A young boy slowly hiked through the dark forest, the wind blew so cold it felt as though his very bones would freeze. Shadows of dancing tree limbs frightened the boy and the sounds of the night in the forest terrified him. The heavy rain and howling winds slammed into him, threatening to toss him off of the dirt path. The boy stumbled on, squinting through the dark to see the dim path ahead of him, wishing he was home, wishing he was anywhere but here.

The young boy set out on a journey to visit the Monster of the Woods. As he neared his destination, he became less and less aware of the rain and wind, their importance paling beside the fear welling up inside him. He grew up hearing tales about the Monster of the Woods, of his evilness, of the horrors that befall those who anger him. It’s madness to willingly go to him, but he have no choice. The young boy needed his help.

After what seemed like an eternity, the young boy came to a small clearing. In the center of the clearing stood a small shack, it was barely visible in the stormy night. Soaked to the bone with rain and exhaustion, the young boy slowly walked to the shack. As he got closer and closer, he started to hear the thump-thump-thumping of his heart, its steady beat carrying over the howling winds. The young boy begins to feel sick and his hands tremble with fear.

Then, almost without realizing it, he finds himself by the door.

He took a breath—a shaking, shuddering breath—and raised his hand to knock.

The young boy knocked a few times, hard and loud, before he heard movement in the shack. There is the creaking of a chair, then the sound of something crashing to the ground, and then footsteps slowly approached the door. With a loud squeek, the door swings open.

The old Jewish man looked at the young boy, straining to see him through the rain and wind. He was bent and older than the forest, this Monster of the Woods, The young boy saw that the old man’s eyes were bright, cunning and shrewd, reflecting the evil of his race.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

The young man swallowed. He needed this Jewish man, need what he knew, but he was still afraid. His words tumble over each other, coming out wrong and confused. The young boy stammers, “Medicine. I need medicine. I mean, my father does. He’s sick, you see, and the doctors don’t know how to help him. And you do. That is, I heard that you know medicines—herbs and such? And that I can describe the illness to you and you can cure it? I have money, too. To pay. For the medicine.”

The old Jewish man looked at the young boy. “Well. You’d better come in, then.” He said as he invited the young boy into his very small home.

The young boy filled with fear realizes that he doesn’t want to enter the Monster’s house—a thousand stories detail the dangers to be met, but what could he do? He’s already walked into his house. Plus, the young boy was so cold he had forgotten what warm feels like, and in the corner of the shack he could see a fire.

He slowly took off his coat and laid it over a stool. The young boy hurried over to the fire, crouching low and letting out a satisfied sigh as its heat spreads over him. The old Jewish man walked over and handed him a cup of steaming tea, which the young boy slowly sipped.

Old Jewish man sat down on a stool across from the young boy and said, “So. Start from the beginning. Describe your father’s illness.”

The young boy gave as much information as he could, having made sure to memorize every detail of it. When he was done, the Jewish man looked at him strangely.

“You’re John, right? Paul’s son?”

The young boy feels a stab of terror pierce his heart. “What of it?” He responded as he slowly bent his knees, so could jump up if he had to run.

“What of it?” The old Jewish man shrugs. “Nothing. I remember you, is all. I used to live in the town, years ago. Before they realized the gold mine in their midst—before they realized that they could blame any vices they have on the ‘evil Jews’ and avoid having to take responsibility for their own actions. Anyway, back then, I used to see you around, sometimes. You’re taller now, but I recognize you.”

For the first time, the young boy’s fear overpowered his anger. “Oh, that’s clever. Pretending that you’re the victim. I know what you are; everyone does. You’re the Monster of the Woods.”

The old Jewish man smiled, an odd, sad grin, and for a moment the young boy caught a glimpse of an immeasurable grief and pain in that smile. “Ah, yes. How could I forget? I am the terrible Monster, tricking his visitors and stealing their wealth.” He spreads his arms wide. “Can you not see it—the gold and silver lining my walls? This beautiful throne of diamonds I sit on? Look how majestically I live. Yes, I must be a terrible bandit—a monster, indeed.”

With his anger growing, the young boy answered, “Well, of course you don’t show it. If you lived in splendor, you wouldn’t be able to rob people. You need to appear poor to get them off their guard. When I leave, I’m sure you’ll revert to your true form.”

The old Jewish man responded, “Ah, yes. That is clearly the most logical explanation.” He applauded, slowly. “Well done, John, son of Paul. You have seen to the heart of my nature.”

The young boy glared at him, angry at being mocked, was ready to argue. Before the young boy could speak, the old Jewish man wearily raised a hand, “No, don’t. I’m not interested in arguing with you.” He walked over to a trunk by the wall and started pulling out herbs. As he sorted through them, he speaks over his shoulder. “Do you know why they call me a monster? It’s not because I’m dangerous or particularly frightening. No, I’m a monster because I’m something far worse. I’m different.”

The old Jewish man handed the young boy a packet. “Here—the medicine for your father. I’ve included instructions as to how he should take them. If he follows them, he should heal fairly quickly.”

The young man took them wordlessly and stood to leave. As he reached the door, he turned back to face the old Jewish man and asked, “If it’s so hard for you, why don’t you be like everyone else?”

The Monster of the Woods smiled. “How was the trek on the way here?”

“Difficult. I could barely see the path, and the winds kept trying to blow me off the path into the woods.”

He nodded. “You could have just walked off into the forest. Abandoned the path, stopped struggling through the winds and given up. The trees would have sheltered you; you would have had no need for light without a path. But you didn’t. Because you’d never have found your way here without the path to guide you.

“I could give it up. Live in the forest, be comfortable in this world. But then I’d have to give up my path, my difficult path through the forest. And what would be the point, then? What’s the point of entering the forest if you won’t walk the right path?”

May all your tales end with Shalom (peace)

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Tell it to your children, and let your children tell it to their children, and their children to the next generation. (Joel 1:3)

Rachmiel Tobesman is a motivational speaker and Maggid (spiritual Storyteller). He is available for speaking engagements or storytelling, Click here to contact us

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