The Apprentice
The woodcutter finally found an apprentice. Word had made its way around the village, to every nook, to every cranny, to every pub, ale house, whore house, residence, business eventually to the apprentice—who had no identity yet, just a boy who got in his share of trouble. The first day, as is the rule, was the hardest. The boy came fifteen minutes late and was treated to a knuckle blow above his eye for wasting the woodcutter’s precious, yet molasses, time.
All was forgiven when the apprentice showed himself valuable at swinging the axe to and fro. A might blow delivered to the trunks of trees, while the woodcutter nodded (out of apprentice’s eyesight for masters can’t compliment apprentices or they’ll have an inescapably big head, which a sharp tack will puncture ruining all the master’s work, as they try to tear down the children and rebuild them in their own image and you can’t repair a popped balloon or ego) in approval. This was turning out to be quite the protégé for the woodcutter. Dreams of an early retirement materialized out of dusky air. Kicking up his feet with an ale, while the boy brought in business with his stout back and robust chest, swiving trees down mightily like a young woodcutter.
Dreams turned to reality awfully quickly, as the woodcutter hung up his axe and brought down the bottle. The apprentice soon was doing all the cutting, while the cutter did all the drinking, all the whoring (he even brought the apprentice’s Mother to his minimalistic hut and had at her over the wood oven that the apprentice made), all the drinking while pocketing all the money. Now, the apprentice was very grateful for all the cruel (yet useful) tutelage the master gave him, but felt that he deserved some of the profits that labor brought in. He wasn’t asking for anything outlandish, a 85-15 split would have been for the apprentice.
One foul-smelling evening, the apprentice approached the woodcutter and made his business proposal. Blasphemy! An apprentice is not a partner, but a step up from a slave! Leathery and worn fist met fresh, young face, as the apprentice was treated to a beating of epic proportion. A youthful beauty tarnished and bruised over, while elder seed dripped from above on young hair.
The apprentice ran back to his shameful house smelling like the woodcutter. The monthly bath taken a week early, as he planned his terrible and wicked revenge. The hot water felt cool when anger was taken into formula and teeth were chattering in his vengeful tub. The apprentice took a back road to master’s house—through the woods he went, shadowed by benevolent moon smiling down on him, smiling down on imminent actions and the future that must result.
The hut stood on its lonely hill. Dark clouds swirling overhead, illuminated by ferocious lightning and the impending echo of terrible thunder. The apprentice travelled ever closer, his axe in his right hand swinging threateningly, just the way the woodcutter taught him. The wooden door creaked open upon soft touch. The hut was dark and the apprentice could see nothing—until lightning lit the room up and the woodcutter appeared in a chair not three feet away, scowling, eyes dark, waiting for the apprentice to say something, anything.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
The axe followed with a quick, albeit effective, retort that took off the left side of the woodcutter’s face. Now he wore a half frown—until it righted itself into a half grimace. The horrible laughing was cut short by a second swing which detached the rest of the woodcutter’s ample head.
The apprentice was now the woodcutter and would in turn need: an apprentice. Word had made its way around the village, to every nook, to every cranny, to every pub, ale house, whore house when he finally found one.
All was forgiven when the apprentice showed himself valuable at swinging the axe to and fro. A might blow delivered to the trunks of trees, while the woodcutter nodded (out of apprentice’s eyesight for masters can’t compliment apprentices or they’ll have an inescapably big head, which a sharp tack will puncture ruining all the master’s work, as they try to tear down the children and rebuild them in their own image and you can’t repair a popped balloon or ego) in approval. This was turning out to be quite the protégé for the woodcutter. Dreams of an early retirement materialized out of dusky air. Kicking up his feet with an ale, while the boy brought in business with his stout back and robust chest, swiving trees down mightily like a young woodcutter.
Dreams turned to reality awfully quickly, as the woodcutter hung up his axe and brought down the bottle. The apprentice soon was doing all the cutting, while the cutter did all the drinking, all the whoring (he even brought the apprentice’s Mother to his minimalistic hut and had at her over the wood oven that the apprentice made), all the drinking while pocketing all the money. Now, the apprentice was very grateful for all the cruel (yet useful) tutelage the master gave him, but felt that he deserved some of the profits that labor brought in. He wasn’t asking for anything outlandish, a 85-15 split would have been for the apprentice.
One foul-smelling evening, the apprentice approached the woodcutter and made his business proposal. Blasphemy! An apprentice is not a partner, but a step up from a slave! Leathery and worn fist met fresh, young face, as the apprentice was treated to a beating of epic proportion. A youthful beauty tarnished and bruised over, while elder seed dripped from above on young hair.
The apprentice ran back to his shameful house smelling like the woodcutter. The monthly bath taken a week early, as he planned his terrible and wicked revenge. The hot water felt cool when anger was taken into formula and teeth were chattering in his vengeful tub. The apprentice took a back road to master’s house—through the woods he went, shadowed by benevolent moon smiling down on him, smiling down on imminent actions and the future that must result.
The hut stood on its lonely hill. Dark clouds swirling overhead, illuminated by ferocious lightning and the impending echo of terrible thunder. The apprentice travelled ever closer, his axe in his right hand swinging threateningly, just the way the woodcutter taught him. The wooden door creaked open upon soft touch. The hut was dark and the apprentice could see nothing—until lightning lit the room up and the woodcutter appeared in a chair not three feet away, scowling, eyes dark, waiting for the apprentice to say something, anything.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
The axe followed with a quick, albeit effective, retort that took off the left side of the woodcutter’s face. Now he wore a half frown—until it righted itself into a half grimace. The horrible laughing was cut short by a second swing which detached the rest of the woodcutter’s ample head.
The apprentice was now the woodcutter and would in turn need: an apprentice. Word had made its way around the village, to every nook, to every cranny, to every pub, ale house, whore house when he finally found one.
posted by neilly bojangles at 1:33 PM
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