. I’ve had some strange occurrences in my hut and I’m unsure what to make of them. I swear I’m not mad, and I have the proof right here.”

He pulled the wrinkled blue cap from his coat and told her of the strange visitor who had left it, how he’d found the toys out each morning, and finally about the little child — or whatever it was — he’d caught sight of that night.

“I don’t know what it could be. Or why it is in my house, playing with my son’s toys. What does it want from me, and why did it all start after that devilish little man showed up? I just want to be left alone!”

Neea took the cap from his hands and examined it closely.

“Have you ever heard of the Huusfolk?” she asked.

Drazhen shook his head. “I’m not familiar with that word.”

“When the settlers arrived, a few hundred years ago, and started building their towns and villages, they told stories of magical creatures and strange happenings. Now most people today, particularly those in the city, believe them to be no more than old wives’ tales, imaginative ways to explain the unknowns in a new land. But I believe there’s more to it.” Her brown eyes grew wide with excitement. “Sognvanland is old. Ancient. And the Sogni tribes tell of many strange things that seem to correspond to the settlers’ tales.

“Huusfolk are a type of Hidden Folk, people who are somewhat like us in form but who keep themselves — as much as they can — hidden from sight. Some of them are said to live in the wilds, in the deep forests or mountains, where most people never venture. But the Huusfolk prefer the warmth and comfort of human houses. They come out when everyone is asleep, and when morning dawns, they use magic to conceal themselves again.

“Now, I have never seen one myself, but I have read reports of them, recent ones, from homesteads and small villages far from any city.” She handed the cap back to him and smiled. “I believe you have yourself a young Huusfolk.”

Drazhen had listened attentively to each word and couldn’t decide if it was horror or awe that he felt.

“If this is true, if this — thing I saw is a Huusfolk, what does it want? Will it try to hurt me?”

“No,” Neea laughed. “You’re quite safe. They’re said to be a bit mischievous at times. A bit childlike. But they won’t hurt anyone.”

“But how do I get it to go away? To leave me be? I don’t want anyone around, Huusfolk or not.”

“Well, most people who have one in their home just learn to live with it. They may leave out a bit of food, a cup of milk, or little gifts from time to time. But as they don’t like to be seen, there’s a good chance you already scared it off.”

“Very good then. Thank you for your help, Scholar.”

He nodded his head at her and turned to leave.

“Any time,” she answered, and as he walked through the door, she called out behind him, “Best of luck to you, Drazhen. And don’t be a stranger.”

That evening before bed, Drazhen tidied up the house, checking to be sure that no toys were out and that the chest was secured. As he pulled the blanket over him, he hoped that the scholar was right and that the little Huusfolk would be too frightened to bother him any more.

And in the morning, just as he had wished, he rose to find that nothing had been disturbed while he slept. He crossed his arms and took a deep, satisfied breath. Back to normal it would be. Just him, alone in the house, silent but for the sound of his tools as he worked.

That first day passed pleasantly enough. He sat at his workbench, undisturbed, chiseling away with a steady tap, tap, tap.

The day after that brought with it another chill — colder this time — a reminder that the days would soon grow shorter and that the year was old and longing to pass on. Drazhen could see his breath linger in the air like a ghost when he walked outside to collect wood for his fire. The leaves and pine needles, stiff with frost, crunched beneath his feet. The sky hovered over the trees, a cloudy shade of white that promised at least a sprinkling of snow.

Inside Drazhen had the fireplace going and a pot of water heating up for tea. He looked around the room and was suddenly struck by how vast it felt, how empty. And how cold, despite the fire.

It was a small hut, with only two rooms. One for sleeping and one for everything else, with his workbench and table and kitchen and hearth. And the chest that held the toys he’d carved for little Niklos.

His heart lurched as he remembered the other night and how desperately he had wanted to see Niklos, to believe he was there again, that maybe, just maybe, his son had been returned to him somehow and the loneliness that so painfully ate at his soul would finally be driven away.

Loneliness, grief, and sorrow. He had walked in their shadow for so long that he had become numb to the damage they’d done. But now, in this moment, he could feel it — the empty hollowness inside that gnawed away at his heart like a cankerworm and left him a living specter.

He put his head in his hands and wept, all the agony of the past few years rushing through him like a river surging over a broken dam. When he could cry no longer, he raised his head and looked across the room at the chest by the fire.

Niklos would never have the chance to find joy with those toys, but someone else could. Drazhen opened the chest and took each item out, setting them carefully on the floor.

“I am sorry,” he said aloud, though nothing answered back. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. If you are still here, if you can hear me, please, come back. I give these to you now. If you are scared and alone, come back. I am scared and lonely too. But there is room enough for both of us, and nothing would make me happier than for you to have these toys I made for my son.”

He waited for an answer, but all was silent and still. The kettle began to sing its shrill song and Drazhen went to take it from the fire. Outside the sky grew dim and a light snow began to fall. It would be a frosty night, and he wondered what had become of the little Huusfolk. The thought of it, a little child, out in the cold woods alone made his heart twinge with worry and guilt.

That night he drew up a pallet on the floor again, next to the fire for warmth. He hoped that the little Huusfolk would return, but he told himself it wasn’t to be. His heart had been dashed to pieces by false hopes and he wouldn’t chance injuring it any more.

“I hope, wherever you may be, you’ve found a home more welcoming than mine,” he said aloud as he pulled the covers up. “One cheerful and happy and not so lonesome.”

And as he drifted off to sleep, his heart ached with the loneliness he had surrendered to once more.

He was awoken in the night by the frightful howling of the wind. He could hear the rushing of it in the treetops, and the rattling of the shutters as they held strong against its wrath. He opened his eyes.

The fire still burned brightly, casting its dappled orange glow about the room. But something else caught his attention. Just a few feet away sat a little figure, out amongst the toys. The Huusfolk! It had returned.

He rubbed his eyes to be sure it wasn’t a dream, and when he knew it wasn’t, he took a deep breath. He didn’t want to frighten it away again.

But the little creature must have heard him, for it stopped its playing and turned his way.

He saw it so clearly now. It was a child, a Huusfolk child, innocent and happy as Niklos had been. It held the wooden cart in its delicate fingers, the wheels still spinning. Drazhen held his breath, knowing that the little creature would be gone in an instant, and once more he’d be left alone.

He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. He’d wanted to be alone for so long. So desperately had he wanted it that he had abandoned his friends, the people who had been with him in good times and bad, and fled to live like a hermit in the woods, isolated and forgotten. But now he could bear the loneliness no longer. His heart ached, and he knew he’d never see the little Huusfolk again, just as he’d never see Niklos and Svana again either.

But when he opened his eyes once more, the Huusfolk was still there, smiling right at him. Drazhen smiled back, and in that quiet moment, the shadow of grief that had darkened his heart took its first step back in retreat.