The Woodcarver’s Shop

BY: JENNIFER MARTIN

The Woodcarver was sitting in the back of the store when a sharp chime sounded, signaling that a patron had entered his store. The sounds of a busy street filled the space for only a moment, and he lifted his head to the noise, slowing down time to revel in the sound. From his spot behind the back counter, the Woodcarver saw the two women.

He did not wave or greet the women in any way. The Woodcarver was only there so the shop’s patrons had someone to buy from, but he never helped a patron look for a carving or advertised one carving over another. If the carvings wanted to be taken, they would make themselves known, some would even go as far as throwing themselves off shelves to get a patron’s attention.

Once they realized that the old man behind the counter was not going to say anything to them, the women started moving around the store. There was no rhyme or reason to the aisles. Garden statues were next to kitchen wares. Totems scattered in the middle of walkways. Wall décor laid on the floor. Fairy statues danced on top of cuckoo clocks. Miniature figurines perched on top of wooden chairs and benches. There were no signs telling the patrons where to go, but somehow, their path was always clear.

A few minutes later, the door chimed again, and the Woodcarver would have guessed that the women had left if not for their harsh whispers emanating from somewhere amongst the aisles. The shop rarely had more than one customer because of its newspaper plastered windows and lack of a sign. Only curious minds or regulars wandered in and lost themselves in the wayward aisles.

The Woodcarver looked up from his book to see who else wandered in, but the patron was already moving about. He heard them shuffling about unsurely, stopping every few moments to, presumably, look at the carvings. He refocused on his book, more interested in its world than the one around him. He hadn’t stayed up to date on current events in decades, deciding that there was no use in knowing about a world he didn’t venture into. Many patrons traded in books for carvings and the Woodcarver accepted them gratefully.

The women’s whispering and the unknown patron’s shuffling feet lulled into the background until a figure loomed above the top of the Woodcarver’s book. A young girl, around the age of eight or nine if the Woodcarver had to guess, stood stick straight in front of him. Her dark hair was sloppily chopped into a pixie cut, her clothes were plain and worn, her shoes were at least two sizes too big, and she smelled of dust and pavement. Though these were not the first things the Woodcarver noticed about the girl. The first thing he noticed was the miniature carving of a unicorn clutched in her hand.

One of his first carvings, he realized, for he remembered them all. Its horn was a little too fat, its legs too short, and some of the paint had flecked off. The unicorns liked to fight amongst themselves, so the Woodcarver wasn’t so surprised by that. He was surprised, though, that the girl had caught the unicorn. They were wild creatures and usually ran out the front door the second after they were created, or they stuck around to give the patrons a good chase.

“What have you got there?” asked the Woodcarver.

The girl held out her hand and the unicorn put on a show of walking around on her palm, balancing on her arm, and rearing on its hind legs. Its small, highpitched whinnies filled the space between them and to wonder filled the girl’s brown eyes.

The Woodcarver chuckled at the girl and sat back in his chair. “He likes you.”

“How do you know?” The girl’s voice was quiet, as if she was scared that she would frighten the beast currently standing on the crook of her elbow.

“If he didn’t, he would have pricked you by now.”

The unicorn made its way back to the girl’s hand and she held him gingerly, careful not to hold him too tight. “How much?” she asked. “You caught him, you keep him.”

The girl smiled wide, revealing a few missing teeth. She shoved her free hand into her pocket and took out a large blue button. The Woodcarver took the button from the girl, examining its rough edges. It was almost as large as the palm of his hand, its four holes hacked through, the edges needed sanding, and the royal blue paint needed a second coat.

The Woodcarver looked back up from the button, a thank you forming on his lips, but the door chimed again, and the girl was gone.

It was a week before she showed up again.

There wasn’t anyone else in the shop that day and the carvings were keeping themselves entertained. They fought for the front row of the displays and the Woodcarver had to mend several broken arms, tails, and hats. Every time the Woodcarver looked up from his book, the aisles and furniture had rearranged and the signs were squeaking back and forth.

The Woodcarver didn’t lower his book as the front door rang open and shuff ling footsteps made their way around the carvings, eventually stopping in front of his desk. The girl’s shoulders just made it over the top of the polished counter and the miniature unicorn peeked out from her shirt’s front pocket. She wore different clothes than the previous week, but she still had a disheveled look about her.

She seemed oddly at home with the restless carvings behind her. Usually, they would calm down when a patron walked in, but the fairies continued flittering, and the dogs continued chasing their tails.

“My name’s Sophia,” she said. Her hands were held behind her back, and she was swaying lightly side to side. The girl continued, unfazed by the Woodcarver’s silence. “What’s your name?”

Many patrons had asked him for his name. They wanted to know how to address him, or they wanted to tell a friend about their experience. He never gave them one. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know it. He was convinced that he never had a name. He looked at the girl across from him and said, “I don’t have one.”

Her mouth flew open. “You have to have a name. Everyone has a name,” she said matter-of-factly. Yes, it was the way the world worked, the girl thought. People have names, and that was that.

“I’m sure I had a name once,” said the Woodcarver. “But I have lived a very long life, and it must have gotten lost along the way.”

“How does a name get lost?” The girl’s head was cocked to the side and her nose crinkled as she scrunched her eyebrows. Children were always so full of questions. The Woodcarver had half a mind to send the girl away. To tell her to leave him alone, as he did with many prodding patrons, but he didn’t.

The Woodcarver cleared his throat and changed the subject. “How has the little beast been treating you?”

Sophia plucked the unicorn from her pocket and placed it on the Woodcarver’s desk. It ran in circles, bucked high in the air, and its light whinnies summoned some of the other unicorns to join in its show. The little girl shrieked with laughter, her big, brown eyes sparkling in the low, yellow light of the shop. After a few minutes the unicorns ran into the aisles, interested in wreaking havoc among the other carvings.

“I named him Jack,” she said.

The Woodcarver nodded, confused on why she was so transfixed on naming things. He hadn’t had a name in centuries, and he was doing just fine. He told the girl it was a fine name for a unicorn.

“Do you really not have one?”

The Woodcarver felt a tightness in his chest. If she kept asking him about his name, he was almost positive he would explode. He already gave his answer, couldn’t she see that he wasn’t lying? He motioned the girl to sit with him behind his desk. There was a small wooden chair tucked behind a stack of books and the Woodcarver dug it out to give her somewhere to sit. Once she was settled, he proposed that they play a game.

She sat straight up in her chair, almost bouncing out of it at the promise of something fun. The Woodcarver began explaining the premise of the game, and its few rules. Every time Sophia came into the store, she was to guess the Woodcarver’s name. She was only allowed to guess one name every visit and she could only guess if she kept bringing gifts for him. He didn’t want anything big, only trinkets from the outside world. No gift, no guess.

“How will I know if I guessed right?”

It was a good question. He didn’t know the answer.

Sophia came by every week with a new gift for the Woodcarver: a page from an old newspaper, a penny from a different decade, a golden thread, paper money from a different country, a button from a rich lady’s coat. Once she brought him a mouse that she’d found huddling for warmth in a dumpster. She named him Max because he looked like one, she said, and he now spent his days scurrying amongst the carvings.

The carvings didn’t shy away from Sophia, as they did with many other patrons, instead they put on a show every time she wandered the aisles. The unicorns battled, the dragons breathed clouds of fire, the gnomes ordered themselves by height or by color, the birds within the cuckoo clocks sang loud at the top of the hour, and the furniture allowed her to climb on them to reach the topmost shelves. The Woodcarver thought it looked like a pageant, chiding the carvings for their hubris, and yet he always made more carvings to add to the show.

Sophia stayed behind the counter when patrons were in the store, either reading one of the Woodcarver’s books or playing with the carvings. One day, a little over a year after Sophia started coming to the shop, she started asking questions about the carvings.

“How are they alive?” Sophia was behind the desk, lying on a long wooden bench that had hummingbirds and lilies carved into the stained wood. The miniature carvings were playing around her, and she watched with a more inquisitive eye than usual.

“Do you believe in magic, Little Sophia?” The Woodcarver sat with his elbows on his knees, leaning in as if he was sharing the biggest secret in the world. Sophia quickly sat up, entranced by the mention of something mystical.

“Like in fairytales?”

“Exactly like fairytales.” The Woodcarver’s eyes sparkled even in the dim light of the shop. He scooped up a miniature fox that had been bounding in circles around Sophia’s feet. “Every carving is something special. Anyone can carve, but it takes a true carver to put life in them.”

Sophia inched to the edge of the bench. “Even me, Gordon?” she asked, Gordon being her name for him that day; always a reminder of what the Woodcarver forgot.

The Woodcarver passed the fox to Sophia, who accepted it gratefully. She laughed as it jumped and around her on the bench. The Woodcarver handed her a block of wood and sandpaper. She looked at it with confused curiosity that made the Woodcarver’s chest tighten.

Sensing the girl’s confusion, he gave a breathy laugh. “Where did you think the carvings came from? They all started as a block of wood, or even a tree trunk.”

“How am I supposed to carve without a knife?”

“You are too young for sharp carving tools. A true carver doesn’t need anything fancy. The sandpaper will do just fine, maybe it’ll teach you some patience.”

Sophia stuck her tongue out at him, but she slowly started shaving at the block of wood. She made minimal progress over the following weeks, but progress, nonetheless. The Woodcarver would give her tips on how to round a corner, or how to form the head of the bird she was trying to create. He would provide her with more sandpaper when the previous ones ran flat. His workshop was always stocked, and he was more than happy to share with Sophia.

With newly calloused hands and pride shining in her face, Sophia held out her hand with a round, sleeping owl in her palm. Its lines were wobbly, its facial features needed more definition, and it still needed to be painted, but it was alive. The Woodcarver could see its slow, steady breathing as it slept and heard its whistled breaths. Sophia’s smile shined; the gaps now slightly filled in with growing adult teeth. “

I did it, Dimitri,” said Sophia, using the name she thought of for him that day. She passed the owl into his hands, and at the movement, the owl opened its eyes. In a second, it was airborne, hooting and screeching. It didn’t take long for the other f lying creature carvings to join. Ravens cawed, dragons roared, fairies twinkled, and hummingbirds buzzed.

They danced around Sophia, her now shoulder length hair flying around her. The wooden creatures dipped and curved, spinning around her until the Woodcarver could barely see her beyond the wooden cyclone.

He knew he should have felt pride. When he should have congratulated her on her carving, all he felt was dread. He wanted to rip the owl from her hands and trap it in a drawer. The first time since meeting her, all the Woodcarver wanted to do was push her out the front door.

Sophia got older. Her hair went past her shoulders, she grew taller than the Woodcarver, and her hands were rough from carving. Still, she visited the Woodcarver every week with a gift and a guess for his name. The gifts she brought evolved from small trinkets she found in streets or at markets to drawings she made, or carvings she was proud of. Her carvings lived amongst the others, easily f inding friends to sit with on the shelves. When patrons walked in, they would hide underneath the Woodcarver’s desk, not wanting to leave the safe haven of the shop.

The last time Sophia visited the shop, she brought him her newest carving. A ballerina en pointe, her arms forming a halo around her tightly wound hair. She even went as far to paint the dainty ballerina with soft pinks. When Sophia brought her into the shop and set her on the Woodcarver’s desk, the ballerina danced off her stand.

Sophia’s previous carvings gathered to see their new friend. The owl hooted in encouragement, the bunny thumped its hind leg, the chicken squawked, and Jack the unicorn thudded his hoof.

“You don’t look happy,” said Sophia. The Woodcarver watched the ballerina dance on the papers littering his desk, and while he was proud that Sophia had grown so much, there was something nagging at him. A feeling that he couldn’t shake.

“She’s very pretty,” the Woodcarver said. “The others seem to like her.”

Sophia crossed her arms in front of her chest. “But you don’t.”

“I never said that, Little Sophia.”

“You don’t have to. I can see it in your eyes.” Sophia turned her back to him, looking out at the shop. A patron had just left before Sophia walked in and the carvings were excitedly mulling about. The carvings sensed the tension coming from the two and pretended to play amongst themselves. Though, both the Woodcarver and Sophia knew they were terrible gossips listening to every word.

“It is not that I’m not proud.” The Woodcarver leaned forward in his chair, wishing Sophia would look at him. “I can’t explain what I feel when I see you carve. There is a wrongness to it.”

Sophia whipped her head around so fast that her ponytail smacked her face. She ignored it, only focused on what the Woodcarver said to her. Anger and sadness shone in her eyes. The ballerina stopped dancing.

“I know I’ll never be as good as you, Valemon, but—”

Sophia’s words melted away as something pinged in the Woodcarver’s head at the name. A sliver of remembrance, then a wave of fear. His memories began to unravel and he wept. It was his name. His bones rattled. The carvings went still.

Sophia stopped her chiding. She had never seen the Woodcarver cry. She ran behind the desk, putting her hands on his shoulders. She felt them rise and fall with every choking sob. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Please, tell me, what’s wrong?”

The old man opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out other than a strangled sob. He remembered his name. The carvings were louder than ever, and Sophia couldn’t hear herself as she screamed the Woodcarver’s name. She turned and screamed at the carvings to be quiet.

“Run.” The Woodcarver reached for her, forcing her to look at him. “Run.”

Sophia shook her head, her own tears falling down her cheeks. She couldn’t leave him. He screamed at her to go. Got up and pushed her toward the door. With confusion and fear, Sophia flung herself into the door. It didn’t budge.

When she turned back to face the Woodcarver—he was gone. Nothing but a pile of sawdust in the same spot he previously occupied.

The carvings quieted. Sophia sobbed, screaming the Woodcarver’s name. She pushed against the front door. Again and again, she slammed her body against the door. She begged the carvings for help, but they did not help. They sat on their shelves, heads down.

The shop’s front door rang open, signaling that a patron had entered the shop. The Woodcarver raised her head to the sound from behind her desk, reveling in the breeze and commotion from the outside. A skinny, mousey looking man stood at the front of the shop. The Woodcarver gave a short nod in greeting and the man quickly wandered into the aisles.

She returned to her book, her miniature unicorn flipping the pages when needed. He never left her side. Best friends, she called them. The other carvings loved her as well, but she did have a bond with them like she did the unicorn. She didn’t know why, but she appreciated the friendship.

The Woodcarver heard the man’s light steps as he maneuvered the aisles. He was scanning the aisles to the right of her, and she wondered what carvings were presenting themselves. The patrons’ picks always had a way of revealing something about themselves.

The man approached the desk after almost an hour of browsing the shelves. A topless mermaid lounging on a rock was held in his hands. It was one of her favorites. She always loved carving women.

The man placed the carving on the desk, asking how much it was. The Woodcarver responded with the same thing every time.

“What do you have?” she asked.

He fumbled in his pockets for a minute, then moved to look through his backpack. He pulled out a large book that was at least three inches thick. In gold letters it read, Modern Fairytales. The Woodcarver graciously accepted, smiling at the man. Books were her favorite trade.

They had a small conversation while she packaged the mermaid. He made sure to let her know the statue wasn’t for him. His friend’s birthday was coming up and he collected statues. She reassured him that she didn’t care where the statue was going. The carvings knew what was going to happen when they allowed a patron to pick them.

The man asked for her name. When she asked why it was important, he said that he wanted to tell his friend about the beautiful woman that took books for payment.

“Call me whatever you like,” said the Woodcarver. “It doesn’t matter to me.” What she didn’t tell the man was that she didn’t remember her name. She’d lived a long life. It must have gotten lost along the way.