Legend of the Woodcutter's Son

By Elon Martin

“Indeed, Father, is the grizzly the king of all beasts? Does it fear no other?”

“There is another, my son,” “Chief Oakbeard replied. “There is a beast that makes even the grizzly look like a small forest mouse. But let us speak of this later. Right now, my son, let us enjoy this feast on your honor.”

Follow Wild Bill, once a young white lad but then adopted by the Indians as their chief’s own son, as he goes along on his many wild, some heroic, adventures in the mighty forest of ages past. Learn how he befriends his worst enemy when he follows his dead mother’s advice. Go with him on a desperate adventure to capture the king of all animals.

Wild Bill finds out as he becomes a man that with great adventure comes great sorrow and great responsibility.

Listen as his foster father, the chief, tells him, “My son, dying doesn’t matter. Even the most powerful man must do it. What matters is how a man dies. I rejoice. I shall soon see the Almighty God, ruler of the entire universe…”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662465789

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Legend of the Woodcutter's Son

Elon Martin

Copyright © 2022 Elon Martin

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-6577-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-6578-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

For my brother, Benjamin, who always was a lover of wildlife.

Introduction

Will you go on a journey with me? I invite you to come with me back in time to a land where there are no huge cities, smelly automobiles, or any of the modern devices for that matter. For the moment, forget about your hurried life and slip away to a land and time when nature was still king. A time when there was no need to worry about all the emissions in Chicago, who is president, worldwide pandemics, or even many bills to pay. Welcome to a land of trees, wildlife of all kinds (some of which are no longer even with us, such as the snake beast), and, of course, Indians. Back when America was yet young and mighty forests covered much of the eastern lands, broken only by occasional prairies or rivers and lakes. When the trees grew up to over a hundred feet tall, perhaps even reaching two hundred at times. A time of nature in the raw and people who were tough enough to brave it. A time when technology was not even yet a word. Yes, there was violence at times, but is there not much violence today? Even amid the violence, there are those who conquer in the end. Today and in the time of the Indians.

Let your imagination flow free with mine. Yes, daily duties are important, but sometimes one needs to slip away after the work is done. As you travel with me, remember if it seems a little far-fetched, then that is where my imagination tried to get away. Some people go fishing, others ride horses or create a wonderful piece of art. I sit down and let my imagination flow onto paper. It’s the way I preserve my sanity. I hope you enjoy your travel through good and bad. And if you don’t figure out what animal the snake beast in this story represents, feel free to ask. Hang on.

To God be the glory,

Elon Martin

A big thank-you to all my family and the staff at Page Publishing, who stood by me and helped me through the rough spots.

Elon

Chapter 1

Wild Bill and the Indians

A long time ago, when great forests still covered much of the new world called America, there was a village among the massive virgin trees only about two days’ journey from the sea. In this village, there lived a woodcutter, his wife, and his son. The village was hundreds of miles from any other white man settlement, and the only neighbors the villagers had were their fellow villagers and, of course, the Indians, though quite a few of them were none too friendly toward the villagers. In the Indians’ eyes, the forest was their home, and they took nothing from it that they didn’t need. They killed wild animals for food in the cold winter months and raised corn, pumpkins, and squash in the summertime. They cut down only the dead trees for the fires that burned in their wigwams. Now this particular tribe, which lived near the white man village, were called tree worshipers. And the reason they did not like the white man village and its inhabitants was because the white men cut down many live trees to build their houses, barns, and the general store that sat in the village square. Not only did they cut down mighty oaks, hickories, ash, and elms to name a few, but they also cut down all the young trees and cleared the forest completely to make fields to raise their crops. The Indians believed that one must first find a natural opening in the forest before one dared plant crops. They thought the tree gods would become very angry, indeed, if they cleared large sections of the forest like these disrespectful white men were doing. Many a council meeting was held in Chief Oakbeard’s massive wigwam made out of four big dead, red elm logs and forest buffalo hides sewn together. At last, in one of these meetings, Chief Oakbeard stood among his mighty warriors and told them as he stroked his braided, gnarled old beard that was stained red with blood root juice.

The tree gods are angry at us for letting these tree killers live in our forest, he said. And even though he had seen no sign that the tree gods were angry, he knew they must be because his father had told him they would be if anyone cut down the sacred forest trees. And his father’s father had told him before that. But Chief Oakbeard continued, We must punish these white men to please the tree gods. Before another moon dies, we will burn the white man’s village, and every house that stands in it, we will sacrifice to the tree gods with fire!

Ay! Ay! the warriors all shouted, for they were quite pleased with their chief’s decision. And then began a mighty feast among the Indians, and their wild chanting as they danced naked around a mighty bonfire could be heard for many a night for miles around. They painted their faces and bodies with many fierce marks of many colors with war paint they made out of plant roots. And indeed, it would have been the end of the white men’s village if it had not been for the woodcutter’s son.

Now the white man village was run and governed by a stout, potbellied man called Sheriff Jonstun. He had been a wealthy merchant over in England before the white men had set sail for America, and he had provided all the money needed to make the voyage to America and start a new village there amid the mighty forest. He was the one who governed this village and the one who owned it. He ordered and bought the supplies that were sent over from England on a merchant ship once a year. And of course, since these supplies were all his, he stored them in his massive log cabin in the town square. His house was the general store. Now if the villagers wanted to buy more supplies, they came to Jonstun’s store and bought them. Sheriff Jonstun put a decent markup on his goods, of course, so that he might maintain not only his wealth but also his control over his small but thriving village. The villagers in turn brought their surplus crops to the sheriff’s store, and he sold them to merchants back in England. Thus, the ship had cargo to take on its return voyage back to England. Sheriff Jonstun then paid the villagers their share out of his pay for the goods that were sent back over the great sea. But though Jonstun was a good businessman and also did a good job of being sheriff, many of the villagers were suspicious that he wasn’t always honest with them and often paid them too little for their crops and charged too much for the goods in his store. Sheriff Jonstun thought that the Indians were savages and told his villagers to watch out for them and to never go into the forest unarmed. He was also the one who was overseer over the timber cutting for new cabins and barns that were built as needed as the village thrived and grew with new pioneers, who arrived from over the ocean. But there was one weakness the sheriff had that most of the villagers knew about. He liked his firewater and kept a large barrel full of it in the back of his general store. And when Sheriff Jonstun had been drinking, all of the villagers knew that he was not to be trusted. The sheriff had about a dozen men who were his helpers as he called them. They had all been fairly rich men in England, and they helped the sheriff in keeping track of the town and correcting the villagers when they were in the wrong. There was, however, more than one villager who disliked at least some of the sheriff’s men. And all of the sheriff’s men gathered at Jonstun’s store at night to drink their share of the sheriff’s firewater.

Now in this village there lived a woodcutter. He was a powerful man who lived in a small cabin near the edge of the forest at the outer edge of the village. It was his job to supply the villagers with firewood. Every day he went into the forest with his cart and team of mules and cut up dead trees and then chopped the wood into firewood for the villagers to burn in their fireplaces to cook their food and stay warm in the winter. Every day he returned with his cart piled high with dry wood and ranked it neatly behind the sheriff’s general store where the villagers could come and buy as needed. The sheriff paid the woodcutter, of course, for his hard labor and then sold the firewood to the village. However, it did not matter if the woodcutter went farther and returned later or if the load was all dead red elm. He was always paid the same wage for his load, unless it wasn’t quite full, then he was paid less. And everyone, including the sheriff, knew that red elm is some of the best firewood there is and deserved better pay. However, the red elm was mostly saved by the sheriff’s men for the sheriff’s own massive stove, which he had brought over from England on the ship. It was the only stove in the entire village. And seldom was a villager lucky enough to return to his cabin with a load of red elm, and if he did, his fellow villagers would say, "Tom Longfellow must have found an extra dime somewhere, he’s heading home with a load of