They stood a long time in the forest, regarding and respecting the other, but wondering when the first blow would come. If it came to blows.

A woodpecker slammed his head into a nearby limb. Far from breaking the silence, he intensified it as he carved out his daily bread. A solitary sound, one bird at work. Head cocked to side, listening, contemplating, then swift to act. A master of wood, it wasted no stroke. A holy lesson, mused the man with the hatchet. I must give this more thought.

It seemed untouched, this forest, pristine. Why did it remind him of Eden? He had never been there, but some memory beyond memory whispered "Do not forget." Do not forget the wood from which you were hewn, son of Adam, son of Eve. Yes, and do not forget the other trees, of death and life, he chuckled, and why this is no longer Eden. Funny, now that he thought it over, how most fruit trees were not good for wood working. Soft timber, pleasant but weak.

This fine tree before him was to his purpose, however. The woodpecker liked it, too. It was busy drilling out a deep bore. It reminded him of the mark of a very heavy nail.

Father, you did not bring the tree?" called the young man from the shop. "What did you do all day, then?"

I watched it grow. It was the hardest wood that I have ever worked with. And I never touched it. I will leave it for you. It is waiting for you, Son. It will come to you; it will find you; it will work you. Then you will understand why your father could not fell it today."