The Woodsmith

Shae asks me if I’m all right. I can feel her hand on mine, and she’s saying it, echoey and faraway, and she’s saying are you all right.

No, I’m not all right.

But I swallow and I nod and I stare at the ground and not at the little casket because I don’t want to cry. It’s raining and I’m watching the water swirl at my feet and I squeeze Shae’s hand until I can see white on my knuckles.

I want to hear her laugh again. She had the best little laugh. She’d look at you with those china plate blue eyes, and laugh and say daddy, and it was nothing like you’d ever felt before.

You should’ve met her, because I loved her so much, and you would’ve liked her. You would’ve.

We named her Jane, after my mother.

She was two years old and Shae found her dead yesterday morning and I’m going to vomit and now I don’t know what to do.

Ainsley won’t look at me. He stares at the ground, holds my hand like it’s all he has left in the world, and he stays dead quiet, face so choked with emotion it’s almost impassive.

We leave soon after the ceremonies, after Jane’s casket is in the ground and the local boys have got it covered. We walk home in relative silence. Even though it’s a market day, the streets are empty.

Because of Jane, it’s a mourning day.

We’re half way home before I stop, look at him, and say, “It’s going to be fine.”

Ainsley doesn’t react.

“It’s going to be.”

He shrugs, doesn’t meet my eye.

I hate that look, because I can’t do anything to help him.

The doctors say that it was the sickness in her lungs. Jane’s, I mean. That made her pass on. They say that it happens often, especially when we get closer to wintertime. They say that they’re so sorry and they did all that they could.

Ainsley walks to his shop the moment we get home, mumbles, “I’ll be working,” and closes the door behind himself. I hear the bolt drive home.

Ainsley built our house, when we first got married. His father gave him the land. It wasn’t much, but enough for a carpenter. Enough room for our little cottage, and Ainsley’s woodshop and my garden in front of the house.

He always goes into his shop, when something’s bothering him.

It makes me worried.

I go inside, walk into Jane’s room, sit down on the rocking chair, and cry.

Shae. She’s. Dammit. She’s.

Dammit, I can’t think.

Basswood. I’ll use basswood.

I wasn’t done making the chair yet, and I hear it hit the ground with a clatter.

Basswood is lightweight. It carves well. It’s almost white. I. I can use it. I’ll use basswood.

Dammit, Shae.

Dammit.

Because I don’t want time to think, I do other things.

I clean. I dust what hasn’t been dusted, sweep, clean out the fireplace, scrub the pots and pans, mop the floors, anything I can think of.

And when the house is cleaned to its full, I start cooking.

I’m making all of Ainsley’s favorite things. Lamb, bread fresh from the oven, the stew recipe his mother gave to me. It takes me three hours.

Once I finish, I walk out of the house, over to Ainsley’s shop, where I can see the light inside shining through the slats in the shutters. They’re drawn tight so that I can only see those beams of yellow and nothing more.

I knock on the door. “Ainsley?” I say. “Dinner’s ready.”

There’s silence on the other side of the door. Then, “Thank you,” soft and expressionless, and I almost don’t recognize it as his voice.

“Are you feeling all right?” I ask, leaning against the door frame.

A pause, like he’s holding his breath. And then the door opens, and he slips by me, shuts it firmly behind himself, and shrugs. He is dusty with wood shavings and, when I look at him, his eyes are large and round and hurt.

I stand up on my tiptoes, kiss him on the cheek, and I say, “Come on, I made your favorites.”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“You will be,” I assure him. I take his hand and lead him inside.

It still smells wonderful inside, and on the table I’ve put everything out, all warm and fresh and steaming. The table is one of Ainsley’s creations, etched carefully along the edges and legs and base, workmanship like I’d never seen before I met him. He made it for me, when we were married. The designs are of my favorite flower, the anemone, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Ainsley sits down and stares at his plate. He says, “I’m really not hungry.”

I bite my lip. “But I made it for you.”

He looks up at me, hesitates, then takes a few spoonfuls of each, eats mechanically. He doesn’t say anything.

We eat dinner in complete silence, occasionally punctuated by fork hitting plate. Finally I say, “Are you still working on the Robinsons’ chair?”

He shakes his head.

“Then you finished it? Can I see it?”

He shakes his head again. “I didn’t finish.”

I hesitate. Ainsley never leaves a project incomplete. “Oh. You started something new?” He nods. “Can I see it?”

Ainsley looks almost panicked and says, voice tight, “I really don’t want to talk about it, Shae.”

“That’s fine,” I say quickly.

Ainsley looks at his empty plate, stands, and says, “I’ll be in my shop.”

I’m not thinking when I stand and say, “Wait.” I didn’t even know I’d moved until seconds later when he paused, staring at me. “I think.” I swallow. “I think we need to talk about her.”

Ainsley looks as though I had slapped him. “I’ll be in my shop,” he says again. He refuses to look at me when he walks out the door and slams it shut in his wake, not listening to a word I say.

I don’t want to think about Shae, so I think about other things.

I think about how cold it is outside.

I think about how much I wish I had brought my jacket with me.

I think about making Jane’s rocking horse, and how much she had smiled when I gave it to her.

I think about how I will have to go into town on market day.

I think about the carving knife in my hand and how it needs to be sharpened.

I think about how much I’m going to miss her.

I think about how wet the table in front of me is getting.

I think about what I could have done to stop it all.

I didn’t see Ainsley again until two days later, and I almost didn’t notice him come inside.

I am washing dishes at the sink, turn around to put on in the cupboard, and drop it, yelping despite myself. There he is, standing like a wraith, watching me. He looks like he is hunted, and, when I look at him, he doesn’t say anything.

“Ainsley?” I say.

He starts to go for the door, shoves something into his pocket.

“Ainsley, wait.” I hurry in front of him and stand blocking the doorway.

He just stares at the ground. “Please move.”

“Have you been eating?”

“Please move.”

“Ainsley, I’m talking to you. Have you been eating? I’ve been putting food at the shop door and—”

“Shae.” He meets my eyes and says, “Please move.”

“No.” I cross my arms and stand up straighter. “Tell me if you’ve eaten or not.”

“Please—”

“I’m not moving until you talk to me.”

“I’ve eaten. Move.”

I shake my head. “What’s going on, Ainsley? You’re making me worried. You won’t talk to me, and you’re always holed up in that shop.”

He looks madder than I’ve ever seen him be and he says, “Move.”

Something inside me quails at the tone, but I press on anyway. “I’m not moving.”

Ainsley grabs me by shoulders suddenly, hard enough that I wince, and shakes me with all his strength, like I’m a ragdoll. “Dammit, Shae, move!”

Then I see it sticking out of his pocket. A corner of light blue. One of the dresses I had made for Jane.

“That’s Jane’s,” I say. My head is pounding and my shoulders ache. “You can’t—”

Ainsley pushes me to the side with enough force that I reel, and he storms out the door.

I follow after him and grab his wrist. “Ainsley, don’t you dare do that to m—”

He slaps me then, hard and full-fingered, sends me staggering back, hand pressed to my cheek and stunned into silence. “Don’t touch me.”

“Ains—”

“Shut up.” He turns and walks into his shop, the door banging shut behind him.

I swallow and go inside, stare at my reflection in the water pot, dotted with suds and see the redness there, dulled, but red. I touch it again and refuse to cry.

Ainsley has never touched me like that before, and I realize that I’m afraid of him.

My hand hurts.

This is my favorite one. It looked nice on her.

No. That’s wrong. It does look nice on her.

I don’t set food out for Ainsley anymore. Even thinking about him makes me sick to my stomach and so full of different emotions that I can’t see straight.

It’s odd, not having him around. At night, in bed alone in the cottage, I can hear the fireplace crackling and the wood settling and the night-things outside, and sometimes I think I can hear Jane crying. And when I do, I get up immediately, go into her nursery, remember that she is gone, and cry until I can’t breathe.

I haven’t spoken to him since he hit me.

Market day comes once a week. It’s when all the traders come through, and the heart of our town is packed with stalls and tents and vendors calling out their items and wonderful prices loudly enough that I’m sure the Æsir themselves can hear them.

I never like going in, but I do regardless, because I need more food, and I can’t bear to spend another day indoors alone, mourning as I should.

I pull on a black dress, a black shawl, hide my face in the cowl of it, and set out the door.

It’s as busy and loud as usual, and I feel naked and obvious there, like all eyes are trained on me, like everyone is whispering. But I go on and buy more wheat and milk, only enough to make bread today, and whatever else I need.

Then I freeze.

Ainsley is at a vendor’s table, rifling through paints. There are dark and heavy circles under his eyes, and he doesn’t look as though he has slept much at all. His beard is becoming unkempt, his hair wild, and he looks around, as though he is afraid that someone is watching him. I almost don’t recognize him.

I swallow, grip the handle of my basket firmly, and walk to him. He doesn’t even acknowledge me. “Ainsley,” I say.

Ainsley goes on looking through paints, dead silent.

“Ainsley. Ainsley, look at me.”

He glances up at the tradesman, a dark-skinned man from the south, offers him a few coins out of the bag at his hip, and says, “Will this cover it?”

“Ainsley!” I say, and touch his arm.

He shrugs away.

The tradesman takes his money, thanks him for his service, and puts it away carefully in his coat pocket.

“Ainsley, please, listen to me.”

He pockets the paint and brushes, looks over his shoulder, and walks away from me.

I’m angry now. I’m angrier at him than I’ve ever been before, and I walk quickly home, embarrassed and blind with total fury. I stand at his shop door and I wait.

Ainsley isn’t home for another hour, and when he does arrive, he has a cloth bag in hand and stares at the ground. Each step looks like it hurts him.

“We’re talking, right now.” I say firmly, putting a hand over the doorknob.

“Excuse me, miss,” he mumbles.

I feel like crying. “Ainsley, you recognize me. You know who I am. Why are you doing this? Why do you keep—”

“I have a lot to do. Can you please move?” With that he smiles and looks just past me and I see sparks of my husband in the expression.

“Look at me,” I say. He opens his mouth to speak.

I grab him by the chin, force him to look down at me, and say again, “Ainsley, look at me.”

He does. He looks me right in the eye, pales, and says, “I have to go.”

I step aside. I can’t breathe.

When he looked at me, I realized that he doesn’t have any eyes.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry.

I know.

I’m really sorry.

I didn’t. I didn’t mean to.

Please don’t be mad.

I hug her to my chest.

Please don’t be mad.

I don’t want to believe it.

I sit on the floor just inside the door, pressed against it, hugging my knees to my chest, and I don’t want to believe it.

He gouged his eyes out.

Ainsley.

I.

I don’t want to believe it.

I hide my face in my hands and focus on breathing.

I took a while. I’m sorry.

Shae saw.

And. I think I need to—

No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.

I hold her hand and I tell her that I didn’t mean it.

She says that she wants to come home.

I nod and open up the paint pot.

Ainsley is insane. I know he is. I know that Jane’s death made him insane, and that he hurt himself, and that he’s changed, and I realize that I have to get help.

And then I realize that I’m afraid to go outside.

I’m afraid of what he’ll do, if he finds me.

I rise shakily, bolt the door, and push the dining room table in front of it, cringing at the sound.

I find Ainsley’s hunting knife and sit on the ground beside the door, hysteria tightening my throat.

But I’ll be ready.

If I need to be.

I finished.

I’m smiling and saying I finished.

I finished, I finished, I finished.

The paint is still wet when I kiss her on the lips.

Under the crack in the door, I can see a bolt of red light creeping in, slithering across the ground.

I don’t know what it is. It’s completely unnatural, and I’ve never seen anything like it.

Suddenly there’s a feeling inside of me even worse than the fear.

I know that Ainsley needs help. I know that he’s over his head. I know that there’s nothing I can do.

She is beautiful.

I hear Ainsley scream.

My stomach presses against the floor and I jump to my feet, the hunting knife hitting the floor with a clatter. I shove aside the table enough that I can get out, and the moment I get past the door, I run to Ainsley’s shop.

It’s dark inside.

I knock on the door, loudly, desperately. “Ainsley? Ainsley, open the door.” Nothing. “Ainsley!” I slam my palm against the wood again, and I say, “Ainsley, open the door!”

The door is locked firmly when I try it.

I look around. Night is swelling around me, and it’s almost too dark to see. I run around the side of the house to where Ainsley had been chopping firewood only days earlier, heft up his ax, and drag it back to the door.

The ax is heavy, and I’m surprised that he can always lift it so easily.

The wood splinters under its weight.

I send the hatchet cutting into the wood again and again until I detach the door handle. Then, forcing the door open, I drop the ax and I say, “Ainsley.”

I cover my mouth and I scream.

He’s on the floor, and it smells horrible in his shop, the worse smell I’ve ever known, and he’s smiling, a splash of white in the dull light, and Jane’s corpse is in his arms. He’s bloody and she’s bloody and arterial scarlet stains the floor and between them lies some purple-red mass.

I curl in on myself and vomit.

When we all go to bury him the next day, we find Jane’s grave has been ripped and torn, like something had been digging there, and that the lid to her coffin was in pieces.

Inside was a doll, a spitting image of Jane, wearing a light blue dress and a painted smile.