The Woodsman - ORIGINAL SHORT STORY

The Woodsman

The Woodsman looked down at his hands, the blood had begun to soak through the ragged cloth he used as improvised gloves. He took out his pocket knife, looted from a travelers body he came across in this dense pit of a forest a few months prior. The traveler was clearly unprepared for the environment, as was he, though he didn't think it at the time. The Woodsman retrieve only the pocket knife and extra clothing to serve as bandages. The Woodsman seated himself on nearby log he had placed in the small clearing he had created for himself. He had chosen this spot as there was at least a trickle of a stream nearby, though it didn't offer the delicacies of fish or crustacea, just enough water to keep him alive.

'The Pit', as it was called was so dense it only delivered blackness. Day and night were only distinguishable by the sounds and movements of the animals that surrounded him. But in the evening, the darkness truly enveloped all things. Even with a fire, The Woodsman could not see past his hand. Sometimes, he was fortunate enough to trap a squirrel in the day, but otherwise he lived off various bugs, berries and nuts fallen from the heavy overlaps of trees covering above. So were the ways of The Pit. He used the knife to cut away his bloodied hand coverings, and cut fresh lines of cloth off the tattered remains of the travelers clothing.
He refreshed his bandages over the bloodied blisters, that was all he could manage for today. His best option was to use the dried stockpile of wood collected to build a small fire and roast some of the fallen nuts he had gathered, which he had covered in a small rock pit in the clearing. He had quickly learned leaving them out in the open left them target to squirrels or other animals. When he had some to spare he used them and berries for his traps; they caught mostly squirrels, sometimes a rabbit or a raccoon, but the delicacies of flesh were not delivered often and malnutrition had began to affect him. The Pit was a relentless battle against darkness and fear.

The Woodsman began to fill his fire pit, lamenting his arrogance about the warnings about The Pit and its reputation. Don't go alone. Loneliness leads to madness. Don't go completely unprepared without decent shelter. You will need a navigator as you will lose your way in an unfamiliar terrain.
The voices of the townspeople echoed in his head as he fought back tears of anger. How could he, in his experience, end up in this deplorable situation. No, he had said, I can spend a night in the woods. No he had said, I am experienced in navigating forests. He was strong, he was quick, he was sharp as a tack. He damned himself, damned himself for his ignorance and arrogance. It had been several months, maybe more. He's lost track. Every day hacking away at tree after tree. His only way out, he figured was to cut his way out, or until someone noticed; be it by noise or a clearing he could create to send smoke signals. By now he thought he'd have opened some light, by each tree only lead to more darkness, forever covered by another, taller, larger tree. The Woodsman roasted the varied berries and nuts he had collected throughout the day, and ate them bitterly. The darkness of The Pit had invaded his heart and his mind. Every day his efforts seemed more and more futile.

He thought of the traveler, laying at the base of one of the trees, pocket knife in his blackened decaying hand. With his last effort he had carved NO HOPE into the base of the tree. Fresh and arrogant at the time, The Woodsman had scoffed at the pitifulness of the travelers defeat, looted the corpse and continued on his way. He thought back on those words, NO HOPE. The Pit had the power to take away any meaning of the word hope to a man, encompassing it with darkness and fear. After however many months in The Pit, bitterness, apathy and madness had to begin to encroach on The Woodsman, and he considered the truth in those words.
He stared into the fire long into the evening, until he woke, arched back across the log, his head in the dirt, throbbing. As he attempted to rise, his legs pained and he squirmed as the blood rush back to his lower extremities. At least today, chopping trees would assist in stretching his back into the correct position. He spat and took a sip from a carved wooden bowl he had fashioned to collect water. The rest he poured down his face and beard, listening to the birds chattering loudly. He wiped his face with a rag and refilled the bowl with water from the small stream. He picked up his Axe which had become duller and weaker over time, though he attempted to sharpen it with rocks. Today, just like every other day, The Woodsman returned to his last point of clearing. He had attempted to go along-side the 'stream' but it had disappeared up a large scale of rocky mountain. He began chopping, just like yesterday, just like the last seven months, today will be just the same. He hacked away with the dull blade, absorbed in the monotony of the task.
It had become the afternoon, he knew because the birds were doing their evening coos and the insects had begun chirping. He had only cut down two trees today, albeit, smaller ones. But this last tree was rather large. Once again his arrogance told him he'd be back before night to make a fire, but the tree was three quarters of the way through. Blood was dripping down his wrists from his raw hands, which he licked as he had exhausted his supply of water, but he kept chopping.

Finally, the tree began to creak and waver on its stability. The Woodsman pushed, with his forearms, his hands ruined, with his last remaining strength. The tree gave a large crack and The Woodsman knew it was about to fall. He stopped pushing, allowing the tree to fall with its own weight. Gathering his Axe and his water bowl in his arms, he prepared to leave quickly to prepare the fire as he was not only injured but pressed for time before the evening. He turned and began to walk away as the tree gave its final creak and began its descent to the forest floor. Today would be the same, just like every other day and he would resume and return his work tomorrow.
The Woodsman felt the trees impact which reverberated through the ground and up his legs. He stopped as he was suddenly possessed by another sensation. A sensation of warmth. an encompass of an orange light in his small space. A sensation his skin had not relished for months.
He turned and quickly shielded his eyes to the light, despite the soft orange glow of the afternoons setting sun, his eyes had not feasted on such delight for several moons. He let the sunlight warm his face, before turning away and heading toward the stream, as time was still a factor. He returned to his new opening in the sky, as it was falling dusk, and sat along the newly fallen tree. A fire would not be necessary tonight. He was too tired and injured to begin the move. He'd retrieved his loot and make a new fire pit in the morning. He sipped at his wooden water bowl and watched as dusk set into twilight. The Woodsman wept as he saw the stars twinkle through the gap in the dense brush, as the open sky delivered a new hope.

This is an original piece written by myself. Plagiarism of my work will not be tolerated.