Chapter I: The Dawn of a Humble Soul
When the morning sun began to stir from its celestial slumber, casting the first golden threads of light across the awakening world, Old Jalal the woodsman had already outpaced the dawn. He arose from his coarse, straw-fretted bed, moving quietly so as not to wake his wife and their four young children. The air in their small, weathered hut was thick with the scent of pine and the peaceful rhythm of breathing.
Jalal stepped outside, the cool air of the valley greeting his weathered face. He made his way to the nearby river, where the water ran clear and biting cold. As he splashed the pristine current onto his face, he felt the vitality of the earth surge through him. Returning to his hut, he gathered his essentials: his trusty, razor-sharp axe, a few morsels of dry bread, and a small wedge of cheese—a humble meal for a man whose labor fed many fires but rarely his own belly.
Every day followed the same arduous yet disciplined rhythm. Jalal would trek into the dense, emerald heart of the forest, his axe ringing against the timber until the sun reached its zenith and began its descent. By evening, he would have gathered a mountain of wood, neatly stacked upon a small, rickety wooden cart pulled by a lean, weary horse belonging to his neighbor. In the neighboring city’s bustling market, he would sell his harvest to the wood merchants. After paying his neighbor for the cart and horse, the remaining coins—barely enough to sustain his family—were spent on flour and basic provisions.
Despite his poverty, Jalal was a man of profound gratitude. He never grumbled against the weight of his burdens. Instead, he would look toward the heavens and whisper, "I thank You, my Creator, for the health You have bestowed upon me. Without this strength, my hands could not work, and my children would know the cruelty of hunger." ---
Chapter II: The Shadow of the Gray Cottage
One particular morning, as Jalal set out with his axe balanced upon his shoulder, he passed a structure that seemed to belong to another world. It was a small, ash-colored wooden house, shrouded in an aura of profound melancholy. The garden surrounding it was a wasteland; no flowers bloomed there, no green shoots dared to pierce the dry earth. Above the soot-colored roof, two black ravens circled in a perpetual, rhythmic patrol, their shadows dancing over the gray timber like dark omens.
From a narrow, grime-streaked window, a face peered out. It was a woman, her skin mapped with wrinkles that suggested she had seen well over a hundred winters. She sat there from the first light of dawn until the dying embers of sunset, a silent sentinel of the passage of time. Her eyes were the only part of her that moved—sharp, piercing, and unblinking. No one in the village had ever seen her eat or drink; she appeared more like a fixture of the house itself than a living being.
This was the village witch. In the days of old, she had been a pillar of the community, a "white witch" who used her mystic arts to heal the sick, bless the harvests, and guide the lost. But as the centuries weighed down upon her and her magic grew faint with age, the villagers—fickle in their gratitude—had abandoned her. Fear replaced respect, and isolation became her only companion. No one visited her; no one brought her the gifts of honey or bread they once offered in exchange for her charms.
As Jalal approached, he did not turn his head in fear as others did. He stopped, offered a warm smile, and called out, "Good morning to you, Mother."
The old woman tilted her head slightly, a gesture so subtle it was almost imperceptible. She did not speak; indeed, it was rumored she had lost the gift of speech decades ago.
"Do you require anything today, kind lady?" Jalal asked, his voice steady and sincere. "A bit of fresh water? A warm meal? Tell me, and I shall fetch it."
Jalal owed her nothing. Unlike the wealthy merchants or the village elders who had flourished under her past protections, he was a newcomer to the hardships of this land. Yet, he saw not a witch, but a lonely soul. The old woman shook her head in a slow, mournful "no."
Unfazed, Jalal spent a few moments clearing the dead leaves and brambles from her porch—the only service his poverty allowed him to give. At the end of every day, he would leave a small bundle of his finest wood at her doorstep. "For your hearth, Mother," he would say. "The night air grows treacherous and cold." Every morning, the wood was gone, though the cottage never showed the smoke of a fire. Jalal never questioned it; he simply continued his silent mission of mercy.
Chapter III: A Voice from the Vault of Time
One evening, after a particularly grueling day of felling oaks, Jalal placed the usual bundle of wood at the witch’s door. He turned to leave when a sound froze him in his tracks.
It was a voice—hollow, resonant, and grating, like stones grinding together in a deep, subterranean vault.
"Woodsman..."
Jalal spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs. There was no one there but the old woman at her window. Her lips had moved. For the first time in an age, the silence of the gray house had been broken.
"When I depart from this world," she continued, her gaze locked onto his, "I bequeath to you a gift. It is everything I possess, for you are the only one who saw the person behind the shadow."
Jalal was struck with a profound sense of humility. "I deserve no reward, Mother. To help is its own payment. I seek no gold for a few sticks of wood."
But before he could finish, the old woman vanished from the window, retreating into the darkness of her home as if she had exhausted her soul’s reserve of energy. Jalal returned home that night, his mind a whirlpool of confusion. He lay awake, watching the moonlight crawl across the floor of his hut, wondering what a woman who lived in such squalor could possibly have to give.
Chapter IV: The Secret of the Hilltop
The following morning, a heavy silence hung over the village. When Jalal reached the gray cottage, his heart sank. The window was empty. The ravens were not circling; they sat perched on the roof, emitting low, mournful croaks. Even the owls, usually hidden by day, hooted from the eaves with a chilling, rhythmic intensity.
Sensing a great loss, Jalal pushed open the creaking door. The interior was dim and smelled of dry herbs and ancient dust. In the center of the room sat a young woman, perhaps twenty years of age, her face buried in her hands as she wept.
"Who are you?" Jalal gasped. "And where is the old mistress of this house?"
The girl looked up, her eyes wide and shimmering with tears. "She is gone," she sobbed. "The kind lady has passed into the Great Silence."
"But where is her body?" Jalal asked, looking around the empty room.
"She told me once," the girl replied, wiping her cheeks, "that when the day came that she did not appear at her window, I was to know she had found her rest. She is already buried in the great tomb atop the Distant Hill—the tomb she built with her own magic from the wood provided by a kind-hearted woodsman."
Jalal stood paralyzed. The Distant Hill was a journey of days, and the tomb was a legend of architecture. How could his small bundles of wood have built such a monument? And how had she reached it in her final moments? He realized then that her "weakness" had been a choice, a veil she wore to see who would remain kind when she had nothing left to offer.
The girl introduced herself as Qamar al-Zaman, the orphaned niece of the city’s High Judge. She explained that she had been secretly visiting the witch for years, bringing her scraps of food and cleaning her home in secret, fearing the wrath of her cruel aunt and her cousin, Wardshan.
As Qamar al-Zaman fled back to the city to avoid being missed, Jalal looked around the room. He remembered the witch’s promise.
Chapter V: The Mirror in the Dust
Searching the near-empty house, Jalal found nothing of value—only broken chairs and cobwebs. But in a dark corner of the back room, he discovered a small, blackened chest. Inside was a bizarre collection: the skeleton of a fish, a monkey’s skull, a tiny glove made of squirrel fur, and a stuffed hedgehog.
"Is this her 'everything'?" Jalal whispered, almost laughing at the absurdity.
But at the very bottom, beneath a layer of dried leaves and broken glass, he felt something cold and smooth. He pulled it out: a large mirror with a tarnished, golden frame. It was caked in layers of filth. He wiped a small patch clean, but the room was too dark to see his reflection.
"I will take this to my wife," he decided. "She has never owned a mirror in all her years. Even if it is just glass, it will be a treasure to her."
That evening, in the flickering light of their single candle, Jalal presented the gift. His wife, a woman worn by toil and sun, took the mirror with trembling hands. As she wiped away the remaining dust and looked into the glass, she let out a piercing scream of shock.
"Jalal! Look! Look at my face!"
Jalal leaned over her shoulder. What he saw defied the laws of nature. In the mirror, his wife’s tired, sunken eyes were transformed into brilliant, wide orbs like polished pearls. Her skin was smooth and radiant, her coarse hair fell in silken waves, and her smile was that of a queen.
Jalal grabbed the mirror, turning it toward himself. He saw a man with a groomed, lustrous mustache, eyes sparking with the fire of youth, and skin as clear as a nobleman’s.
"It is a Magic Mirror!" his wife cried. "It beautifies everything it reflects! It turns our poverty into splendor!"
Chapter VI: The Price of Vanity
News of the "Woodsman’s Mirror" spread like wildfire. Jalal’s wife, driven by a sudden hunger for the life they had never known, convinced him to take the mirror to the city market.
"People love to see themselves as they wish they were," she argued. "They will pay gold just to glimpse a version of themselves that is perfect."
She was right. Within days, the woodsman was no longer a woodsman. Lines of people stretched for miles, throwing coins and jewels at Jalal’s feet just for a few seconds in front of the glass. The mirror showed the baker as a scholar, the beggar as a prince, and the scarred soldier as a pristine hero. Jalal became the wealthiest man in the region, but his heart grew heavy as he watched the vanity of the world unfold before him.
Meanwhile, in the house of the High Judge, the cousin Wardshan was consumed by jealousy. A royal proclamation had been issued: the Prince was seeking a bride, and a grand ball was to be held. The "Most Beautiful of All" would be chosen as the future Queen.
Wardshan, though naturally pretty, was hollow and cruel. She wanted the mirror not just to see her beauty, but to ensure no one else could. She whispered a poisonous lie into her father’s ear: "The woodsman murdered the old witch to steal that mirror. How else could a beggar find such a treasure?"
The Judge, urged by his ambitious wife, ordered Jalal’s arrest. The woodsman was thrown into a dungeon, his wealth confiscated, and the Magic Mirror was brought to the Judge's manor.
Chapter VII: The Prince's Test
The night of the Royal Ball arrived. Wardshan had spent hours studying her reflection in the Magic Mirror, painting her face and styling her hair to match the idealized image the glass provided. She arrived at the palace in silk and diamonds, confident that she was the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth.
The palace was a sea of shimmering gowns and perfumed air. Every maiden believed she was the one. When the Prince—a man of wisdom and keen observation—entered the hall, he did not look at the faces. He looked at the Mirror, which he had ordered to be placed on a high dais.
"To find my bride," the Prince announced, "every woman here must pass before this mirror. But the mirror will not be the judge. It will be the witness."
One by one, the beauties of the land stepped forward. To the crowd’s eyes, they were magnificent. But as each looked into the mirror, they saw a version of themselves even more beautiful—a "perfect" version. The Prince watched their reactions. Some preened, some smirked with pride, and some wept with the realization that their real faces could never match the glass.
Then came Wardshan. She stood before the mirror, expecting to see a goddess. Instead, the mirror showed her exactly what it had shown everyone else: a beautified, "improved" version. But because her heart was so full of malice, the contrast between her internal ugliness and the mirror's external beauty made the reflection look like a grotesque mask.
Finally, the Prince spoke. "Is there no one else? No one in this entire city who has not seen this glass?"
The Captain of the Guard remembered the girl he had seen scrubbing the floors of the Judge’s house as they seized the mirror. He was sent to fetch her.
Qamar al-Zaman was brought into the hall, her dress stained with ash, her hands red from work, her hair unkempt. The noblewomen laughed behind their fans. Wardshan sneered, "Why bring this beggar to a palace?"
The Prince beckoned her forward. "Look into the mirror, child."
Qamar al-Zaman stepped up, her eyes downcast in humility. As she looked into the glass, a profound silence fell over the room.
The image in the mirror did not change.
There were no wider eyes, no smoother skin, no silken hair. The reflection was an exact, perfect duplicate of the girl standing before it.
The crowd gasped. The Prince stood and walked to her side.
"Do you see?" he cried out to the hall. "The Magic Mirror does not 'make' things beautiful. It reflects the soul’s potential. For those with greed, vanity, and malice, it must 'fix' their faces to match a beauty they do not possess inside. But for this maiden, the mirror found nothing to improve. Her inner purity, her kindness, and her soul are already so perfect that even magic cannot enhance them."
Chapter VIII: Justice and Joy
The Prince took Qamar al-Zaman’s hand and declared her his Princess. The High Judge and his family, exposed for their cruelty and the false accusation against the woodsman, were stripped of their titles and banished.
Jalal was released from the dungeon with the Prince's personal apology. The mirror was returned to him, but Jalal had learned its lesson. He took the mirror back to the gray cottage and placed it on the witch's grave atop the Distant Hill.
"This belongs to the spirit," he said, "not to the market."
Jalal returned to his family, wealthy not just from the gold the Prince gave him as a reward for his honesty, but from the knowledge that true beauty is a light that shines from within, a light that no darkness—and no magic—can ever truly replace.
And so, the legend of the Woodcutter and the Mirror of Souls was etched into the hearts of the people, a reminder that while the world looks at the face, the universe reflects the heart.
Keywords
Folklore, Magic Mirror, Inner Beauty, The Woodsman, Justice, Fairy Tale, Purity of Heart, Transformation, Arabian Nights Style, Moral Story, Hidden Virtue, Royalty and Poverty.
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