The Woodcarver's Daughter

"Where are you going?"

Liz froze dead in her tracks. The sudden stop forced the basket she was carrying to swing and one of her precious gingerbread cookies to fall to the ground where it broke in twain. She had spent the past four nights in the kitchen to get each and every one of them perfect. Each night she had snuck in after her stepfather had gone to sleep upstairs. She trusted he'd be dead asleep after having worked 16 hours in his workshop. And then she had worked with nothing more than the light and warmth of a couple of candles all through the night. In the morning she had cleaned up everything and hidden the night's batch in the barrel next to the shed with the big saw. Today she was finally going to sell them.

"Elizabeth, I asked you a question."

Her stepfather's words pierced her cold like icicles. Just like the weather had turned cold in the past months so had his demeanour. He had never been a cheerful or even friendly man, but now that Christmas was nearing the many orders for his hand carved wood sculptures had him even more on edge. He wouldn't allow himself nor Elizabeth to take even a moment off. Liz knew better than to slack or even complain and did her part cooking and cleaning.

"I was going into town. There's a market going on."

She did not dare lie to the old man.

"What a waste of time," he replied, "we don't have any money to spend on some useless Christmas knick-knacks!"

Liz felt tears welling up in her. But then she found strength in the thought of all the town's people enjoying her beautiful gingerbread cookies.

"I'm not going there to buy anything. I'm going to sell."

"Sell?!" the old man sneered, "You know damn well that I'm only doing work on commission. And I've already got orders that'll last into the new year!"

"I'm not going to sell any of your sculptures—"

"What else do you have to sell?" he interrupted her, "your body? I doubt you'd find a man who'd take it even for free! You harlot!"

Liz yelled out in pain when his backhand struck her cheek. She couldn't hold back her tears anymore. "God damn you! Damn you to hell!" she cried out, turned and ran out into the snow, and towards town. She did not see the old man try to follow her, nor did she see him slip on the broken cookie that had fallen to the ground. She did not hear his yell nor the crack of his skull on the second step of the stairs.

On "The Woodcarver's Daughter" | 2023-11-04

I'd been in a bookstore today and had spent some time reading the backs of all the Christmas books they've got on display now. They were all very cliché and I couldn't believe the uninspired plots summaries. "Margret wants nothing more than to paint nutcrackers and meet a man. When her first customer asks her to go sledding with her she can't believe her luck..." or whatever.

That all was the basis for today's text. I was surprised at how terrible the stepfather turned out to be. I wanted to stay with the jolly Christmas-y "we all can learn to love each other" bullshit, but the dynamic between the two had already started out really bad and I'm too cynical to allow a quick turn of heart.

At around the middle I was already playing through the idea of the father's death in my head, but then I tried to veer away from that again, toward something "nice". Didn't work.

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