A Wooden Heart

I originally began to write this story as an entry for Literotica's Halloween Competition. Unfortunately, work and other time constraints delayed completion.

The tale is re-working of an old fairy story and no doubt you will soon recognise it as you read on.

*****

Prequel

Granny Fay knew when she was going to die. As a witch it was natural for her to know. Her family were aware that she knew, but she had never told them when it would happen. At least, not until her dying day, (which coincidentally fell upon All Hallows Eve).

To all concerned she seemed her usual self that day; still walking around the garden in the morning tending her herbs, still observing everything with her startlingly blue-eyed gaze.

The family were gathered together and informed. By the evening they had arranged the foodstuffs and drink for a 'farewell' party.

Close to midnight the old woman retired to her room. Once in bed, the relatives all trooped in and sat or stood around her; the eldest at the back and the youngest -- her great grandchildren -- at the front. She talked with them all, until finally she tired and closed her eyes to sleep. By the time that the birds began singing their dawn chorus her soft breathing had ceased.

Some of the men trooped out into the garden and made their way towards the far end, where a stile had been crafted out of wood. They stepped over it and began to clear an area of bracken not far from the wall they had just crossed. There they dug a grave for the beloved old woman.

Meanwhile, another group had made their way deeper into the woods in search of a small sapling. Granny had stressed that it must be an Elm tree. At least a dozen were rejected before they finally agreed on one. Then, using their shovels with care, they began to dig up the small tree. By the time they returned with the plant on the back of a handcart, the first group had finished their digging.

In the men's absence the women had dressed and prepared the old woman and then laid her out in her coffin (one that she had purchased a few years earlier in readiness). Remarkably, nobody seemed distressed by her passing. Saddened, yes, but they were all happy that she had had a good life and in it had achieved a lot for the community. Her potions cured many a malady and her midwifery skills were a legend.

Although she hadn't asked for it, someone asked for the pastor to attend. While he had never seen Sapphire Fay in his church, he was sure that she was a good and moral woman -- even if, as rumour had it, she was a witch. He said a few words over the polished wooden box and it was then lowered into the ground. Every person there threw a handful of soil onto the lid, saying their own silent prayer as they did so.

Most of the earth was shovelled back into the hole before the Elm sapling was planted in it. The remaining soil was cast in before everyone took it in turns to tread the plant in. Six buckets of water were used to give the tree its first drink in its new home.

The tree grew big and strong -- even surviving the outbreak of Dutch Elm disease that ravaged the country. In the early days, young men and women of the family would take their newlywed partners to introduce them to Granny (and maybe gain her approval). In later years the Elm became simply a place of quiet reflection for anyone who required it.

*****

Chapter 1

George had just celebrated his sixtieth birthday. Well, celebrated is possibly a strong word. He poured himself a drop of whisky in the evening, but otherwise it was a relatively normal day.

It occurred to the mildly successful sculptor that he should attempt one last major piece. He took his time deciding upon his subject, waiting to see what materials turned up. His preference was to work in wood. He made a reasonable amount of money, certainly enough to get by on. After all, he didn't go out and he wasn't interested in television. He didn't even have a telephone as there was nobody for him to call.

George loved wood. He loved its natural beauty before he began to work on it and he loved its feel as it started to change its shape. He had continued working in the meantime, creating saleable pieces for many months before he found the material that he was really looking for.

The studio was situated alongside a forest. George often took walks in the dense woodland, sometimes finding small pieces of wood that he would take back and use at some stage. On this particular afternoon at the end of October, as he walked along the path dappled by the autumn sunshine filtering through the trees, he heard the unmistakeable sound of an axe. His curiosity aroused, he began to stroll in the general direction of the noise mindful of the possibility of danger.

The tree was at the edge of the forest, next to an old cottage. The property had recently been renovated and the new owners had moved in. When he approached, he saw Fred an ageing, local woodsman taking a rest.

"Hello Fred. How come you're chopping down that Elm tree?"

"Branch fell off it last week," he answered. "The missus in there said she didn't think it was safe and wants it taken down."

George looked at the tree, at the axe marks that were already scored deep into the wood. "I can't see much wrong with that. It looks perfectly OK to me."

"Yeah, well I've been told to take it down." He picked up his axe and began to swing with powerful yet measured strokes. George watched, enjoying the easy manner in which Fred wielding the axe. As he watched, something began to stir within his mind. This could be the one. This could be the piece of wood he had been looking for.

When Fred took another break, George approached him and asked, "What are you going to do with the trunk?"

"I was going to get it down to the lumber mill. They'll saw it up and kiln-dry it. I thought that they might like it. Maybe they could get a good price for it."

"How about I take it off of you instead?" said George. "I think that I could do something interesting with it."

Fred was well aware of George's talents with wood and had even accepted one of his small carvings in lieu of payment for a favour in the past -- a piece that he had been able to sell for a considerable amount. "Alright then, I'll get it round to your place."

Just then an old woman walked up the pathway towards them. It was Biddy Johnson, the local 'historian'. She had no qualifications, nor much of an education, but knew (almost) everything about the past of the local area. As she neared them, they could see that her face was white. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

The two men looked at each other, looked at the tree and then looked back at Biddy. "I'm chopping down a tree," Fred said simply.

"But you can't," she said, shocked. "Not that tree! It's... its special! Didn't you know that?"

"Special?" interrupted George. "How?"

Biddy's voice was very low as she explained, "The tree is about three hundred years old. It was planted there especially. You see, this cottage used to belong to a witch. When she died, her family buried her just outside of the garden over there and then planted a tree above her grave. That's a Witch's Elm, that is. It's supposed to be magical."

Fred swallowed loudly. "Well Biddy, I've got my instructions from the new missus and it has to come down. So that's that."

Biddy merely sighed and shook her head. As she turned and walked away she muttered something about consequences, but neither of them could quite make it out.

A few days later Fred delivered the tree to George's cottage. He had brought his two sons with him to help. The trunk was very heavy and required a lot of manoeuvring using blocks, tackle and wooden poles. Eventually they managed to get it into the studio, where it was laid on a collection of four stout saw horses. It stayed liked this, air drying for nearly twelve months until George considered it was ready. Fred's sons came round to help him manoeuvre the log into the middle of his working area, in an upright position (having first levelled the base using a two-handed saw).

George spent days looking at it. He walked around and around, running his hand over the coarse bark. A shape was beginning to form in his mind's eye. After a couple of weeks he started to strip the bark away, revealing the pale wood beneath. It was in perfect condition, with hardly a blemish. As he worked he talked constantly to the piece.

The artist took his time, spending almost as many hours sitting and looking at the piece, as he did working on it. Gradually it began to take shape. Excluding the base, it stood close to six feet three inches tall. The form was undoubtedly that of a man, but the features were still fairly vague. He scraped here and smoothed there. He ran his hand over the surface of his creation, sanding until the wood felt as though it could be almost soft and yielding.

It had taken almost over days to complete the area around the genitals. George had used the tiniest of tools. He stepped back once finished and took in the whole figure.

"Humph," he exclaimed. "Out of proportion." The penis was longer and thicker than looked natural. He hadn't intended it to be that size in relation to the body. He sighed and put down his tools for the night. Next day he returned to the sculpture and began to carefully correct his error. When he finally stood away from it late into the evening he was satisfied.

George didn't return to the studio until the following afternoon. When he looked at it he dropped his cup of coffee, which shattered on the tiled floor. He began to question his own memory, wondering if he had merely thought about changing the size of the cock, rather than actually altering it. But the minute shavings and sawdust were there on the floor where they had lain since he finished last night.

He considered many things, but in the end decided that he must have reduced the size, thought he had done enough and, fooled by tiredness finished and the went to bed. He started the process over again and slowly but carefully reworked the wood. When he stepped back, he made sure that he walked all round the piece, checking that he was finally happy with his masterpiece. He was. He went to bed.

George awoke with the dawn. For some reason he felt unsettled. He dressed quickly and walked downstairs and went straight into the studio. Sure enough, the handsome man stood where he had left him, but the penis was back to the size that it had been the day before -- and the day before that.

Unnerved, George walked away, shutting the door behind. "OK, if that's how big it's going to be, who am I to argue?"

The next few days were spent checking and applying the very final touches. When he was satisfied, George began to mix his preferred finish -- a concoction of beeswax, mineral oil and few other unusual ingredients. He painted the still warm liquid very thinly onto the surface and then, when it was dry, he gently buffed it to a satin-like sheen. He completed this task over the entire body three times until it took on the colour of lightly tanned skin.

It was a work of love which had taken just over nine months to complete. George walked away from his work without looking back at it. When he reached the other side of the studio he turned and gazed at the most beautiful object that he had ever seen. A lump rose to his throat as he reminded himself that it was of his own creation.

"You are truly magnificent," he said.

"Thank you," replied the wooden man.

*****

Chapter 2

George stood rooted to the spot. He came very close to losing control of his bladder and felt dizzy. He stared at the sculpture which appeared (naturally) to be unmoving. Did it speak? Did its mouth really move?

"You are a piece of wood," he whispered. "You cannot speak and I cannot have heard you speak. Can I?" His question was rhetorical.

"No, father," came the instant reply.

With a dry mouth and constricted throat, George felt that breathing was difficult. His heart felt as though it was hammering against his ribcage. He stepped closer and looked up into the face. The grain of the wood seemed to be fading and a translucent, skin-like quality was replacing it. The pupils of the eyes appeared to be taking on a darker hue, as did the lips. As he watched the inanimate object took on life.

The sculptor was more frightened than he had ever been in his life, yet he was fascinated at the same time. Various thoughts were running through his brain; he was mad, he was asleep and dreaming, he was awake and it was all real. How to decide?

Shock finally took over and his vision began to swim and the darkness narrowed his vision until his brain switched off and he passed into a faint.

Falling on a tiled floor will always hurt, possibly fatally. As George began to return from unconsciousness he felt confused, he knew that he was lying on the floor, but he felt comfortable. As he opened his eyes almost the first thing that entered his vision was the figure, standing on its base. He gradually thought about his surroundings and realised that his head was resting on a cushion from one of the chairs in the studio. A canvass picture cover was spread over him, keeping him warm.

George remained confused, wondering who had caught him, laid him down and propped his head on a cushion and then covered him. He decided that he must, indeed, be mad. Surprisingly, having reached this conclusion, he very quickly acknowledged this as a fact and simply accepted it.

"Are you alright now father?" asked the wooden man. "Would you like me to help you up?"

"Yes, please."

The figure stepped from the plinth with a fluency of movement that belied the nature of its composition. He bent down beside George and pulled the cover aside. Placing his hands under the artist's armpits he smoothly lifted him to his feet.

By now the figure had acquired human colouring and texture. The hair on its head, having been carefully carved until it gave the impression of individual strands, now moved in a natural way revealing a deep brown colour. George's eyes moved down, taking in the powerful shoulders and chest. When the piece remained still it was a statue, but when movement was necessary the muscles moved beneath the surface.

George's eyes wandered down past the stomach and came to rest on the area he had had so much trouble carving. The brown pubic hair framed what could only be described as the most perfect, most beautiful set of male genitalia that could possibly exist. He looked back up at the face.

"Why do you call me father?" he questioned.

The sculpture looked pensive for a moment. "Because you created me with your love and you gave a part of yourself to make me," it said.

"How can you move?"

"Because the tree you made me from was magical. The witch Sapphire Fay in death gave part of herself to me also. She is my mother."

"And how can you talk?"

"I don't know, father. Perhaps I learned when you spoke to me as you made me."

George was already accepting him as his son, but he needed a name. "I shall call you Peter, after my grandfather," he said. "Peter Nocchia."

He looked again at Peter's lower abdomen. "But I think we will have to get you some clothes young man -- although I don't think that I have anything that will fit you."

A thought occurred to George. "Will you need to sleep? Will you need a bed?"

"I would like a bed father, but I do not think that I need to sleep. Perhaps I can sit on the bed and learn to read. I would like to do that. It would be interesting."

For the rest of that day and late into the evening George sat with Peter trying to teach him to read. He was clearly intelligent and learned quite quickly. When the artist went to bed, he showed his son to his own room and gave him four books to read. Each of these publications was about painters and sculptors, with many pictures of their works.

*****

Chapter 3

In the morning, George awoke. He lay very still, thinking. He knew that he had not been dreaming and that everything that had happened was real. He now had a son, who was in the bedroom next door. He arose and put on his bathrobe and walked out of the room. He paused in the act of placing his fingers on the handle of the second bedroom door and then withdrew it. Instead, he knocked on the wooden panel.

"Come in father," said Peter.

George opened the door and walked in. The young man was lying on the bed with a book opened in front of him. He looked up at his father and said, "The pictures in these books are wonderful. There is so much beauty in the world."

"Yes Peter, there is a lot of beauty in the world, but alas there is also ugliness," he replied. "But we can discuss that later. Do you need to eat?"

"No father. I don't think that I do."

"I want you to stay in the house today. I'm going to go into town and find some clothes for you. Will you be alright?"

"May I read some more books?"

"Of course, Peter. You can read any of the books that I have."

Later, George set off down the road. He had to catch the bus from the main road and needed to be sure that he caught the return two hours later, as this was the last one of the day.

The town itself was not exactly small, but neither was it large. There were a number of shops selling both men and women's clothing, but he was appalled at the prices. He wasn't exactly poor, but he would never permit himself to spend so much money. He walked along, feeling despondent until he reached one of the charity shops that had taken over many of the premises. He realised that this was where he could find what he needed. He hadn't thought about Peter's size at all, but he figured that he would need extra large in t-shirts and trousers.

He delved through the racks and found half a dozen shirts, then three pairs of trousers. He wasn't worried about the waist size, just so long as it was big. After all, Peter could always wear a belt. What mattered was to ensure that the length was adequate. It was difficult to find what he wanted but he managed eventually.

Shoes were another matter. He guessed that Peter was probably a size 12, but there was only one pair large enough (and these were walking boots). He found a nice, warm-looking jacket and added it to his pile. Finally, before he left, he bought some second hand books, considering that his son would appreciate some more varied reading matter.

It was only as he sat on the bus on the way home that he realised that he hadn't bought any underwear for Peter, but then wondered if there was any need. Come to that, he hadn't thought about pyjamas either. Did he need them?

Peter was delighted with the clothes, but his father had to show him how to wear and fasten them. The boots were a little snug, but were otherwise perfect.

One of the books that George had purchased was a thick tome written upon the art of gardening. Peter was fascinated and sat reading it that evening. As the two made their way upstairs to bed he asked, "Father, can I try some gardening? I think it would be interesting."

"Of course Peter. All of the tools are in the old shed at the bottom of the garden. Help yourself. But best leave it until tomorrow."

As George prepared his breakfast next day, he watched Peter walk out of the back door and make his way down the path to the little wooden building. He bent into the shed and began to rummage around, eventually pulling out a fork. He then walked back to the overgrown vegetable patch and began to dig. The artist continued with his breakfast and then went out to his studio to look at his raw materials and perhaps start a new project.

It was lunchtime when he finally walked out to see what Peter had been up to. Standing, with his mouth open, he looked out onto a transfigured scene. The vegetable patch, which had for years remained unkempt and overgrown, had been totally cleared and was now freshly dug and turned over. The flower beds (Which George sometimes tended), were neatly hoed. The two apple trees had been trimmed back, as had the hedges. It was as if an army of gardeners had descended and renovated the entire plot. The only thing that hadn't changed was the small lawn, which remained uncut -- but not for long.