Alison awoke to a sharp sting in the wall of her lungs; it was the pungent, concentrated smell of alcohol stifling the hall. She hadn't been awakened by the villagers’ noise, nor by Harold’s muffled screams as he watched his severed hand being cauterized with fire in the adjacent room.

  In an instinctive reaction, she raised her hand to cover her nose, but felt a strange weight; her palms were wrapped in coarse cloth stained with dried blood. She stared at her hands for a moment, and her eyes widened.

  She tried to get up impulsively, but her body wouldn't obey her mind. She fell on her face in the first attempt, her forehead hitting the wooden floor, but she didn't cry. She stood slowly on the second try, staggering as the floor felt like shifting waves, and finally succeeded in steadying her feet.

  Alison stumbled through the corridors of the infirmary, which teemed with the village’s sick; a groan here, a cough there. She made a sound like a muffled whimper with every step that pressed on the soles of her feet. She finally found him in a dim corner. Mary was there, sitting beside him, her eyes red and swollen, her face so bloated she looked like a stranger to herself.

  Alison rushed toward them but froze two steps away. The void left by his left hand beneath the bandages was what paralyzed her. Alison fell to her knees, and silent tears flowed, their heat unfelt. Mary rose with a broken motion and embraced her tightly, while Harold tried to turn toward the wall.

  Mary and Alison remained in the embrace for a full minute before Mary helped her stand and sit on the chair beside the bed. Minutes of heavy silence passed. Then, the neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Malin, entered without knocking.

  They went straight to Alison. "You were strong today, Alison, very strong," Mr. Malin said, trying to smile kindly. Alison didn't look at him; she remained focused on an ant scurrying across the floor, her tongue pressed hard against the roof of her mouth.

  The neighbors exchanged glances. Mrs. Malin placed her hand on Mary’s shoulder and whispered, "It’s alright, everything will be fine." Mary nodded silently. "Thank God for your safety, Harold," Mr. Malin said as he and his wife departed.

  The three sat as darkness slowly invaded the room. Mary stood and left. When she returned, everything in the room was as she had left it; Alison hadn't moved. Mary was carrying a water skin and pieces of bread. She crouched in front of Alison and offered the water.

  Alison continued to stare at the ground. "Come, Alison, drink a little," Mary’s voice broke. Alison slowly raised her eyes toward Mary. They exchanged looks for a moment before Alison took the skin and drank. After the first drop touched her throat, she gulped the water like someone who hadn't drunk in three days. She drank nearly half the skin, and a faint smile appeared on Mary’s face.

  She offered the bread to Alison, but she shook her head in refusal. "Come, Alison, you haven't eaten anything since morning," Mary urged, bringing the bread closer. Alison didn't open her mouth or move. Mary lowered her hand and stood up. She went to Harold’s bed; he was already asleep. Mary sat on the edge of the bed.

  Time passed. Alison fell asleep in the chair, while Mary was the last to sleep and the first to wake.

  In the morning, they left the infirmary. Harold walked with staggering steps, his shadow appearing incomplete on the snow. Mary was on his left, while Alison clung to his right, her gaze flitting between him and the path they walked.

  The family reached their home, and the hut was colder than they had left it. The only thing remaining from the forest journey was the wide knife; Mary placed it on the shelf after wiping away the monster’s dried yellow blood.

  Harold locked his bedroom door, leaving the cold and heat to battle within his feverish body. As for Alison, she threw herself onto her bed, staring at the cracks in the wooden wall. Mary, sitting on a kitchen chair, let out a heavy sigh that shook her shoulders. She stood, adjusted her clothes, and went out.

  Mary returned after a while with a tattered cloth bag. She emptied its contents: withered turnips and vegetables that rot had begun to eat away. She started peeling them, removing the "rot" to preserve the "life," just as the doctor had done with Harold’s hand. She boiled the soup until a pale yellow steam rose, its scent like damp earth after rain.

  "Harold... Alison... the food is ready."

  No one answered. Mary’s voice hit the closed doors and returned to her. She headed to Harold’s room carrying a bowl of soup. She knocked three times; he didn't answer, so she left the bowl at the door.

  Then she went to Alison’s room. She found her daughter curled up like a fetus. She hugged her warmly and looked into her eyes, holding her hands which had begun to stiffen. Mary pulled Alison to the kitchen and placed a bowl of soup before her, then sat with her at the table.

  Alison looked at the yellow color of the soup. Her stomach turned; she rushed to the bathroom and vomited all the bitterness and stomach acid that burned her throat. Mary remained frozen, staring at the bathroom door.

  Alison washed her face with ice-cold water from the bucket and returned to the kitchen to find Mary collapsed in the chair, her face buried in her palms, her body shaking with every breath.

  Dust accumulated on the knife, and the snow melted and fell repeatedly. Mary began going out every dawn, scrubbing the pavements of the wealthy and washing their clothes. In the evenings, she tried to cook things she could convince Alison to eat, and Alison’s gratitude with every meal was what kept her working tirelessly.

  Harold wasn't able to move until days later. He spent his hours staring into space without focusing on anything specific, his body burning from within. Alison was like his shadow, sitting near him, dampening his forehead with towels. At night, she would sneak to the door of Mary and Harold’s room and sleep on the floor beside the door, only for Mary to find her and carry her back to her room.

  Harold eventually improved and was able to move and walk steadily. One night, Alison woke from a featureless nightmare. She left her room to go to her parents', but didn't find them. She headed to the kitchen, stopping when she heard whispering.

  Mary and Harold were there, sitting in the dark except for the moonlight that slipped through the window. Five silver pieces were scattered on the table.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "How much more do we need?" Harold’s raspy voice asked.

  "Ten silver... they raised the tribute, Harold," Mary replied in a voice that could barely be heard.

  Harold stared at the pieces before him. A long silence followed. Alison looked at her hands, whose wounds had begun to heal into scars, then at her carved toys in a box in the hallway. She returned to her place without drinking and tried to sleep, only succeeding after much tossing and turning.

  The moon traded places with the sun, which was mostly obscured by clouds. Alison woke up and immediately searched for that knife. She placed a chair by the shelf and pulled the knife down. She brushed off the dust and headed toward Harold, who was following a fly that buzzed around, using its legs to clean its eyes.

  Alison brought a piece of wood from a pile of firewood tucked beside the kitchen door. She stood before Harold and took a deep breath. "Teach me how to carve." Alison looked into Harold’s eyes and held out the piece of wood.

  Harold shifted his gaze to look at Alison. The serious look on her face did not move a single muscle in his features. He returned to watching the fly.

  Alison’s arms sagged, and the wood and knife felt heavy for a moment as she stared at Harold’s rigid face. She didn't cry, and she didn't repeat her request. She pulled a wooden chair with a sharp screech across the floor and sat right beside him. She gripped the raw piece of oak and began digging the wide knife into it randomly.

  She was removing huge chips, striking the blade so that wood splinters flew. She was trying to make a "ladle," but she was destroying the piece entirely. Harold’s gaze began to shift in a slow maneuver; from the fly to Alison’s hands, then back to the fly. But the sound of the knife tearing through the wood fibers the wrong way... with every strike, Harold’s eyes winced, and he jumped in his seat.

  When Alison reached a point where she almost snapped the blade inside the heart of the wood, Harold’s only hand moved. His motion was slow. He placed his rough palm over hers, stopping the knife’s movement.

  "You'll break the blade..." His voice came out rusty, as if unused for an age. Alison didn't look at him; her eyes remained fixed on the wood.

  "Then teach me."

  Harold sighed, a sigh that came from the depths of his chest. He looked around, then slid from his chair to sit on the wooden floor. He bent his leg and placed the wood between his thighs and foot, pressing down hard to provide stability.

  "Hold the knife like this... don't fight the wood, follow it. The grain of the wood is what guides you," he said, pointing his forefinger at the angle of the tilt.

  At that moment, Mary entered. She froze at the door. She didn't say a word; she smiled a smile that she covered with her hand. Silence reigned for a moment. Mary entered and placed the bag of food scraps she was carrying on the table, then disappeared into the hallway and returned with a dust-covered wooden box.

  She placed it on the table and opened it. Inside was a variety of chisels, gouges, and scrapers, along with knives and sharpening stones. She sat beside Alison, took a knife from the box and a piece of wood from the pile, and began following Harold’s steps.

  Shavings scattered across the floor, and the failed pieces burned in the hearth to give them warmth. The sun rose and set, and with every cycle, the texture of the wood became softer in Alison’s hands.

  __________________________________

  Shavings scattered across the wooden floor, and the failed pieces burned in the hearth. Outside, the screeching of cart wheels in the main alley grew sharper, and the rhythmic footfalls of villagers coming and going reminded them that time was slipping away. The pile of firewood gradually dwindled until it vanished. That night, the family gathered around the table. They laid out the money pouch, which now held six silver pieces; they stared at it as if it were a living being in need of care.

  "I was thinking..." Alison broke the silence with a small smile, lacing her fingers together. "W-w-what if we bought a lot of wood?" She paused for a moment. "We could make sledges, axe handles, and wheel parts." She paused again. "We make them and sell them. W-w-what do you think?"

  Harold and Mary exchanged a long look; a heavy silence made Alison’s smile gradually fade.

  "Why not," Harold finally spoke. A microscopic smile was etched on his face—something Alison hadn't seen in weeks. The smile returned to Alison’s face while Mary nodded in agreement.

  After the sun rose again, they headed to the wood merchant. They bought five silver and ten bronze pieces' worth of ash wood, and for another ten bronze pieces, they hired two men to bring the wood to the hut. On their way back, they weren't spared the sweeping glares of the villagers, who looked them up and down as whispers swirled around them. They ignored the stares and the hushed voices, continuing their walk with the two men dragging the cart of ash.

  They unloaded the cargo in front of the hut’s door and worked together as a family to bring it inside so it wouldn't be stolen. Everyone took a short break. Mary borrowed a long saw from the neighbors. The break ended with the first pull of the blade across the ash blocks.

  Harold began directing the work; he steadied a massive block with his foot, pressing down with the weight of his back, while Alison and Mary held opposite ends of the saw. The movement was reciprocal, as rhythmic as the breath of a drowning man surfacing for air. The screech of the saw devouring the heart of the wood filled their ears. With every back-and-forth motion, sweat poured from Alison’s brow, dripping onto the cold wood.

  "Don't just use your arms... push with your waist!" Harold directed in his raspy voice, watching the straightness of the cuts with an expert eye. By midnight, the large blocks were divided. They placed the wide pieces for the sledge runners in a corner—they required absolute stillness—and moved immediately to carving tool handles.

  Alison held the chisel, striking with precision under Harold’s unblinking eyes. Ash was not like oak; it was tough and resistant, but Alison began to understand its language. Mary swapped the rasp for a smoothing stone and hunched over the handles Alison finished. She rubbed the wood until her palms burned with heat and every splinter vanished, leaving the handles as smooth as silk.

  Alison’s hands filled with calluses, and the knife began to slide through the wood like butter, while Mary’s hands filled with tiny wooden thorns.

  "But... why do we really have to migrate?" Alison asked suddenly, wiping her sweat.

  Harold sighed and looked away. "There are wicked men lurking around the village, my little one, and we must leave before they reach us."

  Alison averted her eyes and focused on the piece in her hands; she began to carve with strength and speed.

  Darkness and light alternated behind the window, and the shadows in the hut danced to the light of the hearth, which didn't go out for ten days. Voices faded in the hut; there was no more room for talk, only the sound of scraping, the strikes of the wooden mallet, and their heavy, sequential breaths.

  By the tenth dawn, the first handles were complete; they shone under the pale morning light as if carved from ivory. Mary went out and sold them for ten silver pieces to the blacksmith, then they turned their focus to the sledges and wheels. They sold the runners to men they met on the road for another five silver pieces and returned home with their pockets heavy.

  They sat at the table and placed fifteen silver pieces before them. A smile nearly split Alison’s face as she began to dance in her seat with joy. Harold and Mary stared at her for a few seconds, then, without a word, the three of them threw themselves into a warm group embrace that lasted for a full minute—a minute that washed away the exhaustion of ten days.

  They packed their few belongings and went out to deliver the money to the village elder. Their names were finally written on the list of migrants. Alison noticed the presence of men in uniforms she had grown used to seeing in the village over the past months, but there was one person among them who looked like a stranger.

  They returned to the hut and ate the remains of yesterday's food. No one could sleep. Alison got up and went to their room; Harold noticed her and invited her to sit with them. Everyone sat in silence.

  "When we move to the other village the day after tomorrow, we’ll open a carving workshop," Harold whispered into the silence, placing his hand on Alison’s hair, which was filled with sawdust.

  They all drifted off to sleep on the floor beside the bed.