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Your wood? ”
    â€œMy wood,” I said. “I own this land. I cut down the tree. I bucked it. I hauled it out and split it for the winter. My wood.” It was, I thought, an argument that would stand up well in any court of law, but the only judge or jury in the clearing that night was the bright, silent moon, and the goblin just made a sound like a growl in his scrawny throat.
    â€œKillin’ a thing,” he declared, “don’t make it yours.”
    â€œIt was dying already,” I protested.
    â€œSo’re you !” he said, stabbing a finger at me. “Doesn’t mean I come in yer house at night to chop you down.”
    I frowned, suddenly all turned around by the strange conversation. “Are you claiming that the tree is yours?”
    â€œWhat I’m claimin’ is that the tree matters more to them that’s buried beneath it than it ever did ta you.”
    I blinked. “There’s a body…”
    â€œTwo of ’em,” he snapped impatiently. “They courted beneath the beech as kids, made half their babies here, said everything that needed sayin’ to each other under the old branches, and they’re buried…” he stabbed a stick straight down, gouging at the frozen ground, “… right here. The tree is theirs , even if it’s dead. Even if it’s all chopped up. And it ain’t your place to go stealin’ the fire.”
    â€œBut they’re dead, too,” I said, unsettled to discover these unmarked graves in the middle of my land.
    â€œAnd ya think the dead don’t wanna be warm?” He raised the thicket of his brows in disbelief.
    I stared at him, then shook my head. “Why do you care?”
    He looked at me a while, then back to the pile of wood he’d made. “I liked the way she sang,” he muttered, “when she was in the fields. She sang even when she was alone, like she knew I was there. And him.” He nodded at the memory. “When he went out with a bucket for berries, he always left a bush unpicked. For the birds , he said, but I figured he meant me.”
    Then he was quiet for a long time. We both were, just sitting there like we’d known each other all our lives, like I hadn’t just caught him stealing from my pile. The ground looked so cold.
    â€œAll right,” I said finally. “I’ll help you haul the rest of the wood.”
    It took most of the night, and both of us were wiped when we finished. The pile was pretty haphazard, but it was good wood, that old beech, and it was dry. I only had to light one match and it went up like kindling. We sat on the stump—it was wide enough to hold the both of us—and watched the sparks fly up, small as the stars, but hot enough to burn.
    â€œWhat were their names?” I asked, gazing into the fire.
    â€œLeave the names alone,” the goblin snapped.
    I turned to him, taken aback. “I thought I might place a gravestone here, now that the tree is gone.”
    â€œWhadda they need a gravestone for?” He gestured with a gnarled hand. “They got a fire.”
    â€œBut a fire…” I said, shaking my head. “It’s so short.”
    He looked at me, then held his twiggy hands out to the flame. “But it’s warm.”

 
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Copyright @ 2015 by Brian Staveley
    Art copyright @ 2015 by John Jude Palencar