Dire Woods

“They eat people?” squeaked Emily.

“Not by choice, dear,” her grandmother assured her. “But if they have to,” the old woman slowly wagged her head, “well, they do.”

“That’s horrible!” Emily hissed.

“They’re just doing what they must to survive,” her grandmother replied. “It doesn’t mean they’re all bad by any means. I feel myself fortunate to have made friends with a few of them in the past. They were quite nice actually.”

The largest troll, a strange knotted cross hanging from a cord on his thick neck, was down on his hands and knees, running his huge fingers over the sandy beach. He gave a deep grunt and pointed towards their stand of trees.

“Can you make friends with these ones?” John Joseph suggested.

“Not likely, John Joseph. Unfortunately, once they’re on the trail of their prey, they tend to be quite single minded. Dinner is dinner and it’s hard to carry on a conversation when you’ve got an axe or a club buried in your head.”

“Where’s your idiot of a bog cat now?” Emily spat.

John Joseph ignored her, although he was thinking exactly the same thing.

The old woman clenched her staff in her wrinkled hands. “Wands at the ready,” she instructed. “They’re heading our way.”

She was right. They were. With heart-stopping speed, the five trolls were lurching down the beach toward their hiding place.

“I don’t have a wand!” screeched Emily.

“Sorry, my dear, I forgot.” The old woman dug into her pocket and pulled out a rather feeble looking wand. “I was planning on giving this to you on your birthday, lovey, but it looks like today will have to do. It was my first wand.”

She thrust it into Emily’s hand. “Feel for the power,” she instructed, “You’ve been working with the elements beautifully for weeks, but this little fellow will help you concentrate.” She patted her granddaughter’s hand and nodded towards the lake. “We’ll be going for the water first. Let’s see if we can at least knock them off their feet.” She swung her arm in a wide arch, then stabbed it directly towards the still waters. “Enough of theory, it’s time for a little exercise.”

John Joseph watched in amazement as the lake suddenly erupted into wild waves. A huge one crashed onto the beach and hit the trolls mid-chest. “A little help, you two,” Mrs. Wickaby suggested.

Emily and John Joseph shuddered into alertness. He felt for the powers he knew surrounded him. He heard Emily sigh audibly; the force was there, billowing in the air and humming under his feet. He could feel it entering him, filling him and surging through his fingers. John Joseph arched his wand toward the water. It grew warm in his hand as the power flowed from its tip. A second wave pummeled the group on the beach, higher this time with more power. The trolls crashed to their knees.

Amazingly, they got up, staggering maybe, but still moving.

“Another!” instructed Mrs. Wickaby.

The waves continued to smash into them. Higher and higher, but the trolls just kept coming.

“They’re just too heavy,” said the old woman. “Time for Plan B.”

John Joseph pulled his trembling hand close to his chest as he waited for instructions.

“What exactly is plan B?” asked Emily.

Her grandmother gave her a wry grin. “We wait until they get close to the trees and we hit them with a little green power. Just follow my lead.”

John Joseph watched as the five trolls lurched up and away from the sandy beach. They were moving slower, but they still seemed pretty perky.

“What do we do when they get here?” he whispered.

Mrs. Wickaby gestured to the thick, woody vines that covered the forest floor. “We tie them up,” she stated. “Just direct your power into the plants and get ready to run for the water if it doesn‘t work.”

“That’s Plan B!” exclaimed Emily.

“No, it’s Plan C,” responded her grandmother. “Trolls sink.”

John Joseph shuddered. So did he….

At least they had a bit of time to get ready. The trolls weren’t nearly as eager as they had been. The smallest one was making distressed grunting sounds and motioning back towards the path they had followed. The tallest one whacked him on the back. Hard.

The threesome backed up, stumbling over the vines until their backs were against a monstrous trunk. “Steady, steady,” instructed Mrs. Wickaby. “We have to wait until they’re in the forest.”

They were so close now that John Joseph could see the spit hanging from their bulbous lips. They’re close enough for me!

They were now inching into the forest, red lights gleaming in their close-set eyes. The littlest one was still hanging back, but the other four were so close that the smell was almost overpowering.

“Hold on,” whispered the old green witch. “Not quite yet.”

“Grandma?” Emily moaned.

“Just get ready to grow some vines,” instructed her grandmother.

The trolls had seemed huge on the beach; now standing under the trees they were gargantuan. John Joseph watched in horror as they bared their teeth and grimaced.

“Gotcha!” the largest screamed and the four plunged forward.

“Now!”

Mrs. Wickaby’s wand was ablaze with an unearthly, vivid green light as she called up the vines. John Joseph’s wand burned his hand and energy ignited out of the end. He could see Emily beside him, her face contorted with concentration.

“Grow!” Mrs. Wickaby commanded, and the vines answered her call. They plumped, then stretched, lashing their tendrils through the moist air. Twenty, forty, no, at least one hundred arched in the air and wrapped themselves in a frenzy around the struggling trolls.

The trolls were not giving up easily. They used their axes to hack through the climbers, but for each one they hacked through, another ten squirmed up and around their bodies. Within moments, the trolls were nothing but a mass of wriggling, squirming greenery. The littlest one, who had remained on the edge of the woods gave a mighty squeal, and turned to run from the woods. He reappeared moments later, his face a mask of fear.

What the hey? Was there something even worse out there?

“That’s enough!“ shouted Mrs. Wickaby.

John Joseph eased the power off, its liquid fire dissipating through his fingers. Letting go, he stumbled through the branches and peered down the shoreline.

Racing down the beach, its paws shooting up clouds of sand, was the bog cat. Right on its black-tipped tail, tongues hanging out, were eight slathering wolves.