I Would Help You, Too

 I Would Help You , Too
     By Freddy Feltguid

          Trust a blind man to tell you about light. 

A small boy tripped along on his way through the forest to his grandmother’s house. He felt lithesome, but as he continued along he began to feel uneasy. When he got there, having met no one on the walk, he breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door. The moment he did so, a hairy snout and jagged claws lunged and bit at him and bore him down. He struggled and he screamed, the pain of lacerations intense, but encumbered by the basket he carried and by its contents, he could not manage more than a quick chomp on the creature’s leg and a kick at its underside before blackness overcame him. When consciousness returned, he found himself in darkness dank and foul.
     “Hello. Is anyone there?” He called. But no voice answered. He moved a little, since he felt the tightness of his circumstances. His legs appeared stuck in a hole, his arms and hands sloped upwards towards a narrowing of a tube of sorts and his torso sagged upon some wet, rubbery netting.
     “ Gosh! Where on earth am I? he whispered to no one. He punched and screamed suddenly with what force he could muster. All muffled, all mute, little distance achieved. Little force effected! Oh what misery to be attacked and left for dead inside a watery bag! The boy began to cry. He seldom cried, but on this occasion, the thought of this unfair treatment more than his bodily discomfort brought tears to his eyes and sobs to his chest.
     “I am only 12,” he thought, “and much too young to die! I wish to travel, to see India and Sanziban, I wish to be kissed for the first time by someone I love (and here he sobbed with renewed intensity). And I need so much once in my life to live in my own room unshared by a sister or brother!” Having articulated to himself these sad sentiments, the small one let go of his self control altogether and wailed till the heavens themselves began to shush him, though he heard the angels not.
    Nearby, in the deep and heavy woods, a brave, strong axeman wielded her blade in her lonely labours. She whistled and sang, for she loved this life, solitary, quiet, productive and slaking as it was. She arrived with sharpened axe each morning and honed it back to a bright edge at night when wood had made it pay the price. Cutting into a large birch, this young labourer thought she heard the tree call out for help. She stopped the second swing of her blade just in time and stood there perplexed. She listened. Feeling sheepish, she asked the tree if it was sensate, but it answered her not. She waited, sure that she had heard something and then, to her satisfaction, the muffled  call came again.
     “Help! Help, help, help!“ she heard again and again. Feeling sure that somewhere close to her an individual languished and lay in great pain, she put down her ax and cupped her hands, calling in return.
     “Are you hurt? Do you need assistance?” She paused. The calling had stopped. Then it rose again with great intensity.
    “I am here, inside something!” the small thin voice  came to her, as if from the ground itself. She shivered. What if a wraith? What if ghosts? But she bit back her fears and did not run away.
      Again the voice resumed, answering her second question. “I am hurt, yes! My abdomen seems to have taken some injury and bleeds, I think, since all is dark as pitch in here. My shoulder on the left side hangs useless and I have a feeling that my face is badly cut! Other locations and types of my wounds I decline to name or describe! Also, I am lying in some sort of disgusting filth!”
     The woodcutter stood enchanted. The voice soothed her, though it made her fearful for its proprietor. The white birch by her side seemed as bent on hearing each word as she, and it leaned in the direction of the quiet enunciations.
     “Do you need my help?“ She called in her loudest voice. She knew the answer and leapt into action even before the other could respond. She beat the bushes about her and soon discovered, lying there in the gorse behind some shrubbery in profound sleep, smiling, at peace with himself now his stomach did not growl any  more, a wolf or huge grey proportions. 
     “I hear your approach, your footsteps resound here. You must be nearby,” the distant voice called. Then the woodcutter knew, and in an instant had severed the head from the body of the dangerous beast. She reached down its gullet, blood, filth and gore rinsing her fumbling hand. She felt a foot! She knew she had found the source. She reached further until she found some purchase and then, with her large hand firmly grasping whatever it was of him that let her hold on, she slowly extracted the boy through the slipperiness till he lay there before her, breathing heavily, overcome by sensations of light and air. 
     Thank you!” He spoke, finally, when he could breathe again. “It was a wolf I was inside, then?” he asked, staring at the severed head. Then recovering his equanimity, he added, “If ever you were eaten by such a beast, I would do the same for you. I would not hesitate to slap him and punch him and free you from his digestive grasp.” So saying, he straightened his clothing and, waving to the astounded woodcutter, jogged home to his supper.