The Woodcutter’s Weary Wife

The following short story is adapted from an old Syrian folk tale titled “The Woodcutter’s Wealthy Sister,” found in Inea Bushnaq’s Arab Folktales.

Once in a valley on the edge of the desert lived a woodcutter’s wife. But, of course, to have a woodcutter’s wife, one needs a woodcutter, and all should be sorry to hear that this man was as spiteful and arrogant as they come. Some may say it was the years of hard labor that turned him that way, but in all honesty, it was something deep in his nature. It was this very nature that helped turn his wife from a budding lotus into the withered scrap she was on the day we enter their lives.

The wife had just finished wiping clean a wooden table that never held enough to eat. She sighed as she lifted her youngest child, when suddenly she heard something unusual outside the clay walls of her home. It was the sound of merriment and good fortune, as often follows joyous caravans that rattle with silver, fine rugs, copious jugs of wine, and food. She saw the caravan stop outside her home, with her husband moving amongst the crowd of revelers. She watched him greedily gulp down all that lay before him.

She pushed through the wall of servants to find her husband sitting with a beautiful woman on his right. She was enchanting in every sense of the word, from her amber eyes that would follow you to the ends of the Earth, to the jet-black hair which curled around her most agreeably. The wealthy maiden quickly introduced herself as the sister of the woodcutter, who had at long last tracked her brother down and was prepared to treat him, his wife, and all five of their children to a new life of luxury.

When all the music had stopped and the dishes were wiped of their grease, the wife finally had a moment to confront her husband, for she had known the woodcutter his whole life and knew that he was the only child of his poor old mother. The husband, after much prodding, finally admitted that he had never met the wealthy woman but was content to drink from her riches like the leech he was for as long as he could get away with it.

Although she was disgusted by her husband’s willingness to deceive, she knew it would be better for the children to live in a palace with plenty to eat than a shack with little. So, the following day, the woodcutter, the wife, the five children, and their loyal ox all ventured into the desert with the beautiful caravan of servants. It took them many hard days of traveling under the desert sun, but they soon arrived at the sister’s palace. Here, topaz gemstones coated each rooftop, ruby was woven into every carpet, and even the houses of the servants were laden with emeralds and gilded with gold.

Before long, the family was full and fat from the plump mutton and oiled birds. Every night was filled with beauty and wonder for the once-poor family. But the humble wife still felt something was slightly upsetting about their new arrangement. She didn’t enjoy having servants poke and prod around her belongings. So she set an old bronze lock on her door and ensured it was shut every night. For some nights, an old lock can make all the difference.

One such moonless night, the wife was awoken by a startling sound. She jumped from her bed and peered out the window to see a calamitous scene. Their old ox, who had been left outside their door to graze, was fighting off a strange humanoid figure. The sounds this creature made were that of a thousand starving cats dragged across the hottest coals of hell. Soon after receiving a startling blow from the ox’s horn, the monster skulked off into the shadows.

The wife tried to wake the husband, who had slept through the ordeal. Instead, he grunted himself into consciousness to scold her over an inflated imagination and letting visions get the best of her. The wife swore that what she saw was the truth and insisted that they should leave, but her words fell on deaf ears.

The next morning at dawn, the woodcutter’s sister was on the doorstep. She said she was hungry for beef and asked her brother if she could slaughter their ox for its meat. Such a request mortified the wife, but the husband dismissed her fears and gladly gave away the leathery old ox. She pleaded one last time, but the husband’s decision was final. They all ate beef that night.

The next night the wife did not drift off as easily as she once had. She listened closely to the faint whistle of the winds and the creaking of the wood. Suddenly, she heard the lightest pattering of footsteps. Then came a scratching at the door followed by the clink of something on the lock. Then a bang. Then another, then more, all made in frustration to open the door. The wife was as pale as a sheet when the fierce growling began. She took only a glimpse out of the window.

Outside their door was a hideous, wrinkled old beast. It stood on two legs but was unmistakably built with the head of a she-lion. The monster flashed its amber eyes across the door once more before it stalked off. The wife rushed to her husband’s bedside, happy to see him awake, but he’d only just awoken from the racket of the beast and had not seen anything. Still, the witless woodcutter believed not a word of his faithful wife and bullied her back to bed once more.

The following day, the wealthy sister was once more on their doorstep. She had brought a locksmith, intent on changing out her brother’s rusty lock for a shiny silver lock instead. She claimed her sudden action was inspired by hearing from a servant girl that some bandits had been lurking around. Once more, the wife pulled her husband aside, but was again faced with the same rejections. He first said that the wife’s wild fantasies must have come from hearing the skulkings of these bandits and that no trouble would befall them any longer. Then he told her that her constant interruptions threatened to jeopardize their new fortune and that she should focus more on securing their family’s future. The lock was put on not an hour later.

That night, the wife dared not move an inch as she sat in her bed. The sun had set but an hour ago, and her husband lay as conscious as a sack of gold. It was then that she made a decision. She crept from her bed carefully. Then, twice as carefully, she crept to each child’s room and gathered them up. She was about to go back and wake her husband but knew it would be wrong to do so in these crucial seconds, so she let him be. Then, out the door she went with her five children in tow.

She breathed heavily. With each step, she knew there was a chance of coming face-to-face with the monster. She finally neared safety and found two magnificent white horses to load up for her family’s escape. She looked back at the house before she rode away. Her skin grew pale as she saw a clawed hand in the door frame. She made sure the horses ran fast across the starlit dunes.

Neither the wife nor the children would ever see the woodcutter again. Indeed, nobody from the outside world would see that stubborn man. The wife moved back into the valley and made a living off baskets woven from river reeds. One day she met a fine old widower who had just lost his wife under similar circumstances. They lived together for some time, and we hope it was spent happily.

References

Bushnaq, I. (1986). The Woodcutter’s Wealthy Sister. Arab Folktales (1st ed., pp. 137-141). Pantheon Books.