Run run run, poor woodcutter’s wife! Run and clutch your fragile cargo to your heart! Run and do not turn back. No, no, do not look back at your poor husband as he lies in his own blood, or the three maggots split by his ax like rotten wood. No, no, do not glance back at the cabin that your woodcutter husband built with his bare hands from logs. Forget this cabin in which the three of you shared that all-too-fleeting happiness.
Run! But where? Where to run? Where to hide?
Run without thinking! Go, go, go! Run straight ahead, do not cry, do not cry, there is no time now for tears.
Within her poor chest, against which she cradles the shawl containing her beloved little cargo, within her panting, heaving breast, the woodcutter’s wife feels her heart pound and pound and pound, then suddenly skip a beat. A sharp pain cuts her legs from under her, takes her breath away. She knows, she senses, that the hunters of the heartless are already tracking her, to snatch away her cherished little cargo.
She longs to stop, to fall to earth, to melt, to merge with the ferns, dissolve into the high grasses as, tighter and tighter, she hugs the little one she so loves. But fox cubs stand guard at her feet. They run, they run, they run, they are inured to running, to pursuing and to being pursued. They run, they tear up the ground, they run without fear, without reproach. Where? Where are they running to? Have no fear, they know how to get there, they know the path, the path to salvation.
Then, suddenly, the poor woodcutter’s wife and her precious little cargo find themselves on the edge of a part of the wood so dense it is considered impenetrable by all. The fox cubs, for their part, do not slacken their pace, they plunge into the thicket, bounding from root to root, knocking against the low branches, tripping over the dead branches that litter the ground.
Then a voice, a voice at once feared and hoped for, rings out:
“Who goes there?”
“The poor woodcutter’s wife,” she cries as the fox cubs scamper on.
“What does she want, the poor woodcutter’s wife?”
“Sanctuary! Sanctuary for me and for my . . . gift from the gods.”
The voice comes again:
“I heard gunshots. Were they aimed at you?”
“They wanted . . . they wanted to . . . they wanted to take . . .”
“Step forward! Walk without fear!”
“They wanted to . . .” The poor woodcutter’s wife is out of breath. Her voice deserts her, her legs give way. Even the fox cubs come to a halt, thwarted by the roots, by the brambles, by exhaustion.
The poor woodcutter’s wife longs to tell all to the man with the rifle and the goat and the broken face, to tell of her fears, of the heartless, and of the ax. She tries again, with difficulty:
“They wanted to . . . they wanted to take . . . so my poor woodcutter husband . . . and his ax . . . and he . . .”
The man appears.
“You need say no more, I know the blackness of men’s hearts. Your husband and his ax did their valiant best. And if your tormentors warrant, I too will do my valiant best.”
He shifts his rifle from one shoulder to the other and reaches out his arms.
“Give me your precious cargo and follow.”
The poor woodcutter’s wife tenders the child, and the old man with his rifle, his goat, and his shattered face receives her with a gentle dignity befitting one carrying a sacred object.
All three advance in silence. A clearing opens in the dense forest to reveal a garden that the poor woodcutter’s wife has never seen. She received her daily ration of milk on the outskirts of the forest, and it was here too that she deposited her bundle of sticks.
In this late spring, in this early summer, the fruit on the trees seems to stretch out toward the child. The flowers stand tall, offering themselves up to be picked, as though to comfort the poor woodcutter’s wife and her daughter. The gods are just on this side of the forest, she thinks. Yes, the gods can do good when they reflect and choose to do so.
Still cradling the child, the man walks toward a cabin, a cabin fashioned from logs just like her own, which stands next to a rock. He does not go into the cabin, but heads straight for the rock and steals into a grotto in which a diminutive goat, with large swollen udders, gambols about in joy at this visit.
The man with the rifle and the shattered face then sets the child down facing the goat. They are the same height. The man introduces them in this fashion: “Daughter of the gods, this is your wet nurse, your third mother.”
The delighted child hugs the goat, which melts into her arms, gazing into that distance where goats are wont to gaze. Then they bring their heads together and stand motionless, goat and girl, staring into each other’s eyes, forehead pressed to forehead, as the poor woodcutter’s wife sobs and the man with his gun and his goat and his shattered face whispers: “Why do you cry, poor woodcutter’s wife? Now you shall have all the milk you need for her, and you will no longer have to gather kindling. Granted, I lose a bundle of firewood, but I gain a playmate for my lonesome goat, so all four of us are better off. In this mortal world, to gain something is to lose a little something in the process, be it the life of a loved one, or one’s own.”