The Axe and the Egg

I’m not used to running for my life. I crash through the woods, trying not to trip over my feet in the dark. My breaths come out ragged and my thighs burn with exhaustion. Slung over one shoulder is a bag containing all that remains of my possessions. Tucked safely under my arm is a golden Faberge egg, ridiculous in its opulence and heavy with encrusted jewels. This egg is my ticket to freedom, to a new life. 

Barking dogs echo through the woodland behind me, all around me. I can’t tell how far away they are, but it isn’t far enough. I need to get away, fast. I lunge over a rotting stump and narrowly avoid tripping into a sink-hole. I strain my eyes to see further ahead of me, I must make it into town before morning. I stumble and scrape my way through the trees. A crack of thunder and flash of lightening threaten an approaching storm. In the light of the electricity, I spot a small log cabin nestled into a hill a little way ahead. It begins to rain, the sky weeping its tears over the forest. The barking and shouting is louder now, even above the pouring rain. I’ve gotten myself turned around and I have no idea which direction to go. On instinct, I head to the cabin. With the egg tucked safely beneath my cloak, I scramble up the hill, my feet slipping and squelching through the mud.  

By the time I reach the door, the guards are close enough that I can see their lanterns glowing through the trees. I peer into the window of the cabin. It’s dark inside and nobody seems to be home. I try the handle, and surprisingly, it opens. With a slam, I lock myself in, sinking to my knees against the door.  

I lie there for a few moments, clutching the disgustingly ornate egg to my chest, sucking in great gulps of the dusty cabin air. I hear shouts approaching the cabin, and light floods the window. I huddle beneath the window pane, making myself as small as possible, desperately hoping I am not seen. The handle creaks and there is banging on the door. For a few aching moments, the only sounds are my shuddering breath and the blood pounding in my ears. 

The noise outside dissipates. The dogs must have lost my scent in the rain. The guards head a different direction, voices trailing back down the hill. I lay still, adrenaline coursing through my veins and making me light-headed. 

There is a small fireplace, but I don’t dare light a fire despite my shiver. I cannot risk being seen, and any light could draw attention to the cabin. I remove my rain-soaked cloak and drape it over a chair to dry. My breath has just returned to normal when I am jolted by the sound of the door handle twisting. A wave of paralyzing fear courses through me. They’re back, and they’ve caught me. If they get in here, there is nowhere for me to run. I can’t fight them. I panic and conceal myself the best I can behind a tall wardrobe before the door swings open with a bang, flooding the doorway in cool moonlight.  

I stay where I am, squished behind the pine-scented wardrobe, willing myself to blend into the shadows. There is a large silhouette in the doorway, blocking my only means of escape. The person just stands there, searching the interior. I notice my cloak, still draped over the chair and dripping water onto the floorboards. They must notice it too. 

“Hello?” A deep, rumbling voice emanates from the figure, laced with suspicion. My hands shake but I dare not move. His boots create a hollow clunking sound over the wooden floor as he enters. He turns and the moonlight illuminates his face. The man is large, with a trim beard and dark wet curls falling over his eyes. He wears a padded plaid jacket, and in one calloused hand he grips the handle of a shining axe. I steel myself for what might come next. I cannot let this get in the way of my escape. My freedom. I have come too far and risked too much. 

The man kneels down to grab a lantern from the ground, and I force myself to move. Don’t think, just move. I may not get another chance. I push myself out from behind the safety of my hiding place, grab the cast-iron pan from the stove, and conk the man on the back of the head.  

Later, I rock back and forth on the small cot in the corner of the room, thoughts spiralling. What have I done? I wanted to escape my family, not ruin a stranger’s life. I was supposed to quietly slip away in the night, valuable family heirloom in tow. I would sneak into the port town, sell the egg, and use the money to buy myself passage onto the next ship. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I could have accidentally killed this man. 

I wrestle with my guilt when I hear the man stir, testing the hold of his restraints. I’ve managed to tie him up with some rope I found nearby. He’s a strong looking man, and the rope is thin, but it’s the best I could do under the circumstances. He’s too heavy for me to move, so he’s still on the ground in front of the fireplace. I’ve hidden his axe, just in case he gets any bold ideas. 

Pale sunlight filters through the window, signalling the arrival of dawn. I curse inwardly. I cannot leave now and risk being seen, I need to wait for the cover of darkness before I can go. The man blinks back into consciousness, lifting his head to peer at me through the dim. He groans, I’m sure he has an awful headache. 

“What are you doing in my house?” His voice is groggy. Confused and wounded. I am surprised at how gentle he sounds, compared to his gruff physique. Who am I to break into a stranger’s home and tie him up with his own rope? I pull my arms tighter around myself for comfort, I feel so small next to him. 

“I’ll be gone soon,” I say, hoping I sound sincere, “I need to wait until dark.” 

He seems to study me for a while, struggling to focus his eyes before responding. When he speaks, he sounds calculated, a hint of anger creeping into his words. “Who are you, and what are you planning to do with me?” He asks, pulling against the ropes. 

“I don’t know.” I say, ignoring the first question. He doesn’t need to know who I am. The identity I’m trying to leave behind. 

My clothes are still damp, and I shiver with cold and exhaustion. The man notices me looking sorry for myself and suggests I untie him so he can light a fire. Nice try, I think. I’ll do it myself. 

His eyes follow me across the small room. At the fireplace, I scan the area for a means to light a fire. It can’t be that hard, I’ve seen servants do it all the time. I move a crumbling log from the stack next to the fireplace and plop it down inside. I try not to make my inexperience too obvious while I rifle through stacks of paper and bits of wool for some matches. 

The man chuckles behind me, his laugh is gritty and mocking. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you lass?” Heat floods my cheeks. 

Rude. 

“Yes I do.” I scoff, trying not to let him see my embarrassment. I search around a bit more before becoming frustrated. “Where are your matches?” 

He huffs out another scoff. “Matches? Do I look like I can afford such luxury? I use flint and a knife.” He gestures with his head to the wooden table near me. Next to a scattering of carved wooden animals, there sits a bone-handled knife and an unremarkable grey rock. I’ve never seen anyone use those before, only matches. I grasp the handle of the knife in one hand, and the rock in the other. Do I bang them together? Stab it? I’ve hesitated too long, and he’s laughing again. “What?” I hiss, feeling defensive.  

“Well you can’t just strike it at a bare log,” he continues laughing, eyes welling with tears, “You have to use tinder first.”  

“Fine,” I bite out, ready to get this humbling experience over with, “tell me how to do it.” He takes a while to finish laughing, but eventually he does tell me. He walks me through the process of building a small bundle of wool, paper, sticks, and propping larger logs on top of that. Tells me to leave room for the fire to breathe. Then he explains how to strike the flint. It takes me a few tries to get the angle of the knife right, but it works. A bright spark catches on the wool, travelling along the fibres. “Now blow on it,” he coaches, “gently.” I do, breathing life into the little flame. We watch it grow together until it is bright and crackling and warming my cheeks.  

“Can you untie me now?” He urges, shifting uncomfortably on the floor. I wince at his request. I want to untie him, but I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me if he can move. Will he kick me back out into the forest? He looks like he could easily overpower me, would he tie me up instead? Steal my egg and return me to my awful, greedy family for a reward? No, I decide. I can’t risk it, no matter how guilty I feel about this. 

For the next few hours, I live in agitated anxiety. I cannot resist peeking through the window every couple of minutes, convinced that I’ll see a guard. The man won’t shut up, now that he’s fully awake and aware of how un-intimidating I am. An awful bump has formed on the back of his head where I struck him, and he flexes his arms occasionally, testing the hold of the ropes. They seem to be holding, for now. 

“I’m Berand,” he tells me, “What’s your name?” I don’t answer him. I can’t. My family name is too known, and as soon as he knows who I am, he might decide it’s worth it to turn me in. I’m sure there is a bounty on my head, a great reward for whoever brings home the runaway princess. Plus, he can’t know about the egg. That amount of money it’s worth, the promise of what it could mean, is enough to turn anyone into a selfish creature. Even me. 

He moves on, asking me more questions throughout the day. I know he’s trying to get me to let my guard down. I keep a careful eye on him in case he decides to try anything, but I relent and begin to answer some of his questions. There isn’t much else to do while we wait, and I feel bad. What would he be doing today if I hadn’t ambushed him in his own home? 

His questions are surprising. He asks about my friends, my favourite hobbies, what I think about the sunrise, about my favourite memory. I never reveal such personal things to people I know, let alone strangers. Not as though the people in my life care enough to ask anyway. My answers are guarded, but honest. I don’t have many real friends. And the hobbies I participate in are not my own, but forced upon me by my parents in their attempts to mould me into their idea of perfection. The sunrise fills me with a sense of foreboding, because it signals another day of pretending to be someone I’m not, another day trapped in a palace that feels like a prison. My favourite memory? So far, it’s stealing that egg and running for my life, because it meant that I finally made a decision to do something for myself. But I can’t tell him that. 

“Do you always talk this much?” I ask him. 

He stares into the fire as he answers, seemingly lost in thought. “No. I don’t see many folks these days.” 

“Why not?” 

“People are unkind. I prefer the company of the forest. It’s more predictable.” He throws me a pointed stare. He’s right. People are unkind. 

I consider his words. Perhaps he’s lonely, then. I think of being back home, in a ballroom surrounded by people but feeling entirely alone. I think of my friendships, people who secretly hate me but pretend to be my friend to get closer to my affluent parents. Or lovers who only pretended to love me so they could get the chance to marry into my family. None of those people care for me as a person, not even my parents. I was just a pawn in their game, a piece to move around to further their political agenda. A shiny object to sell to the highest bidder, with no consideration for what I want. I decide that the company of trees and woodland creatures wouldn’t be so bad in comparison. 

As the sun dips lower, I begin to collect my things and prepare for my departure. I accidentally nudge my bag with my foot, and the egg rolls out, skittering to a stop in a remaining patch of sunlight. The gems throw a hundred glittering rainbows over the walls of the cabin, bathing it in a wash of colour. Prisms of light shine in all directions, and Berand raises his hand to shield his face from the glare. He squints through his fingers at the egg, studying it for a while, trying to make sense of what he sees. Then eyes go wide, and my stomach drops. No.  

I scramble to snatch the egg from the floor and return it to my bag. Now he’ll want it for himself. He’ll turn me in and collect the reward money. I think of how humble his home is, how simple his life. The man doesn’t even have matches, he must need the money. Who wouldn’t? 

I scan his face, waiting to see the hunger in his eyes. Waiting for him to finally snap the flimsy ropes I’ve tied around him and lunge for me. But I see only kindness there, settled into a resigned look on his weathered face.  

“What is that?” His voice is low and reverent.  

I hesitate, feeling like a child who has been caught stealing from the cookie jar. It’s been so long since I’ve gotten the chance to explain myself to anyone, and he’s willing to listen. So, against my better judgment, I tell him. It’s refreshing to tell someone the truth in my heart and not see pity or judgment in their eyes. When I finish speaking, he remains silent for a while. Eventually, softly, he speaks. 

“I’d do the same,” he says, “if I were in your shoes.” He huffs a little chuckle to himself, “Hell, I did do the same. Years ago.” He raises his eyes to meet mine, and I feel my brows knit together. What? 

“My father was the village blacksmith. He was very successful and the best in town. I was his apprentice, set to follow in his footsteps and inherit the family business. I never wanted to be a blacksmith. It’s a tough life, that. I wanted to be an artist,” he looks down, as though he is ashamed of his younger self, “my father didn’t like that. So, I ran away. I left town and went into the forest. I took what little money I had, some clothes, and my father’s axe. I meant to sell it, but I could never bring myself to part with the damned thing.”  

I think of the little animals on the table, carved with the bone-handled knife. So detailed and carefully rendered. Obviously made with love. I walk to the table, grab the knife, and slice through the ropes binding the man. He could have easily broken them if he had tried, but he hadn’t. It was wrong of me to bind him. To keep him here against his will to serve my own selfishness. I gather my things, and make for the door, the sun has set and I must be on my way. 

He rises from the floor, limbs stiff and probably aching. “Wait,” he says. He grabs something from the table and presses it into my hand. I look down to find a small wooden bear, lovingly carved, round eyes peering up from the cup of my hand. I blink back tears and meet his gaze. 

“You’re a good person,” he says. His voice is warm and contains no hint of resentment, despite the fact that I’ve held him hostage all day. “You deserve to live life on your own terms.” 

I choke back a sob as his words sink in. Nobody has ever said anything like that to me before. Not my friends, not even my own parents. He knows what it feels like to long for independence. To shed your identity like an old skin that no longer fits. He knows who I am, knows about the egg, and doesn’t want it for himself. He has given me a gift beyond a carved wooden bear. He has given me hope.  

“Come with me.” I blurt out. It wasn’t in my plan to invite him along, but maybe he needs this as much as I do. He stares at me for a long moment, considering. My hand hovers over the door handle, and it’s silent long enough that I resign myself to stepping over the threshold alone. 

“Wait,” he says, mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Let me get my axe.”