Above the Cerulean City, somewhere in the night sky, in a cloud hut, a winged baby took a sip of his morning juice and rubbed his five o'clock shadow. The Cherub counted the seconds as the fat glowing man, called Shawn, rose to sit in his moon chair and began to watch his favorite show: life. As Shawn's belly button began to rise in the horizon, the Cherub began to signal his daily alarms. First he woke the high-society types on his list: dukes and duchesses and what have you. Then he signaled the middle class: artisans, loggers, farmers, and whoever else picked up an apprenticeship before their sixteenth birthday. The last of his alarms were for the government workers that were legally obligated to wake up for work: royal advisers, jesters, garbage men, lawyers, service men, and, of course, the Woodsmen.

The Woodsman woke in his tiny house, after and hit the snooze button. He rose from his hay stuffed bed, stretched and yawned. The bed was uncomfortable, but not as back-aching as a cave floor. Old memories of cold nights in the mines of the northern mountains wafted across his memory. He was grateful he grew past the height of dwarf and could legally get another job. Not that the life of a Woodsman was much better.

He dressed himself in wool button up onesie and the overalls he was given on his last birthday by his Head Watchmen. Then he grabbed his big bucket and went out into the barren work field and walked to the Ever Tree outside on the other side. He pulled his magical golden ax out of the side of the ten foot tree, and instantly the wedge started to close. The ax made the Woodsman feel strong, like a young man again, and with this strength he chopped down freshly a grown Ever Tree so it wouldn’t grow again until midnight. The stump was flat and even, a perfect cut. He placed his bucket next the stump then carried the tree trunk over to the burn rune inscribed on the middle of the work field, then chopped of what he wanted to use for his hobbies and burned the rest. The Woodsman smiled, the remaining word would be more than enough for him to finish his latest project, and then he sat on the stump and waited for the daily delivery.

While he sat, he dreamed of the old days, back when most Woodsmen weren’t automated tin monstrosities, when Woodsmen defended little girls from the things that go bump in the night, when grandmothers could magically be cut out of a Big Bad Wolf’s gut without being digested in the stomach acid. He sighed. That was before the High Council of Wizards, back when Good Witch’s floated in their bubbles above us all, back when the king had a brain, when there were actual monsters, not misunderstood creatures of the dark, and Munchkins weren’t unionized. Before even this Woodsman existed, what could it hurt to dream of better days? The Woodsman knew there was power in dreams, but not his dreams, those never mattered to anyone.

The Woodsman watched the delivery truck coming down the brick road and stop at the end of his driveway. The winged delivery Gorillas floated, out and carried a large cage filled with young witches. The Gorillas were the usual guys, Carl and Steve, the Woodsman shook Carl’s paw and signed for the delivery, keeping his eyes away from Steve. Steve and the Woodsman had an argument the last time they played Tarot cards, Steve accused him of hiding the Tower card and the derogatory term “monkey” may have been used. The delivery today was small, only thirteen witches of varying colors to take care of. As Carl and Steve drove off the Woodsman grabbed the first unconscious green-skinned Witch from the magically sealed cage and headed toward the stump of the Ever Tree.

At the touch of the Woodsman’s hand on her collar she awoke from her spellbound slumber and began cursing. Thankfully the Witch’s magic wasn’t active so none of the curses took effect. Then the Witch tried to persuade the Woodsman with tempting promises of power and servitude and anything else the childlike demon could think of. Thankfully this Woodsman is used to a Witch’s persuasion after years of service, and he ignored her words. He laid the little green witch’s head down on the Ever Tree stump and the creature was held there by the Ever Tree’s magic. So the Woodsman lifted his axe high into the sunrise and swung down with all his might, chopping off the Witch’s head.

“Die,” The Witch yelled.

The body vanished into a cloud of black ash, and the Witch’s head fell into the bucket next to the stump. The head complained in the bucket, cursing even more than before, but it was too late now this head and the other twelve like it would be taken to the King’s City, to be used as seers by the King’s head advisor. So the Woodsman did his duty eleven more times that day. He chopped off the heads of red, blue, purple, and even some actual human colored Witches. As he worked he thought of how he would use the leftover wood, listing several ideas

The last one, the thirteenth Witch, was one of the most human looking ones, no beady black eyes, fangs, or anything else that outwardly tells you this person is a witch. She didn’t struggle in his grip like the other eleven, didn’t beg for mercy or try to persuade the Woodsman she just looked like a scared little girl. The pity ploy, a few Witches tried it every now and then, trying to touch the Woodsman’s sympathetic side. Something was different this time, a feeling came from deep in the Woodsman’s gut. Hunger? He didn’t eat breakfast this morning. No, well whatever, the Woodsman laid the thirteenth witch on the Ever Tree Stump and raised the golden axe high toward the sun and swings…

“I’m sorry,” The Witch said.

The golden axe was less than a centimeter from the little Witch’s neck. The Woodsman stopped, staring at the little Witch in disbelief. For a moment he thought he should just chop off her head anyway, a Tin Woodsman would, but that was wrong and he knew it.

“Well, I’ll be,” The Woodsman stood and scratched his chin. “It’s a Good Witch.”

Questions filled the Woodsman’s mind. Questions like: How is this possible? What do I do now? What should I have for Lunch? Before acting on any of these questions he releases the now crying girl from the Ever Tree stump and carrying her gently back to his hut.

“Why are you sparing me?” The Good Witch asked between cries.

“Oh,” The Woodsman said. “Bad witches don’t apologize.” 

So the Woodsman took the little Good Witch inside and shared his food with her, then he sent word to his Head Watchman who will send word to the Council of Wizards, and he would hear back in a day or two. In the mean-time there are more pressing matters to attend to. There has not been a Good Witch in this land for five hundred years. What does this mean?

“Well,” The Woodsman said mostly to himself. “Better start the paper work.”