Warren the 13th and the Whispering Woods

by Tania del Rio

  “How awful!” Warren cried. “She must be stopped!”

  “I wish it were that easy. We sap-squatches outnumber the witches, but we’ve become too weak and ill to fight back.”

  “There must be a way,” Warren said. “If we find the queen’s hidden supply of sap, would that give your people enough strength to fight back?”

  “It might, but I’ve already searched the entire crater. I haven’t been able to figure out where she keeps it.”

  “I’ll help you figure it out,” Warren said. “I’m on my way to the Black Caldera now. If you help me save my friends and get my hotel back, I’ll help you find the sap.” Warren held out his hand. “What do you say?”

  The sap-squatch’s paw was so large, he simply grasped Warren’s hand with a thumb and forefinger. “It’s a deal!”

  SIR SAP AND SMELLY

  “I still don’t know your name,” Warren said.

  “I beg your pardon! I’ve completely forgotten to introduce myself. My name is”—and the sap-squatch threw back his head and released an ear-splitting roar.

  “I see,” Warren said, after his ears stopped ringing. “I’m not sure I can pronounce that.

  “Ooh, I rather like that! And I shall call you Smelly, because you smell delicious.”

  “Well, my name is Warren the 13th,” Warren said.

  “Excellent, Smelly! Shall we be on our way?”

  Warren sighed. At least his nickname wasn’t “Lunch”!

  ir Sap led the way toward the Black Caldera, with Warren following close behind. He no longer needed to consult his map. Sir Sap knew the forest like the back of his paw, and he proceeded with confidence. Warren had a hard time keeping up with the creature’s long strides, but he did his best as they marched through endless groves of trees.

  As they drew closer to the crater, the landscape changed. Dense forest gave way to rockier hills, some of which sparkled with waterfalls. Sir Sap showed Warren which ones were safe to drink from and which were not, and Warren was glad to have something to quench his thirst; the bottles of Sappy Cola had sunk in the quicksand, along with all of his other food and supplies.

  As the day wore on, they climbed over groping roots and wound up and down steep switchbacks that made Warren’s calves ache. They skirted toxic puddles bubbling with putrid orange and green liquid, and ducked through moist tunnels made from hollowed-out logs. The air grew stickier and more humid with every mile, and Warren soon began to sweat. He felt bad for Sir Sap with his shaggy coat, but the sap-squatch barely seemed to notice the heat.

  “Aren’t you hot under all that fur?” Warren asked him.

  “Not at all!” Sir Sap said. “Sap-squatches have special coats that keep us cool in hot weather and warm in cold weather.”

  Warren wiped sweat from his brow. “That sounds nice,” he said.

  “Not only that, but our coat has special oils that keep sap from sticking to us. It just slides right off. Quite helpful when we’re dining, of course.”

  The walk was long and uncomfortable but Sir Sap’s company made the hard journey tolerable. He was easy to talk with and happy to play tour guide, sharing random tidbits about the Malwoods as they trudged along.

  “Over that way is the witch village of Poxville,” Sir Sap said, pointing west. “True to its name, the witches there carry a contagious disease that causes purple spots, so most denizens of the forest do their best to avoid it. But I hear they serve an extraordinary chicken soup.”

  SIR SAP LEADS THE WAY

  “That sounds delicious,” Warren said. He was so hungry, even purple-spotted pimples seemed a fair price to pay for a good meal.

  “And that way is Boar Rock,” Sir Sap continued, pointing to the south. “It’s a giant boulder that resembles a bristly hog, tusks and all. It was shaped by ancient witches who had the ability to warp stone. Sadly, rock-shaping is now a lost art. A lot of the older pieces have been destroyed, but Boar Rock still stands. It’s made from one of the hardest stones on earth.”

  “Why would anyone want to destroy it?” Warren asked, perplexed.

  “Because evil witches enjoy destruction,” Sir Sap said, and a sad expression crossed his fuzzy face. “They have no appreciation for beauty. The lovelier something appears, the more they want to smash it to pieces.”

  Warren thought of his hotel and its many works of fine art. The most impressive gallery was the fifth-floor Hall of Ancestors [featuring portraits of thirteen generations of Warrens] but every floor had its own masterpieces: paintings of children with turnips for heads, statues of dancing lads and maidens, shy foxes, sprinting hounds, weeping cherubs. There were also grand tapestries in the game room depicting fantastical battles between knights and beasts, as well as cabinets filled with decorative vases and china, all painted with delicate pastoral scenes. If the witches gained entry to his hotel and saw all the beautiful and breakable things within…well, Warren didn’t even want to think about what might happen.

  After hours of walking, the pair finally paused for a break. Warren lay down to rest while Sir Sap walked around shaking trees, hoping to find one that was still full of sap. Sometimes Sir Sap would put his ear to the tree, almost as if listening to it.

  “Are they saying anything?” Warren asked.

  “Not right now,” Sir Sap said.

  “But you’ve heard them whisper at night?” Warren asked. “You do know what I’m talking about, right?”

  “I have, indeed.”

  “If only there was a way to understand them,” Warren said with a sigh. “Then we could simply ask why they stopped making sap.”

  “The trees speak an ancient language,” Sir Sap said. He plopped onto a pile of leaves and plucked a thick twig from the ground. He began using his sharp claws to strip the bark, dejectedly. “Their words have been lost to time.”

  Warren wasn’t ready to quit so easily. “Maybe someone in the Malwoods will understand the chant,” he said. “Maybe the witches understand it.”

  “No witch is going to help us,” Sir Sap said.

  Warren noticed that the wood in Sir Sap’s paws was slowly beginning to take shape; he was transforming it from a twig into a tiny figure.

  “What are you making?” Warren asked.

  Sir Sap looked mildly embarrassed. “Nothing, really. It just helps take my mind off my hunger.” He unfolded his paw to reveal a little wooden sap-squatch.

  “That’s amazing!” Warren said, highly impressed.

  “Oh, this is just a rough little piece. I usually do much larger carvings.”

  “I’d love to see them!” Warren said.

  Just then a shadow crossed Sir Sap’s face. “I wish you could, but they were all destroyed when the witches enslaved my people.”

  “Oh,” Warren said. He felt awful. Now he understood why Sir Sap seemed so sad when he explained how evil witches liked to destroy beautiful things.

  “One day I’d like to open a toy shop,” Sir Sap continued. “I promised my little sister I would.”

  “That would be neat!” Warren said. He had never been to a toy shop before, but he could imagine how wonderful it would be. He visualized a cozy room filled with rubber balls and dolls and toy cars and stuffed animals. Warren also imagined Sir Sap’s wooden carvings lining the shelves: an entire army of sap-squatches waiting patiently for the loving embrace of a child.

  Sir Sap stood and brushed leaves off his fur. “But right now I need to focus on getting sap to my people. My toy shop dreams will have to wait.”

  “Maybe it will happen sooner than you think,” Warren said. “I always used to dream about managing the Warren Hotel, and then one day my dream came true.”

  Warren’s voice trailed off as he remembered his current predicament. Sir Sap seemed to know what he was thinking, and he reached out to ruffle Warren’s bushy hair. “We’re both doing the best we can, and that’s what matters. Now let’s keep going so we can set things right again.”

  They continued on, both trying to ignore the rumb
ling in their stomachs. After about an hour, Sir Sap stopped abruptly, looking troubled.

  “What’s wrong?” Warren asked.

  “There’s a shortcut nearby—a bridge that spans a large river. If we cross it, we’ll save ourselves the trouble of going around the long way.”

  “That sounds perfect,” Warren said.

  TOY SHOP DREAMS

  “Well, the downside is that the bridge is known to have a guardian. He might insist on a toll, and we have nothing to give him.”

  “Oh,” Warren said. It seemed nothing was free in the Malwoods.“What’s the toll?”

  “That I do not know,” Sir Sap said. “To be honest, I’ve always avoided the bridge. It has a rather sinister reputation.”

  That certainly didn’t sound good. But Warren knew that a shortcut might be the only way to catch the hotel before it reached the Black Caldera. Sir Sap pointed the way and they continued onward for another hour or so, until the edges of a green, murky river came into view. It was the largest river Warren had ever seen–he couldn’t even see the other side.

  The bridge was equally impressive. It seemed to be knit from an assortment of bones in a way that reminded Warren of spiderwebs. But now that Warren saw the size of the river, he knew that walking around it wasn’t an option—they had to cross the bridge, one way or another.

  As they approached, Warren saw no sign of a guardian, and he dared to hope that they might be able to cross free of charge. “Hello?” he called out shakily. No reply. Warren wandered to the water’s edge and even peered under the bridge, but there was only murky water drifting through the bridge’s shadow.

  “Maybe the guardian is just a myth,” Warren said hopefully. “Let’s try to cross and see what happens.”

  “You f-f-first!” Sir Sap said. To Warren’s surprise, the mighty sap-squatch’s voice was trembling.

  Warren tentatively set one foot on the first rickety rung of the bone bridge.

  Nothing happened.

  But when he stepped on with his other foot, the bridge trembled and the earth shook. The surrounding water bubbled and frothed like a giant cauldron. “I knew this was a mistake,” Sir Sap said. “Let’s flee before it’s too late!”

  Warren was mesmerized as a large, roundish stone broke through the water’s surface. The stone was studded with spiny bone-like protrusions, upon which stood a skeleton clad in rusty armor. Its eye sockets glowed an otherworldly hue.

  “Who dares disturb our slumber?!” the skeleton roared. Its flinty voice sounded like thunder on a distant mountaintop. “We detest being awakened, for it will take us an eternity to return to sleep. The reason had better be worth our while, puny human!”

  Our? That’s when Warren realized that the stone the skeleton stood on was no stone at all but the hump of a giant tortoise. He could barely make out yellow reptilian eyes glowing beneath the water. Bubbles streamed up from leathery nostrils and burbled on the surface. Warren hoped the creature would stay where it was. The thing was large enough to eat him whole.

  “I’m s-s-sorry,” Warren stammered. “We just want to cross your bridge.”

  “And are you sure you can pay the price?” the guardian asked. “This bridge is constructed from the bones of those who have failed before you.”

  Warren looked at the bone bridge and swallowed hard.

  “This is a bad idea,” muttered Sir Sap.

  Warren shook his head. He was determined to see it through. “What is it that you ask?”

  “Only the answer to a riddle. Otherwise your bones will join the others.”

  “Oh no,” Sir Sap moaned. “I’m terrible at puzzles!”

  “I’m not,” Warren said confidently. He turned to face the guardian. “What’s the riddle?”

  “Very well,” the skeleton rumbled, and then he began to recite a poem:

  Warren closed his eyes and thought hard. What could make your body move as though possessed? Maybe shivers—either from cold or from fear. He supposed those could be found on the deck of a ship and in a bird’s nest, but he didn’t think that was the right answer. Shivers didn’t fit with “never whispered and rarely screamed.”

  “I’ve got it!” Sir Sap cried suddenly.

  “You do?” Warren asked.

  “Yes, it’s the flu!” Sir Sap said proudly. “The flu makes your body feel as though it were possessed, and sailors are known for getting sick at sea. And you could say a bluebird flew, which sounds the same!”

  “That’s a good guess,” Warren admitted. “But would you say the flu is never whispered and rarely screamed? Would you say that it’s free but never cheap?”

  Sir Sap slumped his shoulders. “Hmm, I didn’t think of that.”

  Down in the water, the giant tortoise snapped its beak, causing water to spray upward. “We grow weary of waiting!” the skeleton grumbled.

  THE BRIDGE RIDDLE

  Just as before in the tree, the solution suddenly struck Warren. The guardian and his tortoise were tired. They wished to be lulled back to sleep. And what better way than with a lullaby or, rather…

  “A song!” Warren cried. “That’s the answer!”

  The earth rumbled again and the water frothed as the tortoise stirred. For a moment, Warren feared he was mistaken, but then he heard the sound of thunderous laughter.

  “Very good, little boy. You’ve solved my riddle. You are the first to have done so in many months. I’m impressed.”

  “I’m impressed, too!” Sir Sap said. “I never would have thought of that!”

  “So can we cross?” Warren asked.

  “Not so fast,” the guardian replied. “You’ve merely guessed the payment. Now you must pay.”

  “You mean, you want a song?” Warren said.

  “Excellent! I shall sing the sap-squatch anthem!” Sir Sap said, and he opened his jaw and let out a stream of horrible yowls. Warren winced.

  the skeleton cried, covering what would have been his ears, had he possessed any. The tortoise stirred, churning the water like a boiling cauldron. “You call that howling a song? You’ll pay for this insolence!”

  “Wait!” Warren cried. “Let me have a try! I know just the thing–”

  And before the guardian could object, Warren cleared his throat and began to sing:

  SAVED BY A SONG

  He realized that he’d managed to get through the song without protest, so he repeated the lyrics, over and over, while Sir Sap provided a little dance. Soon the guardian’s skull began to droop, and the tortoise’s eyes slowly closed. Eventually the hump descended into the water, and the guardian disappeared beneath the surface with a final BLORP. Ripples spread outward and then the water stilled, as smooth as glass.

  “We did it,” Warren whispered.

  “It appears so,” said Sir Sap.

  But even though the way forward seemed clear, they stepped cautiously onto the bridge, half-afraid the guardian’s tortoise would surface again and chomp down on them with its powerful jaw.

  The bridge was very long and rose to a great height at its apex. Stopping to rest there, Warren and Sir Sap took a moment to catch their breath. From this vantage, they could see for miles. Warren could make out his hotel, still stomping away in the east. It wasn’t so far, and he felt a surge of hope that they could catch it before time ran out.

  As Warren pulled away from the bridge’s railing, he noticed something else. Etched on the bones were angular letters—the etchings were so faint, he hadn’t noticed them. They read:

  Tolo lops sto yihop id stipf

  baunm si vuxo ak:

  Sto reqj, sto diirupt, ehz

  stipf custias gicuo.

  Stoj curr hoxol lowiuno uh dloozig.

  Warren showed the letters to Sir Sap. “What do you suppose they mean?”

  Sir Sap tried to read the message but couldn’t make any sense of it. “I have no idea,” he said, “but here’s one that’s written in Sap-squatch.” He reached for another bone covered in indecipherable symbols.

 
“And here’s one in English!” Warren said, and he proceeded to read it aloud:

  Here rest the bones of those

  quick to give up:

  the lazy, the foolish, and

  those without moxie.

  They will never rejoice in freedom.

  “I didn’t know you could read Sap-squatch!” Sir Sap exclaimed.

  “I can’t,” Warren said.

  “Well, that happens to be the exact translation of the Sap-squatch writing,” Sir Sap said.

  Warren exclaimed. “So the warning is presented in three languages: one for humans, one for sap-squatches, and one for…whoever speaks this third language.”

  “One warning is plenty for me,” Sir Sap said with a shudder. “Let’s hurry to the other side. I don’t like this bridge very much.”

  “Wait a minute,” Warren said. “What if this third language is the ancient tongue of the trees?”

  “That seems quite unlikely,” Sir Sap said. “Why would a tree need to cross a bridge?”

  Warren copied the three phrases in his sketchbook anyway. In a place as dangerous as the Malwoods, even the smallest bit of information could mean the difference between life and death.

  THREE LANGUAGES

  ight was falling, Petula was exhausted, and even Sketchy seemed to be growing weary. Petula felt sorry for the creature—it was trying so hard to catch up with the hotel, but it was no match for the building’s extraordinary mechanical speed.

  “You’ve done well, Sketchy,” she said, gently patting its side. “But it looks like we won’t be reaching the hotel tonight and you need to rest. We’d better find a place to camp.”