The Woodcutter’s Yuletide

Throughout Emberlore, Christmas was celebrated in countless ways. Traditions changed from realm to realm and recipes from village to village, but there was one thing nearly everyone agreed upon: Christmas needed a tree.

In the Commonlands, families decorated their evergreens with ribbons, dried fruit, carved wooden ornaments, and whatever small treasures had survived the passing of generations. In the northern reaches of Yule Vale, where winter arrived early and lingered long after the rest of Emberlore had begun dreaming of spring, trees were adorned with little bells and stars cut from polished tin. Some villages favored candles, others garlands of berries, and a few maintained peculiar traditions whose origins had been forgotten centuries ago.

But whether a tree stood in the grand hall of a noble household or beside the modest hearth of a shepherd's cottage, someone had to venture into the winter forests to find it.

That responsibility fell, in part, to a woodcutter who lived with his wife on the edge of the Commonlands, where an ancient forest pressed close against the fields and narrow lanes of the surrounding countryside.

He was a practical man, accustomed to hard work, changing weather, and the particular stubbornness of trees that refused to fall in the direction he intended. His wife, known throughout the surrounding villages as the Witch in the Woods, possessed a different collection of talents. She knew which herbs could ease a fever, which mushrooms ought never to be eaten, and how to persuade a stubborn husband that taking an extra pair of stockings into the mountains was not an insult to his experience.

Together, they had made a comfortable life in their little cottage, though comfortable was not always the same as quiet.

Every December, the woodcutter traveled north into the mountains of Yule Vale, where the finest Christmas trees grew beneath the watchful peaks. The journey took several days, sometimes longer when the weather turned troublesome, and there was always more work waiting than he could reasonably finish.

Nevertheless, he looked forward to it.

Christmas trees were different from ordinary timber. A tree chosen for a family hearth would become part of someone's memories. Children would grow older beneath its branches, ornaments would be brought out and carefully unwrapped, and for a few precious weeks the familiar rooms of a home would be transformed by the simple presence of something brought in from the winter forest.

He liked knowing he had a small part in that.

And so, one bitterly cold morning, with Christmas drawing near, the woodcutter prepared to leave home once again.

I. Woodland Snow

The Road Through the Commonlands

The woodcutter had been awake for nearly an hour before he managed to leave the bedroom without disturbing his wife. He considered this a considerable achievement, given that the old floorboards had developed an unfortunate habit of announcing every footstep with a creak loud enough to wake the dead.

He dressed beside the kitchen hearth, where the embers from the previous evening still held a little warmth, and laid out the provisions he had prepared the night before. His axe rested near the door, freshly sharpened and wrapped against the weather, while his heavy cloak hung from its usual peg. Outside, snow pressed against the lower windowpanes, and the garden beyond lay buried beneath a thick white covering.

He had nearly finished fastening his boots when a voice spoke from behind him.

“You've forgotten your stockings.”

He remained perfectly still for a moment, then slowly turned. His wife stood in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in her woolen dressing gown, her hair loosely braided over one shoulder. In her hands she held a pair of thick stockings that he recognized immediately.

“I haven't forgotten them,” he replied. “I've decided I don't need them.”

“An interesting distinction, considering you'll be spending the better part of three days walking through snow.”

“I have another pair in my bag.”

“Those are the ones you wore last winter. The heels are nearly worn through, and you complained about them from the moment you returned.”

“I complained about the weather.”

“You complained about your feet, the weather, the mountain roads, and a horse that apparently looked at you with disrespect.”

He considered correcting her recollection of the horse, which had been an exceptionally unpleasant creature, but decided against it. Instead, he held out his hand for the stockings. She placed them in his palm with an expression of quiet satisfaction and went to inspect the provisions spread across the table.

There was bread wrapped in clean linen, hard cheese, smoked meat, dried apples, and a little jar of preserves. She added a second parcel from the cupboard, then examined the contents of his pack with the thoroughness of someone who suspected her husband might attempt to survive the mountains on bread crusts and stubbornness alone.

“You've packed enough food to see me through a siege,” he observed.

“Then you should have no difficulty reaching Yule Vale without eating everything before noon.”

“That happened once.”

“Last year.”

“The journey was particularly demanding.”

She gave him a look that made further explanation unnecessary.

By the time he had finished packing, the first pale suggestion of morning had begun to show beyond the trees. He lifted his bag onto his shoulder, checked the fastening of his axe, and followed his wife to the door. For a moment they stood together in the little entryway, listening to the wind stirring the branches outside.

“Christmas Eve,” she reminded him.

“I'll be home before supper, provided the weather behaves.”

“And you'll remember the strudel?”

He smiled. “I suspect you'd forgive me for arriving late before you'd forgive me for forgetting the strudel.”

“You know me very well.”

He kissed her, drawing her close beneath the warmth of his cloak, and for a little while neither seemed particularly eager to open the door. Eventually, however, she stepped back and straightened the scarf at his throat.

“Travel carefully,” she said, her voice softer now. “The mountains are not the Commonlands, no matter how many winters you've spent among them.”

“I know.”

“And don't go taking unnecessary risks simply because someone offers you a few extra coins.”

“I know that as well.”

She smiled faintly. “Then perhaps one of these years you'll remember it.”

He laughed, kissed her once more, and stepped outside.

The cold struck immediately. Fresh snow lay deep across the garden path, swallowing the familiar stones and softening the edges of the little wooden fence. The branches of the apple tree bent beneath their white burden, and the roof of the woodshed had acquired a heavy cap of snow overnight. Behind him, warm light spilled from the cottage doorway, casting a golden rectangle across the untouched ground.

He turned once at the gate. His wife stood watching, her shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders. She raised a hand, and he returned the gesture before setting off beneath the trees.

The forest of the Commonlands was a different place in winter. The green abundance of summer had retreated into roots and sleeping earth, leaving the woodland open and strangely spacious beneath the bare branches of oak and ash. Evergreen cedar and juniper still held their color, their needles dark against the snow, while the air carried the sharp freshness of winter herbs growing along the sheltered banks of streams.

The woodcutter followed an old track that had once been part of a much larger road. In places, weathered stones still showed beneath the snow, reminders of travelers who had crossed the forest long before the nearby villages had been built. He knew the path well enough to walk it in darkness, though the fresh snowfall concealed the familiar landmarks and forced him to pay closer attention to the ground.

As morning brightened, the woods began to stir. A red squirrel darted along a branch overhead, scattering loose snow onto his shoulders. Farther away, a woodpecker hammered against a dead trunk, the sound carrying clearly through the cold air. He passed a narrow clearing where deer had crossed during the night, their tracks winding toward a frozen stream.

By midday, he reached the little stone bridge that marked the northern edge of the settled Commonlands. He stopped there to eat, brushing snow from a fallen log and settling beneath the shelter of an old cedar. His wife had packed the bread with slices of cheese and smoked meat, and tucked a small honey cake beneath the cloth where he would not discover it until he opened the parcel.

He smiled when he found it.

She had been doing such things for years. Even when they quarreled over trifles, even when she declared him the most impossible man in Emberlore, she never sent him away without some small kindness hidden among his belongings.

He ate slowly, enjoying the quiet, then carefully repacked what remained. As he reached for his gloves, his fingers brushed against another folded piece of wool at the bottom of the bag.

A second scarf.

He stared at it, then began to laugh.

“Well played, my love.”

He wrapped it around his neck before continuing north.

The afternoon brought higher ground and colder winds. The gentle woodland slopes became steeper, and the trees grew closer together. By the time the light began to fade, the distant mountains of Yule Vale had emerged beyond the northern ridges, their snow-covered summits catching the last pale gold of the setting sun.

The woodcutter stopped for a moment to look at them. Somewhere beyond those mountains, villages were preparing for Christmas. Families would be gathering decorations, bakers would be filling their ovens, and children would be asking when their trees were finally going to arrive.

He tightened the straps of his pack and resumed walking.

There was still a long road ahead, but he knew exactly why he was traveling it.

II. Mountain Pine

Among the Evergreens of Yule Vale

The mountains greeted him with a wind that seemed determined to find every opening in his clothing. It swept down through the passes, carrying fine snow from the upper slopes and filling the road with little whirling clouds that vanished as quickly as they appeared.

By the following morning, the woodcutter had reached the great evergreen forests of Yule Vale. Here, pine and cedar grew in immense stands along the mountainsides, their trunks rising straight and tall from the frozen ground. Juniper spread across the rocky clearings, and the air held the clean, resinous fragrance of the trees, sharpened by the cold and the occasional brightness of citrus carried from the provisions of passing traders.

He paused at the edge of a broad clearing and looked across the forest. Snow clung to the branches in heavy white layers, and the mountain peaks rose beyond them like ancient sentinels. A raven crossed overhead, its dark wings stark against the pale sky, before disappearing into the trees farther up the slope.

This was the country he knew best after the woods surrounding his own home. He had worked these mountains for years, learning the habits of their weather, the places where snow gathered dangerously deep, and the sheltered valleys where the finest evergreens grew.

He did not begin cutting immediately.

Instead, he walked.

He examined the trees carefully, studying their branches, the strength of their trunks, and the ground from which they grew. Some were too young to be taken, while others sheltered nests or stood where their roots helped secure the mountain soil. Those he passed without marking. A tree might appear perfectly suited to a Christmas hearth, but there were occasions when the forest had a greater need of it.

His father had taught him that long ago, during the first winters they had worked together.

“Any fool with an axe can bring down a tree,” the old man had said. “The trick is knowing which ones ought to remain standing.”

The woodcutter had never forgotten those words. They had guided him through more seasons than he cared to count, and he hoped they would continue guiding the younger men who now accompanied him into the mountains.

By midmorning, he had found a promising stand of pines growing along a sheltered slope. Their branches were full and evenly spaced, their trunks straight, and their needles a rich green beneath the snow. He selected several, marking each with a small strip of cloth before moving farther along the hillside.

Near the edge of the clearing stood an extraordinary tree, taller and fuller than any he had seen that morning. Its branches spread in graceful tiers, and its crown rose above the neighboring pines with a dignity that made the others appear almost ordinary.

He stopped to admire it.

“Well, now,” he murmured. “Aren't you a handsome fellow?”

He walked slowly around the trunk, considering its proportions. It would make a magnificent Christmas tree in a grand hall, perhaps even in the palace of some northern lord. The branches were strong enough to hold heavy ornaments, and the shape was nearly perfect.

Then he looked upward again, following the trunk to its distant crown.

The tree had been growing here for many decades, perhaps longer than he had been alive. Its roots were deeply established in the mountainside, and its branches sheltered smaller trees from the worst of the winter winds.

He rested a gloved hand against the bark.

“No,” he said at last. “I think you've earned the right to stay where you are.”

He left the great pine untouched.

The hours that followed were filled with the familiar rhythm of his work. The sound of his axe echoed through the forest, followed by the creaking of timber and the soft crash of branches settling into the snow. He worked steadily, clearing the selected trees and preparing their trunks for transport. There was no sense in rushing such labor, especially on frozen ground where a careless step could turn a simple task into a dangerous one.

Shortly after midday, the sound of approaching harness bells announced the arrival of Oren, a broad-shouldered teamster from the nearest village. His two mountain horses came plodding up the track, their breath rising in thick white clouds as they pulled an empty timber sledge.

“Still alive, then?” Oren called cheerfully.

The woodcutter straightened and rested his axe against a stump. “Despite your continued disappointment.”

“Not disappointment. Surprise. I was beginning to think the mountain had finally decided to keep you.”

“It tried. I declined.”

Oren laughed and climbed down from the sledge. He was a cheerful man with a red beard, an impressive appetite, and a tendency to discuss his horses as though they were members of the village council. The animals themselves appeared to tolerate this arrangement, though the older mare had developed a habit of ignoring him whenever he spoke at length.

Together, the men began loading the cut trees. The work required care, particularly with the larger trunks, and they spent much of the afternoon securing the branches and balancing the weight across the sledge.

At one point, Oren watched the woodcutter retie a rope for the third time.

“You know, I've been hauling timber since before you first came to these mountains.”

“And yet,” the woodcutter replied, pulling the knot tight, “you still insist upon tying that particular hitch backward.”

“It has never failed.”

“Then consider how fortunate you are that I've been here to correct it.”

Oren shook his head. “You're worse than my mother.”

“Your mother is a sensible woman.”

“She says the same about you, though I cannot imagine why.”

Their laughter carried through the trees as they finished the last of the loading.

By late afternoon, the work was complete. The woodcutter stood beside the sledge, brushing snow from his sleeves and inspecting the carefully secured evergreens. Some would be delivered to families in the village below, while others were destined for merchants who would carry them south into the Commonlands. Each had been chosen with care, and he felt the quiet satisfaction that came from a day's work properly finished.

Then his stomach growled so loudly that Oren turned in alarm.

“Was that one of the horses?”

“No.”

“A bear?”

“Worse.”

Oren studied him for a moment. “You've eaten all your provisions, haven't you?”

“Not all.”

“How much is left?”

The woodcutter hesitated.

“A little cheese.”

Oren burst into laughter. “Your wife packed enough food for a journey across three kingdoms!”

“And a very fine selection it was.”

“You're hopeless.”

“So I've been told.”

They set off down the mountain road as the first shadows gathered beneath the trees. Far below, the village lights began to appear through the winter haze, small golden points scattered across the valley. Smoke rose from the chimneys, and the distant sound of bells drifted upward on the evening air.

The woodcutter looked toward the welcoming lights and smiled. After a long day among the mountain pines, there were few sights more pleasing than a village preparing for Christmas.

Especially when that village possessed several excellent bakeries.

III. Winterberry Cider

The Village Beneath the Mountains

Evening had settled over Yule Vale by the time the woodcutter and Oren reached the village. Snow lay deep along the edges of the cobbled streets, and lanterns glowed beneath the eaves of shops and houses. Evergreen garlands stretched between buildings, decorated with ribbons, pinecones, and little wooden stars, while the market square bustled with the cheerful disorder of Christmas preparations.

The village had changed little since the woodcutter's first visit many years earlier. The same stone fountain stood at the center of the square, though someone had dressed it with greenery and a great red ribbon. The little chapel still watched over the rooftops from the northern hill, and the bakery near the southern gate continued to send wonderful fragrances drifting into the street at all hours of the day.

Yet every Christmas brought something new. Children grew older, young couples became parents, and the market stalls changed hands as one generation passed its work to the next. The woodcutter liked returning each year and discovering how life had continued in his absence.

As the sledge entered the square, several villagers hurried forward to greet them. There were trees to be unloaded, deliveries to confirm, and arrangements to make for those destined for the southern roads. Oren went to see to the horses while the woodcutter consulted his list, answering questions and directing the larger trees toward the appropriate households.

He had scarcely finished speaking with the village carpenter when a familiar voice called his name.

“Well, if it isn't our wandering woodcutter!”

He turned to find Marta standing behind her cider stall, her cheeks rosy from the cold and her apron dusted with a scattering of flour. A great copper pot simmered over the fire beside her, sending fragrant steam into the winter air.

“Marta,” he said warmly. “You're looking well.”

“And you're looking frozen. Come here before your beard turns into an icicle.”

He approached the stall, grateful for the warmth of the fire. Marta filled a thick pottery cup with Winterberry Cider, the rich fragrance of orchard apples and tart cranberries rising through the steam. Bright citrus and warm spices mingled with the sweetness of the fruit, creating a drink that seemed particularly suited to cold evenings beneath the mountains.

He wrapped both hands around the cup and took a cautious sip.

For a moment, he closed his eyes.

Marta smiled knowingly. “Still good?”

“Better than I remembered.”

“You say that every year.”

“And every year I mean it.”

She laughed and turned to serve another customer while he stood beside the fire, allowing the warmth to return gradually to his fingers.

Around him, the market was alive with activity. A group of children hurried past carrying bundles of greenery, their boots scattering snow across the cobbles. Two elderly men argued over the proper placement of a wreath, each apparently convinced that the other had forgotten everything he had ever known about Christmas decorations. Near the fountain, a young father attempted to persuade his daughter that a carved wooden reindeer was rather more expensive than he had intended to spend.

The woodcutter watched the familiar scenes with quiet amusement. There was comfort in the ordinary bustle of village life, particularly at Christmas, when even the most practical errands seemed touched by anticipation.

His attention was drawn toward the center of the square, where several villagers were attempting to raise a large evergreen tree. He recognized it immediately as one he had selected during an earlier journey into the eastern slopes.

The tree was magnificent, but the men responsible for raising it appeared to have developed several conflicting opinions about how the task ought to be accomplished.

“Pull to the left!” someone shouted.

“Not that left!”

“Mind the lantern!”

The woodcutter lowered his cup.

Marta followed his gaze and sighed. “Don't even think about it.”

“They'll have that tree through the fountain if they keep pulling that way.”

“They've been arguing for half an hour. Another few minutes won't hurt them.”

He watched as one of the ropes slipped, sending the tree leaning alarmingly toward a nearby stall.

“I'd better lend a hand.”

Marta shook her head, though she was smiling. “Of course you had.”

He set his cup on the counter and crossed the square, where the villagers greeted him with considerable relief. Within minutes he had reorganized the ropes, corrected the position of the wooden supports, and persuaded everyone to pull in the same direction.

The work was interrupted several times by children offering advice from the sidelines, most of which involved making the tree taller, brighter, or otherwise more impressive than was reasonably possible.

At last, the evergreen stood upright in the center of the square, its branches spreading proudly above the market stalls. A cheer rose from the gathered villagers, and the children immediately began arguing over who would be allowed to place the golden star at its crown.

The woodcutter looked up at the towering tree, then down at the little star clutched in the hands of a determined young girl.

“That,” he observed, “is a very long way up.”

She regarded him solemnly. “You're tall.”

“Not quite that tall.”

“You climb trees.”

“I usually climb them before they're decorated.”

She considered this distinction and apparently found it unimportant.

“Please?”

He looked toward the waiting ladder, then toward Marta's stall, where his abandoned cider was undoubtedly growing cold.

With a resigned smile, he accepted the star.

By the time he returned to the stall, he had climbed the ladder twice, untangled a rope from the branches, retrieved a child's mitten, and secured the star where it could be seen from every corner of the square.

Marta had already prepared another cup.

He looked at it gratefully. “You are a wonderful woman.”

“I know. Drink it before you find something else to repair.”

He obeyed.

As the chapel bells began to ring, the village gathered beneath the newly raised tree. Lanterns flickered in the windows, laughter drifted between the stalls, and the first soft flakes of evening snow began to fall.

The woodcutter stood among his friends, warming his hands around the cider and watching the children admire the tree. He thought of the long hours spent selecting it, the careful work of cutting and hauling it down the mountainside, and the pleasure it would bring to the village throughout the Christmas season.

For that moment alone, the journey had been worthwhile.

IV. Fireside Strudel

The Baker's Invitation

The snow began in earnest just as the woodcutter finished arranging the last of the deliveries. What had started as a gentle scattering of flakes soon thickened into a steady fall, blurring the outlines of the rooftops and gathering along the edges of the market stalls.

He stood beneath the shelter of the stable roof and studied the sky. The wind had shifted north, bringing with it the unmistakable promise of worsening weather. He had intended to begin the journey home that evening, hoping to make good progress before stopping for the night, but the mountains were already disappearing behind a curtain of snow.

Oren emerged from the stable carrying an empty feed bucket.

“You're not thinking of leaving in this, are you?”

“I was considering it.”

“Then consider something else.”

“The road through the lower pass should still be clear.”

“For now. But the snow won't stop simply because you've decided to walk through it.”

The woodcutter frowned toward the mountains. He knew Oren was right, though he disliked losing a day when his wife was expecting him home before Christmas Eve.

“I'll wait a little,” he said at last. “Perhaps it'll ease before dark.”

Oren gave him a skeptical look but wisely refrained from further argument.

The woodcutter had scarcely reached the bakery near the southern gate when the door opened and Mistress Hilda appeared, carrying a tray of freshly baked rolls. She was a broad, capable woman with flour permanently worked into the creases of her hands and a voice that could silence an entire room of unruly apprentices.

She took one look at the snow gathering on his shoulders and narrowed her eyes.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“Home, eventually.”

“Not tonight, you're not.”

“I was only going to see whether the road remained passable.”

“Then you've seen enough. Come inside before you freeze.”

He began to protest, but Hilda had already turned back into the bakery, apparently taking his obedience for granted. After a moment's hesitation, he followed.

The warmth inside was immediate and wonderful. Great ovens glowed along the far wall, while wooden tables stood crowded with trays of bread, pastries, and Christmas cakes. Apprentices moved between the kitchen and the storeroom, carrying sacks of flour, baskets of apples, and bundles of firewood. The entire building seemed alive with the comfortable industry of holiday baking.

Above it all lingered the rich fragrance of Fireside Strudel. Tender baked apples, cinnamon, and warm vanilla filled the air, mingling with the buttery sweetness of pastry fresh from the oven.

The woodcutter's stomach made its opinion known.

Hilda stopped beside the nearest table.

“When did you last eat?”

“This morning.”

“What did you have?”

“Bread and cheese.”

“And since then?”

He hesitated. “Cider.”

Hilda stared at him for a long moment before pointing toward a chair beside the fire.

“Sit.”

He sat.

A few minutes later, she returned with a generous slice of golden strudel, its delicate layers filled with warm apples and fragrant cinnamon. She set the plate before him, added a spoonful of thick cream, and stood watching until he took the first bite.

The pastry was excellent. The apples were tender without losing their shape, the cinnamon warm rather than overpowering, and the vanilla softened the richness of the filling. He ate another mouthful before looking up.

“Hilda, if you ever decide to retire, I shall personally petition the village council to prevent it.”

She laughed. “Eat your supper before you start making speeches.”

He did as instructed, though the second slice she offered disappeared almost as quickly as the first.

The bakery remained busy well into the evening. With the weather worsening outside, several villagers had taken shelter inside, and Hilda seemed entirely pleased to have a room full of people to feed. The woodcutter helped carry firewood from the covered shed and repaired a loose hinge on the storeroom door, earning himself a place beside the hearth and a bowl of hot stew when the apprentices finally paused for supper.

He enjoyed the company. There was something deeply comforting about the sound of people working together, the clatter of dishes, and the occasional burst of laughter from the kitchen. One apprentice burned a tray of biscuits and attempted to conceal the evidence beneath a dishcloth, only to be discovered almost immediately when Hilda announced that she could smell the disaster from the opposite end of the building.

“They're only a little dark,” the unfortunate young man protested.

“They're black, Tomas.”

“Festively black?”

The woodcutter laughed so hard that he nearly spilled his stew.

By the time the evening meal was finished, the storm had settled firmly over the village. Snow struck the windows in thick flurries, and the wind whistled beneath the eaves. Hilda offered him the small room above the bakery, where visiting merchants sometimes stayed when the roads became impassable.

He accepted gratefully, though not without a glance toward the darkened windows.

“My wife will be expecting me.”

“Then she'll be pleased when you arrive alive rather than frozen into a snowbank.”

“She might have a few words to say about the delay.”

“She's a sensible woman. I imagine she'll have rather more to say if you attempt to cross the mountains tonight.”

He could not argue with that.

Before retiring, he remembered the promise he had made at home.

“Hilda, I need a strudel to take back with me.”

She smiled. “For your wife?”

“Aye.”

“One?”

He considered the question carefully. His wife loved Hilda's strudel, but the journey home was long, and he had already demonstrated a certain weakness where pastry was concerned.

“Perhaps two.”

“An excellent decision.”

She wrapped the strudels in parchment and tied them securely with string, then insisted upon adding a loaf of fresh bread and a little parcel of Christmas biscuits for the road.

The woodcutter thanked her and carried the provisions upstairs, arranging them carefully in his pack before settling into bed.

For a while, he lay awake listening to the wind and the muffled sounds of the bakery below. He imagined his cottage in the Commonlands, the fire burning low upon the hearth, and his wife sitting beside it with a book open in her lap. She would be pretending not to worry, of course, though he knew her well enough to recognize the signs.

He wished he could tell her that he was safe, warm, and comfortably full.

Then he smiled to himself.

Knowing his wife, she probably knew already.

V. Pecan Emberpie

The Long Road Home

Morning brought clear skies and a village transformed by snow. The storm had passed during the night, leaving the rooftops buried beneath white drifts and the cobbled streets sparkling in the pale winter sunlight. Icicles hung from the eaves, chimney smoke rose straight into the still air, and the mountains beyond the valley stood bright and magnificent against the blue sky.

The woodcutter woke to the smell of fresh bread drifting through the floorboards. He dressed quickly, gathered his belongings, and went downstairs to find Hilda already directing her apprentices through another busy morning.

She greeted him with breakfast, a generous plate of eggs, ham, and thick slices of bread still warm from the oven.

“You're determined to make me too heavy to walk home,” he remarked as she set the plate before him.

“Then perhaps you'll finally learn to stay out of snowstorms.”

He laughed and ate everything she gave him.

Before leaving, he helped carry several baskets of bread to the front counter and promised to return the following year. Hilda waved away his thanks, though she pressed another small parcel of biscuits into his hands before allowing him out the door.

The village was already stirring. Shopkeepers swept snow from their steps, merchants prepared their stalls, and children hurried through the square beneath the great Christmas tree, which now stood adorned with ribbons and little wooden ornaments.

The woodcutter paused to admire it. The golden star he had placed at its crown shone in the morning sunlight, and for a moment he remembered the little girl who had insisted that he was tall enough to reach it.

He smiled and continued toward the southern gate.

He intended to purchase a few simple provisions before setting out. Bread and cheese would be sufficient, perhaps with a little smoked meat to see him through the longer stretches of road. His bag was already heavy with the strudels and the gifts Hilda had pressed upon him, and there was no sense adding unnecessary weight.

That sensible intention lasted until he passed the little pie shop near the gate.

The door stood open to release the heat of the ovens, and the most extraordinary fragrance drifted into the cold morning air. Toasted pecans, buttery brown sugar, creamy vanilla, and warm spice mingled in a rich sweetness that seemed almost capable of drawing travelers off the road by itself.

The woodcutter stopped.

He looked toward the gate, where the road home waited beyond the last houses.

Then he looked back at the shop.

He stood there for a moment, engaged in a private struggle between good sense and appetite.

Appetite won.

Inside, the shelves were crowded with freshly baked pies, their golden crusts gleaming beneath the warm light. A cheerful woman stood behind the counter, carefully wrapping an order for an elderly customer.

“Good morning,” she said when she noticed him. “Something I can help you with?”

He approached the display. “Those wouldn't happen to be Pecan Emberpies?”

“They would indeed. Fresh from the oven.”

He studied the pies. Their glossy pecan toppings looked particularly inviting, and he remembered how much his wife enjoyed them.

“I'll take one.”

The woman selected a handsome pie and began wrapping it in parchment. As she worked, the woodcutter considered the long journey ahead. He thought about the strudels tucked safely in his bag, the biscuits Hilda had given him, and the likelihood that he would reach home with everything intact.

Then he considered the pie.

His wife would be delighted to receive it. She would also be considerably less delighted if she discovered that her husband had eaten half of it somewhere along the mountain road.

He cleared his throat.

“Actually, make that two.”

The woman smiled. “Expecting company?”

“Something like that.”

He paid for the pies and spent several minutes rearranging his pack so that neither would be crushed beneath his tools. By the time he finally left the village, his bag was considerably heavier than it had been when he arrived.

The road south wound through the mountains, descending gradually from the snowy heights toward the gentler hills of the Commonlands. The woodcutter made good progress beneath the clear sky, though the fresh snowfall required care in places where the path narrowed along steep slopes.

He passed the forests where he had worked among the pines, the sheltered clearings where he had rested, and the old stone markers that guided travelers through the northern passes. Each familiar landmark brought him a little closer to home.

At midday, he stopped beneath a stand of cedar trees and unpacked his lunch. He ate bread and cheese, followed by a few of Hilda's biscuits, then sat for a while enjoying the quiet.

His gaze drifted toward the two Pecan Emberpies.

He had purchased one for his wife and another as a precaution against his own appetite. It seemed, therefore, entirely reasonable that he might sample the second pie.

After all, he had a long road ahead.

He carefully unwrapped it, cut himself a modest slice, and settled back against the tree.

The pie was every bit as good as its fragrance had promised. The toasted pecans were rich and buttery, the brown sugar filling soft and sweet, and the warm vanilla lingered pleasantly after each bite.

He finished the slice and considered taking another.

Then he imagined his wife's expression if he arrived home with an empty pie dish and a collection of explanations.

He wrapped the remainder.

Some temptations were best left alone.

By late afternoon, the mountains had fallen behind him, and the familiar forests of the Commonlands stretched across the rolling countryside. The air was gentler here, though snow still covered the ground, and the winter sunlight filtered warmly through the bare branches.

He recognized the old stone bridge, the abandoned orchard, and the crooked oak beside the northern path. Soon he reached the little stream that wound through the woods near his cottage.

Home was close.

As evening approached, he turned onto the narrow path leading through the trees. The familiar sight of his cottage appeared beyond the garden wall, its windows glowing warmly against the gathering dusk. Smoke curled from the chimney, and a wreath of evergreen boughs hung upon the door.

He stopped at the gate.

Beside the cottage stood a small Christmas tree, its branches full and neatly shaped, waiting to be carried indoors and decorated.

The woodcutter stared at it.

He had spent days choosing Christmas trees for families across Yule Vale and the Commonlands. He had climbed snowy mountains, hauled timber through frozen forests, and helped raise the great evergreen in the village square.

And he had entirely forgotten to bring home a tree for his own wife.

He began to laugh.

Of course she had taken care of it herself.

He opened the gate and approached the cottage. Before he reached the door, it swung inward, and his wife appeared in the warm light of the kitchen.

She stood with her arms folded, though the smile she was trying to conceal made the gesture rather less intimidating than she intended.

“You're late.”

“Only a little.”

“You promised to be home before supper.”

“The mountain weather was troublesome.”

“I know.”

He looked at her curiously. “How?”

She raised an eyebrow.

He decided not to pursue the question.

Instead, he stepped forward and kissed her, drawing her close for a moment before setting down his heavy pack.

“Merry Christmas, my love.”

Her expression softened. “Merry Christmas, you troublesome man.”

She looked down at the bag. “What have you brought?”

“Your strudel.”

“Good.”

“Two strudels, actually.”

“Even better.”

“And Pecan Emberpie.”

Her eyes brightened. “How many?”

“Two.”

She studied him for a moment. “Two whole pies?”

He hesitated.

“Mostly.”

Her smile faded into an expression of patient disbelief.

“Mostly?”

“The journey was long.”

“And you were hungry.”

“Terribly.”

She shook her head, though she was laughing now, and reached down to help him with the pack. Together they carried the provisions inside, where the cottage welcomed him with the familiar warmth of the hearth and the comforting fragrance of supper.

He removed his cloak and boots while his wife examined the contents of his bag. She found the strudels, the pies, Hilda's biscuits, and the small parcel of gifts he had purchased in the village.

Then she discovered the extra stockings.

Still neatly folded.

She held them up.

He grinned. “You see? I brought something back.”

For a moment she simply stared at him. Then she laughed so warmly that the sound seemed to fill the entire cottage.

“You impossible man.”

He crossed the room and kissed her again.

“Aye,” he said. “But I'm your impossible man.”

After supper, they brought the little evergreen inside and placed it beside the hearth. The woodcutter examined its branches with professional approval, while his wife retrieved the wooden box of Christmas ornaments from the cupboard.

They decorated the tree together, hanging ribbons, carved stars, little bells, and ornaments that had belonged to their families for generations. Some were old and worn, their colors faded by time, while others were newer additions made during the years they had shared the cottage.

At last, his wife reached into the bottom of the box and drew out a small wooden carving.

It showed a woodcutter carrying a Christmas tree upon his shoulder. The figure wore a heavy cloak, carried an axe at his side, and possessed a rather impressive beard.

The woodcutter took it carefully.

“What's this?”

“A little something I made while you were away.”

He turned the carving over in his hands, studying the tiny details. The workmanship was simple but thoughtful, and he recognized himself immediately.

“You made this?”

She nodded.

He looked at her, then back at the little figure.

For a while, he said nothing.

Then he found a sturdy branch near the center of the tree and hung the carving where they could both see it.

They stood together in the warm glow of the fire, admiring their work. Outside, snow began falling again, drifting silently through the darkened forest.

His wife rested her head against his shoulder.

“Was it a good journey?”

He thought of the mountains, the towering pines, the cheerful village, and the people preparing for Christmas beneath the winter sky. He remembered the children laughing as they raised their tree, the warmth of Marta's cider, and the comfortable bustle of Hilda's bakery.

Then he looked at the little wooden figure hanging among the branches.

“Aye,” he said softly. “A very good journey.”

Epilogue

The Trees That Carry Christmas

Across Emberlore, Christmas arrived beneath the quiet beauty of winter.

In Yule Vale, bells rang across the snowy mountains while families gathered around tables heavy with food. Lanterns glowed in village squares, children hung their stockings beside warm hearths, and evergreen trees stood proudly in homes throughout the valleys.

Farther south, in the Commonlands, little cottages shone among frost-covered fields and sleeping woodland paths. Their Christmas trees were decorated with ribbons, candles, wooden ornaments, and memories gathered over generations.

Some were grand trees, tall enough to fill the halls of wealthy merchants. Others were small and crooked, chosen by families who had little money but plenty of love. Each would become part of someone's Christmas, standing quietly beside the laughter, the stories, and the familiar traditions that made the season worth remembering.

Few families would ever know the woodcutter who had walked the northern roads to find their trees. They would never hear about his arguments over wool stockings, his weakness for Christmas pastries, or the long hours he spent choosing which evergreens should be taken and which should remain standing.

But the woodcutter had never sought recognition for his work.

On Christmas morning, he sat beside the hearth of his little cottage, his wife curled comfortably beside him, a warm cup resting between his hands. Their tree stood near the window, its branches decorated with the familiar ornaments of their shared life, and among them hung the little wooden figure she had carved for him.

Outside, the forest rested beneath a fresh blanket of snow.

His wife looked up from her book and noticed him smiling.

“What are you thinking about?”

He considered the question for a moment, then glanced toward their Christmas tree.

“Next year.”

She shook her head affectionately. “Christmas has barely begun, and you're already planning another journey.”

“There'll be trees to find.”

“There always are.”

“And families waiting for them.”

She closed her book and leaned against him.

“Then I suppose you'll be going north again.”

“Aye,” he said. “I suppose I will.”

She smiled and reached for his hand.

“Then perhaps next year you'll remember your stockings.”

He laughed, and the sound mingled with the gentle crackling of the fire.

Beyond the cottage, snow fell softly through the trees, covering the familiar paths and settling upon the branches of the sleeping forest. Far away, across the mountains and valleys of Emberlore, children were waking to the wonder of Christmas morning beneath evergreens he had chosen with his own hands.

He would never see most of those homes, nor hear the laughter that filled them. He would not know which ornaments were treasured most dearly, which families sang beside their trees, or which children would remember that particular Christmas for the rest of their lives.

He only knew that, for a little while, he had helped bring the season into their homes.

And when the next winter came, he would gladly make the journey again.

The End