Dire Woods

Emily supported him as they made their way back up the river. They finally reached the spot where he’d plunged in. The water bags lay limp and empty. He’d forgotten to put the plug in the one he‘d filled.

“Wait here,“ instructed Emily, “I’ll fill them up before we head back.”

John Joseph slumped against a large stump and tried to stop his teeth from chattering. The horrible Emily had saved his life and she was now doing some work.

With no one to fight with, Emily filled the bags in only a few minutes. “Do you think you can walk back to camp by yourself?” she asked. “These bags are pretty heavy.”

“I can make it,” he replied. “And you didn’t have to get any water for me. I think I’ve had enough for the day.”

Emily laughed quietly and John Joseph followed her, his mouth hanging open in amazement.

Mrs. Wickaby was halfway across the meadow when they met her, striding purposefully towards them the bog cat bounding along at her side. “What the heck happened to you?” she asked. “You’ve taken forever.“ Her face froze as she took in John Joseph’s soaking wet clothes and bedraggled hair. She rushed forward. “My lord, boy, you look like a drowned rat.”

“Just about,” John Joseph responded. “I fell in the river. Emily saved me.”

The old woman hurried them back to the campsite and made John Joseph sit upon a rotting stump. Staff in hand, she whirled it through the air until a warm breeze wafted over and around his shivering body. Through half open eyes, he watched wisps of steam rising from his clothing. Then she opened her bag and whipped him up a vile concoction of herbs. Compared to the warm breeze, the concoction of river water was cold and thick. “We’ve got to make sure you don’t go getting sick on us and we don‘t have time for a fire. Make sure you swallow every drop.”

“Sorry for getting us behind schedule,” John Joseph apologized as he forced down the last of the vile brew.

“Things happen,” Mrs. Wickaby answered, giving her granddaughter a smile. “And sometimes, they happen for just the right reason.”

The obnoxious drink that John Joseph had swallowed worked quickly. He was feeling better in less than half an hour. His clothes were still a little damp, but as the sun was getting warm, he didn’t really mind.

Mrs. Wickaby decided to pass the time by continuing to teach them as they walked. It was more botany today, the study of plants and their properties. Unlike the lessons at St. Francis Academy, the information was quite interesting. John Joseph was amazed to learn that you could identify the lines of power that green magicians used just by watching where certain plants grew.

Spring thorn ferns, heart root, black fennel, wild and scallions clustered and jostled for position on the lines. As they were strong and magical plants, they liked to fill themselves with the power that was available in such profusion.

“But why look for the plants when you can feel the power lines for yourself?” John Joseph asked. “Feel the power, find the plants. Simple.”

The old woman’s face grew serious. “Sometimes it’s not that easy,“ she said.

“But why not?“ asked Emily. “Aren‘t you just wasting time when you could find the lines yourself?’

Mrs. Wickaby stopped and gave her granddaughter a serious look. “Some day you might be running for your life. Running so fast that you can’t pause to search for the power. Or maybe so full of fear that you can’t use the abilities that you possess. On that day, when your senses are drowning in panic, you’ll be happy if you can find those lines with your eyes.”

For once, the look Emily gave John Joseph was one of compassion, instead of distain.

The rest of the morning was surprisingly uneventful. There were bugs, more bugs, and birds. Masses and masses of birds, which dined on the bugs, thankfully. They glimpsed squirrels as they darted through the canopy of leaves. Once a large black snake slithered out from under their feet.

The old woman named them all. She even pointed out a Blind Toad, not so named because it was blind, but because if you touched it and rubbed your eyes, you would be. But that was it. John Joseph really didn’t see anything dangerous at all.

“Mrs. Wickaby, where are all the creepies and crawlies we always hear so much about?” asked John Joseph, swishing his wand gently through the air. “Dire Woods is supposed to be crawling with them. Were most of the creatures they warned us about bedtime fantasies?”

“Oh no, John Joseph,” the old woman answered solemnly. “Dire Woods has a collection of the most fascinating and dangerous creatures on the continent. It’s a large, mostly undiscovered area, bound by mountains and water. It’s a sanctuary for some, a prison for others.“

“A sanctuary?” asked Emily Lavender.

“Of course, dear,” her grandmother answered. “Not all the creatures in the great wood are dangerous. Even then, a creature can’t help being what it is. If it needs to sting you, or bite off your leg to enjoy a good meal, well, that’s the way she goes. It doesn’t make it evil. You have to make the decision to become evil.”

They walked without stopping until the sun was high in the horizon. They were deep within the woods now. The trees had gone from willows and birch, to huge conifers that seemed to climb to the sky. The sparse trail had become a path the width of two travelers.

“There’s a beautiful little lake just a few more miles down the road,” Mrs. Wickaby informed them. “We’ll stop there for lunch. It‘s called Green Slime Slough.”

“How can a pretty little lake be named something so ugly?” asked Emily.

“Most things in Dire Woods have ominous names, even if they‘re not,” answered Mrs. Wickaby. “They sound so terrible, they keep the faint hearted from blundering into this pristine wilderness.”

“Makes sense,” commented John Joseph.

“How long have you been coming to the Dire Woods, Grandma?” asked Emily Lavender.

“Since I was about your age,” the old woman answered. “I lived here for a few years and now I visit every month or so.”

The little lake was as pretty as promised. The water was a pure, pale green, its placid surface reflecting the huge, broad trees that lined its shores.

“So this seemingly quiet place is really full of dangerous creatures?” commented John Joseph. Sitting in the warm sunshine, on the edge of a pristine lake, even talking about dangerous creatures seemed ridiculous.

“Definitely,” answered Mrs. Wickaby.

“It’s not that I’m complaining,” he continued, “but where are they? We haven‘t seen anything bigger than a hawk all day.”

“It’s the bog cat,” the old woman stated, “There aren’t many creatures out here that will take him on.”

“Maybe that feline isn’t as bad as I thought,” murmured her granddaughter.

They enjoyed their lunch on a small stretch of sandy beach. It was bread, fruit and cheese again. The bread was getting even more rubbery and the cheese was warm. But they were hungry. As they sat sipping their now tepid water, the bog cat arched its back, stuck its nose in the air and bounced off into the forest.

“Time to move,” stated the old woman. “I think our feline companion has smelt trouble.”

Neither John Joseph nor Emily Lavender stopped to question. They were on their feet and ready to move in moments. The old woman put a finger to her lips and pointed towards a thick stand of trees fifty yards down the beach. Scrambling over the rocky terrain, they reached the cover of the trees and crouched behind some bushes.

John Joseph watched in astonishment as five huge things, all carrying clubs or axes lumbered out of the woods. The wind blew in John Joseph’s face and he wrinkled his nose. The stench was amazing.

“What are they?“ he whispered.

“Trolls,” the old woman hissed. “Mountain trolls, by the look of those hides they’re wearing.” She waved a wrinkled hand in front of her nose, “not to mention the stench they carry. They usually don‘t venture far from the slopes of Mount Ruin.” Mrs. Wickaby waved them deeper into the woods. “Why they‘re here doesn‘t really matter. We just have to try and avoid them if possible. They’re not the brightest individuals ever created, but they can do a lot of damage.”

John Joseph and his companions sat crouched in the midst of the stand of trees and watched the gargantuan figures lumber down to the water‘s edge. He hadn’t studied much about mountain trolls at school. He was sure these creatures were much larger in real life than any description he’d read in a book. Uglier too. Must be a mountain troll thing.

The smallest of the five was at least six feet tall. The largest, over ten. Thick, mane-covered heads were set squarely upon massive, muscle-bound shoulders. Their huge arms hung almost to their knees. Every few moments, thick, guttural sounds spouted from their large, fang filled mouths. Then the smallest one would tip his head back, flex his large nostrils and snort.

John Joseph was so frightened, he almost forgot to breathe.

“What are they doing?” whispered Emily.

“Hunting,” said Mrs. Wickaby.

“For what?” asked her granddaughter.

“Something edible,” the old woman replied. “Which in this case, could mean us.”