The Rotten Axe Handle

In a small village in the north of Korea, the old people still tell of a woodcutter who long ago carried his axe up the mountain and never came back. The story begins on a very ordinary morning.

The woodcutter's name was Keel Wee. His family kept a big ox, as gentle as the earth itself. Every day he cut wood on the mountain, and on market day the ox carried it down to the main street of the village to sell. The market met once every five days. The firewood was piled higher than the ox's head and tied down with a tangle of ropes. From a distance, all anyone could see were four legs trotting along under a heap of dry branches that seemed to walk by itself.

The ox had been brought home when it was only a week old. It grew up with the children of the house, and the children played with it just as they would with a big dog.

That morning the woodcutter left the ox at home. He meant to go up the mountain and cut a pile of wood ahead of time, then bring the ox up on another day to carry it down. His wife stood at the door and called after him. He must remember to be home in time for supper, she said, because their eldest son had gone fishing early that morning and was sure to bring back a string of perch.

He swung the axe onto his shoulder and followed the footpath. It was a long walk. The forest around the village had been cut bare long ago, so every year the woodcutters had to walk a little farther to find wood.

When he reached a clearing, he set down his axe. He was about to take off his wide-brimmed hat and his outer coat and get to work. But as soon as he looked up, he saw two men sitting a little way off.

Both had long hair, and their faces looked very wise. Their clothes were cut in a fashion so old that he had never seen anyone wear such things. They sat on two flat stones. Between them lay a Go board, with black and white pieces spread across it in the middle of a game. Korean legend calls them the two mountain immortals.

He crept closer and stood off to one side, as was only polite. The two immortals did not seem bothered by a stranger. One of them even narrowed his eyes a little, as if to say he was welcome to stay and watch.

Invited like that, the woodcutter felt quietly happy. He rested his chin on the handle of his axe, wrapped both hands around it, and began to watch. The longer he watched, the more the game drew him in. One move blocked another. As soon as one corner of the board settled down, trouble broke out in another.

After a while he forgot who he was. He saw a brilliant move that the immortal on the right had missed, and without thinking he reached out to pick up a piece for him. The immortal sitting nearest rapped his fingers with a sharp crack and pushed his hand away.

Then, without a word of scolding, the immortal took a small thing from his pouch. It was round and flat, exactly like a persimmon seed, and he placed it in the woodcutter's mouth. From that moment on, all three of them were silent.

The game went on. The woodcutter did not blink. Several times he wanted to cry out and point out a move, but his tongue went stiff and would not make a sound. He felt as if he were inside a dream. And he did not want to wake up, either, because he had to see who would win.

There was just one thing he forgot. Up on the mountain, where the immortals lived, there was no morning and no night. There were no hours, no bells, no drums beating out the watches of the night. He did not feel hungry. He did not notice the sun going down or the stars coming out. He only looked at the board.

Then something gave way, very softly. The axe handle under his chin suddenly crumbled into dust. With nothing to lean on, his head dropped and his whole body pitched forward, overturning the board. The round pieces rolled away in every direction across the ground.

He scrambled up, his face burning with shame. He was ready to put his palms together and beg pardon for ruining their game, and he braced himself for a good scolding. But when he looked up, there was no one there.

There were no immortals. There was no board. There was not a single piece left. Nothing showed that anyone had been sitting there a moment before. Only the two flat stones remained. He laid his hand on the stones, and they were still warm.

By this point the story has given its secret away. The woodcutter, though, had not understood it yet.

He looked down at his hands. His fingernails had grown long and curved, like the claws of a bird. His clothes hung in rags. His straw sandals were gone. Then there was his wide-brimmed farmer's hat, a hat that could hold a whole basket of radishes when it was turned upside down. Now only a few bare strips were left inside its frame. The rest had rotted away long ago.

The iron head of the axe was still lying there. It was red with rust and sunk halfway into the ground.

He raised a hand to his chin. On the morning he left, his face had been freshly shaved and smooth. Now a long white beard hung from his chin down over his chest. The topknot on his head had come untied, and his hair fell loose and long down his back. That hair had turned white.

His joints had gone stiff, and his arms and legs were as heavy as an old man's. Step by careful step, he made his way down the mountain.

The mountain stood where it always had. The stream ran where it always had. He still knew some of the rocks beside the path by sight. But when the road came out onto the main street of the village, he stopped short.

The houses were not houses he knew. The shops were not shops he knew. He walked the whole length of the street without meeting a single familiar face. No one greeted him. The children saw an old man with long white hair hanging loose and clothes in tatters, dragging himself along on a stick. They stopped to stare after him, and some of them laughed. A few big dogs set up a loud barking.

He wanted to ask someone. But his mouth still would not open.

In the middle of the street, a dignified old gentleman came walking toward him. He wore a loose white robe and a black hat with a wide brim. The woodcutter bowed low before him, so low that his head nearly touched the ground. As he bent down, the little seed fell out of his mouth and rolled away along the road. His tongue loosened. He could speak.

He asked the old gentleman where the hut of his wife and children stood now, and he gave his name, Keel Wee.

The old gentleman looked at him for a long time, from his beard down to his bare feet, as if to see whether this stranger was playing a trick on him. At last he spoke, his voice suddenly much quieter. He said the woodcutter talked the way people in these parts had talked 500 years ago.

The old gentleman went on. Yes, that family had really existed. Long ago this village had a woodcutter who carried his axe up the mountain one day and never came back. His wife and children waited and waited. After that, the family went on for ten generations or more, all growing up right here in this village. But that was very old news now, so old that it was only a tale old people told to children.

The woodcutter stood still in the middle of the street, listening to someone tell him his own story.

From then on, the people of that village went on telling the story, and it always began just as before: long ago, our village had a woodcutter who carried his axe up the mountain and never came back. There was only one difference. Now the people telling it knew where he had gone.

And up on the mountain, by those two flat stones, there is still no morning and no night. Whether the stones are still warm or have gone cold, only a hand laid on them could tell.