The Woodcutter and the War-walker: a steampunk fairytale

Part 1

Once upon a time, there was a one-eyed woodcutter.

He lived in the dark and ancient forest between the mountains and the village, and he kept himself to himself.

He had arrived there as a young man, soon after the wars that for so many years had plagued the lands to the north. He came out of the forests one day, hungry and thirsty, dressed in scarecrow's rags and with the wound to his eye still fresh. The people in the village had their own ideas about where he had come from, of course, but life was hard on the edge of the mountains, and travelling strangers were always treated with hospitality, especially those who were sick or in need.

After a time, the woodcutter's wounds were healed and he was strong again. By then, he had already proven himself to be a courteous and good man, and nobody objected when he built himself a shack in the forest and became a woodcutter. All agreed that he was an honest worker who always paid his debts, and who never argued or drank too much or caused any problems. For those reasons, the villagers accepted him and never asked any questions about what troubles he had left behind.

In time, the woodcutter married one of the village girls. Her father had been none too pleased at first, for he was a farmer and as well-to-do as any might be called in those parts. His daughter had another suitor, the son of the neighbouring farmer, but she would not accept him to be her husband, and in truth, her father had his doubts. The daughter's other suitor had a temper, and he was often unfair in his treatment of others. All the same, the thought that his daughter might live in a shack in the forest was almost more than the farmer could bear.

"Anyone can live a hard life," the daughter said to her father when she asked his permission to marry the woodcutter. "But all too few can lead a happy one."

And so her father gave his blessing and she went to live with the woodcutter in the forest. Soon afterwards they had a son.

They lived happily enough in their shack in the forest. Life was hard and money was often in short-supply, but life was hard everywhere, and nobody in the village could really be called rich. What they had they shared, in good times and in bad, and they made the best of things and were happy.

The years went by and the woodcutter never spoke of his past, not of family nor of friends, or of the lands beyond the mountains that he had left behind. His wife took the woodcutter for what she knew him to be, and she did not pry into a past that her husband wanted to forget. Only one thing did he ever do that made her look and wonder.

Every now and again, two or three times a year, the woodcutter would take his axe and his rifle and the dogs, and vanish into the deepest darkest depths of the forest, taking trails that only he knew. He would be gone all day, from early until late, and the woodcutter's wife would lie awake in bed and wait for him to return. She never asked him what he did, nor did she ever follow him, but she knew that wherever he had gone to, he had not been chopping wood. When he returned, he smelt of oil and smoke and metal, not of sawdust and sap and sweat.

Now the woodcutter's son was growing fast, and while still a young boy, he came to be an age where he wondered what his father did and where he went at these times.

"If your father won't tell then you must not ask him," his mother said. "And don't you think to follow him to spy out what he does and where he goes, or you shall feel my wrath even if he spares you his."

Those were wise words, well-meant, but the boy could not let the matter rest. His father was always open and honest with him, and the thought that the woodcutter might be keeping a secret not only roused the boy's curiosity, it hurt his feelings. He decided that the next time his father left the shack on his unknown errand, he would follow.