The woodcutter’s mother died after a long illness and left him a little money. Shortly after, the woodcutter’s childhood sweetheart, whom he loved despite her vanity and selfish ways, decided she was no longer disgusted by his scars or one-handedness and agreed to marry him. She and the cat did not get along. It was always hissing and scratching her, and if she left any knitting around, it undid every stitch. Eventually, the cat drove the woman mad, and she ran back to her own village, where she hid at her parents’ home and refused to speak to her husband.
The woodcutter was so enraged that he picked up his rifle and chased the cat into the forest, where he shot it. The next morning, though, he awoke to find the cat at the foot of his bed, watching him.
The woodcutter realized that something drastic had to be done. He took his axe and went into the woods, pretending to go about his usual business. The cat followed him, as it always did, purring. Once the woodcutter had reached a quiet spot, he split the cat in two with his axe.
The next morning, there was no cat watching him from the foot of the bed. Feeling pleased with himself, the woodcutter took up his axe and travelled along the path that was sometimes there and sometimes not. He planned to destroy the faerie tree, just as the Folk had destroyed his happiness. But no sooner had his first stroke resounded through the woods than he heard music in the distance. It was not the song of the simple Folk who dwelt in the tree, but the music of the tall ones, and they were calling him. Terrified, the woodcutter tried to stop his ears, and then he grabbed hold of the tree like a drowning man, even as his feet started to move towards the song.
At that moment, the white cat stepped out of the shadow of the tree. The cat told him that it had protected him all along. When the woodcutter’s brother, tired of charity, had poisoned his food, the cat had eaten it. When the woodcutter’s wife had taken the woodcutter’s money in secret and gambled it away, the cat had chased her out of the house. And every time the woodcutter had gone into the woods, the cat had protected him from the tall ones, muffling their song with its purring. But now the cat was dead, and it could no longer protect him.
The woodcutter was never heard from again. Though the faerie tree still stands, the path that is sometimes there and sometimes not has closed to mortals, and it may never be found again.
The Tree’s Bones
A successful whaler lived alone at the edge of a bay. Much of his success came from his fjolskylda,[*] who had sworn to protect him from the tall ones and other wicked faeries in exchange for habitation of his house during the new moon. The whaler found this an advantageous bargain, for he needed to travel to town once a month anyway to sell his catch.
The whaler’s path into town ran through a forest inhabited by a great many Folk, who never gave him a lick of trouble. One day, though, as he neared the halfway point of his journey, he came upon a strange white wolf, larger than any he had ever seen, standing in his path. The wolf gave a howl, and more wolves appeared, each one larger than the last. Terrified, the whaler mounted his horse and fled back home. He was so afraid that he forgot all about his bargain with his fjolskylda and ran inside just as they were sitting down to dinner at his table. Instantly, the faeries vanished. From the shadows, a voice scolded him: “Never again will we dine here, and never again will you have our protection. You need not have run from the wolves, and thus you have betrayed us twice over—in distrusting our promise to you, and interrupting a fine banquet.”
The whaler cursed his mistake. He delayed his next visit into town, and delayed it again, until he had to choose between taking the forest path and starvation. So, he set off along the path, full of weariness and worry, and sure enough, as he neared the halfway point, he met the white wolves again. This time, they chased him into the forest along a faerie path until they came to a huge tree. Its bark was as white as the wolves, and it was fat with blossoms and green leaves, though it was then nearing the start of winter.
The whaler gave a cry. Hanging from the branches was a gruesome assembly of corpses—the skeletons of other travellers, as well as animals and birds. The wolves threw off their wolf skins, revealing themselves as Folk, and commanded the whaler to bring them the bones of his next catch.
The whaler went away weeping. He knew that the faeries must have some terrible reason for what they were doing, but without his fjolskylda, he was powerless to deny them.
The next month, he brought them the bones of three whales. The faeries strung them up in the tree beside the other bones. The whaler noticed that the faeries hung the bones on one side of the tree only. When the whale bones had been hung, the tree gave a tremendous groan and leaned a little to the north. The faeries ordered the whaler to bring them the bones of his next catch.
The next month, the whaler brought the faeries the bones of four whales. These they hung from the tree, and when they did, the tree gave another groan, and leaned farther to the north. The whaler grew afraid. He realized that this tree must be the gaol of the faerie king, who had gone mad many years ago and been locked away by his subjects. The faeries ordered the whaler to bring them the bones of his next catch.
The whaler begged his fjolskylda for help, but none would heed him—none except the most elderly among them, a faerie woman whose head came up only to the whaler’s belt, who had grizzled hair so long it trailed behind her and gathered all manner of leaves and mud. The faerie promised to help him only if he agreed to marry her. The whaler shuddered in disgust, but he gave his word nevertheless, for he feared the mad faerie king above all else, and knew there would be great woe throughout Ljosland if he were allowed to escape.
The faerie took the whaler to her family graveyard, where they dug up the bones of the dead. Then they snuck through the forest to the white tree and buried the bones under the boughs. The next month, the whaler brought the faeries the bones of seven whales. As before, they hung them from the white tree, but this time, the tree gave no groan, nor did it move. Furious, the faeries ordered the whaler to bring them the bones of his next catch, as well as the bones of the whaler’s horse.
The next month, the whaler brought them the bones of ten whales, as well as the bones of one of the faerie horses buried in the graveyard. The faeries hung them from the tree, but again, the tree neither moved nor spoke. The faeries turned on the whaler, convinced that trickery was afoot, but before they could reach him, the bones of the dead horse gave a whinny. The skeletal hands of the dead faeries rose up out of the dirt and strangled the servants of the wicked king. They had been holding on to the roots of the white tree, preventing it from falling over and releasing the king from his prison. The whaler, much relieved, hung the dead bodies of the king’s servants from the south side of the tree.
The whaler married his faerie bride, and though she remained as shrivelled and unlovely as ever, the whaler never broke his vow to his wife, and she rewarded him with three strong children who drew whales out of the deeps with their beautiful singing. And the whaler died an old, rich man, quite content.
The Ivory Tree
（NB: I include this particular story in part because it falls outside the usual patterns. I hypothesize that it has either been purposely truncated or is so new that it has not yet been worn and smoothed into a more pleasing shape.）