Warren the 13th and the Whispering Woods

by Tania del Rio

  Hoping to avoid any evil beings who might be traveling on the road, Petula and Sketchy ventured into the forest, seeking a safe spot to settle. The problem was, no place felt safe. All around them were the sounds of creatures stirring and growling. Glowing eyes glared out from shadowy nooks. Ravenous insects swarmed around their faces, threatening to bite. And a surprising number of snakes slithered about.

  To make matters worse, an eerie whisper echoed throughout the woods. It was spooky, though the voices seemed harmless. Petula tried to ignore them as she watched for stray witches. She had only one perfumier bottle tucked in her pocket, and it didn’t feel like nearly enough.

  “If only we could find some shelter,” Petula said. “It’s not safe to sleep out in the open.” The words had barely left her mouth when a light rain began to fall. The sound of droplets sprinkling through the trees created a HISSSSSSSS that drowned out most other noises, including the whispers. But it also made it harder to hear signs of danger.

  Sketchy didn’t mind the rain and spun around happily, sprinkling droplets in every direction. Petula, however, did not relish the thought of spending the night drenched in a puddle. As the sun fell, the temperature also dropped several degrees. Petula was wondering if they should try to build some sort of protection when she spotted a distant lamplight. “Sketchy, look!” she said, pointing to the yellow glow. “Let’s go check it out.”

  Petula’s senses remained on high alert as she and Sketchy crept through the foliage toward the light. It seemed warm and beckoning, but Petula knew that—like everything else in the Malwoods—something that appeared friendly could easily be a trap. As they drew closer, the light was revealed to be the glowing window of a little cottage. Hanging above the door was a wooden sign that read: “Hattie’s Wig Shoppe and Haberdashery.” Seems harmless enough, Petula thought, stroking her chin. Plus, her hair and dress were sopping wet, so a dry cottage was incredibly inviting.

  REFUGE FROM THE RAIN

  “We’ll just ask to spend the night,” she told Sketchy. “Don’t be alarmed, but I’m going to pretend to be an evil witch. I think it’s the only way we’ll get help in these parts.”

  Sketchy whistled softly, and Petula waved her arm, casting a glamour to appear as though she wore a long black cloak. The cowl cast a dark shadow over her face, making her seem even more mysterious. It was only an illusion—the cloak didn’t offer warmth or keep her dry, but it did make her look sufficiently evil, which was all that mattered.

  Together, they approached the cottage and Petula knocked on the door.

  “I’m closed!” answered a cranky voice.

  Petula breathed deeply and opened the door. Inside the shop was an elderly witch sitting near a counter. Her face was as wrinkled as a raisin, and her large brown eyes blinked owl-like behind thick glasses. A frizzy halo of gray hair stuck out in every direction, and she was dressed in a thick shawl. Perched on a stool, she was using a wooden crochet hook to weave silky auburn strands into a cap.

  On the wall behind her was a large oak shelving unit filled with wigs of all sorts. There were sleek black wigs, frizzy brown wigs, wavy violet wigs, and curly red wigs. There was also a large assortment of hats displayed throughout the room—fancy hats adorned with beads and feathers, and a good number of plain black witch hats as well, the kind with wide brims and pointy tips.

  “I said I’m closed!” the witch snarled.

  Petula mustered her most authoritative voice. “My minion and I need a place to sleep for the night.”

  “This isn’t a hotel,” the witch snapped. “It’s a wig shop and my home. So get out!”

  Petula hesitated, desperate to win over the shop owner. “It must be a lot of work, running a wig shop all by yourself,” she said. “Perhaps we can help you in return for a night’s lodging.”

  “I already have an assistant.”

  “I don’t see one,” Petula said.

  “She’s already gone home. Because, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m CLOSED!”

  Petula was running out of ideas. So she decided to try flattery.

  “You certainly have a lot of fine wigs,” she said. “Perhaps I should switch up my look. What do you think?”

  The witch’s eyes brightened. “I may be closed, but I’ll never say no to a sale! Which one are you interested in?”

  “I’m not sure,” Petula said. “Let me browse your selection.” She wandered aimlessly around the store, feigning interest in each wig while Sketchy tried on a variety of styles. The hair looked ridiculous on the creature, and Petula couldn’t help but smile. Then, remembering that she was supposed to be an evil witch, she forced herself to frown instead.

  As she made her way through the selections, Petula noticed a magical broom hanging by a hook near the back door. It was made from a thick, sturdy branch—more than long enough to support both her and Sketchy. It would be the perfect vehicle to catch the hotel. But how could she convince the wig maker to part with it?

  “Well,” the witch demanded, “what have you decided?”

  “I don’t know…,” Petula said, trying to stall.

  “Pull down your hood,” the witch directed, “and let’s see what we’re working with.” Petula obliged, and the witch seemed delighted, reaching out to touch a strand. “Your hair is white as snow!”

  “I could go for something a little more colorful,” Petula said. “You have some wonderful options.”

  “It seems a shame to cover up such lovely hair…,” the witch replied, still stroking Petula’s hair. She stopped abruptly. “You know, I’ve changed my mind. You can spend the night after all.”

  “We can?”

  “Yes, of course! I’m sorry I was so inhospitable. It’s been a long and tiring day.”

  A SNEAK ATTACK!

  “Oh,” said Petula, “well, thank you.”

  “Make yourself at home, dearie. I’ll put on a kettle and fetch some spare bedding.”

  After the witch hurried off, Petula exchanged a look with Sketchy and shrugged. Before long, they were both snuggled into warm blankets on the floor near the fireplace, alongside steaming mugs of hot cocoa.

  “Well, now, good night,” the witch said. “I hope you both sleep well. I’m sure you have more travels planned for tomorrow, so it’s best to get all the rest you can.”

  “Thank you,” Petula said, her eyes drooping. She was too tired to even drink her cocoa, so she pushed the mug over to Sketchy, who accepted it happily. “You can have mine. I’m going to sleep.”

  Petula closed her eyes and promptly fell asleep. A few hours later she awakened to the sound of soft footsteps padding toward her. Blinking drowsily, Petula propped herself up on her elbows. The witch was creeping toward her—and carrying an enormous pair of scissors.

  “Sketchy!” Petula cried. “Get up!”

  But the monster lay stiff as stone.

  The witch glared at Petula. “How are you still awake?” she demanded. “I put a freezing potion in your cocoa!” Then she leapt forward, scissors flashing in the glow of the dying fire. Snip-snip-snip!

  Petula scooted backward, tripping over the hem of her robe and falling to the floor. The witch fell upon her, scissors snipping, but Petula held her back with all the strength she could muster. The blades were mere inches from her face.

  “If you wanted some of my hair,” Petula grunted, “you could have just asked!”

  “I don’t want some!” the witch screeched.

  Petula rolled sideways, flinging the witch to the floor and scrambling to her feet. Sketchy was still fast asleep, enchanted by the spell. The witch bounded up and ran after Petula, knocking her into the wall and sending a shelf full of mannequin heads toppling to the ground.

  “YEOW!” Petula cried as the witch seized her hair and pulled hard. “Let go!” She summoned her zapping spell, which succeeded in throwing off the witch.

  “Using magic now, are we?” the witch sneered. “Well I’ll show YOU magic!”

  Her wrinkled fingers di
d a strange little dance, as though they were weaving strands of air, and her hands blazed yellow. A magical blade of energy shot from her palms and sliced toward Petula’s head.

  But this time Petula was ready. She pulled out her bottle and uncorked it, and with a melting cry, the witch and her spell were sucked inside. Petula stumbled back, reeling from the force, and plugged the cork.

  Almost immediately, Sketchy lifted its head and looked around; capturing the witch had broken the spell. Sketchy wriggled back to life and rushed over to Petula, chirping excitedly.

  “I did it!” Petula cried. “I caught my first witch! All on my own!”

  She watched in astonishment as a rose tattoo magically appeared on the back of her left hand—her casting hand. Sketchy clapped its tentacles and pulled her into a hug.

  Petula felt a confidence she hadn’t felt since her mom was taken prisoner. She was on her way to becoming a true perfumier!

  arren realized that the chief benefit of traveling with a sap-squatch was that all the other creatures gave them a wide berth. That was particularly handy when the rain started to fall and they were forced to seek shelter for the night.

  “That cave looks promising,” Sir Sap said, gesturing to a cavern in a nearby hillside that overlooked the river. His fur was drenched, and he emitted the rather unfortunate odor of wet dog.

  Warren was desperate to find shelter, but he was nervous about entering another creature’s home. “What if something’s already living inside?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Sir Sap said. He lumbered up to the entrance, poked his head inside, and growled threateningly. Within seconds, a flock of startled bats burst out of the darkness and flapped off into the night, leaving the cave empty.

  Warren felt a little sorry for the displaced bats, but he was quite relieved to have a dry place in which to spend the night.

  “I’ll forage for food,” Sir Sap said. “This area has patches of delicious berries.”

  “I’ll start a fire,” Warren said. “We’ll be toasty and dry in no time!”

  Even though most of his supplies had been lost in the quicksand, Warren had kept a box of matches safe in a pocket. Before long a cheerful fire was crackling near the mouth of the cave. Then Warren set himself to his other tasks, just as he would at the hotel: he swept the floor of the cave with a pine branch, made a bed for Sir Sap from a pile of dry leaves, and found a short log to serve as a pillow. If only he had a mint to place on top.

  Sir Sap returned several minutes later, his paws full of berries and other edibles. And since his paws were quite large, their meal was big too.

  “I’ve made the room ready for you,” Warren said. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “WHY ARE YOU SO NICE?”

  “It looks wonderful!” Sir Sap exclaimed. Then his smile faded and he looked at Warren oddly. “Forgive me for asking but…why are you so nice? I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

  Warren blushed. “That’s how I was raised. My father taught me that serving other people is one of the most important things we can do.”

  “You don’t see a lot of kindness in the Malwoods,” Sir Sap said.

  “That’s not true,” Warren said. “You’re kind. You’re trying to help your fellow sap-squatches. And one day you’re going to build an incredible toy shop.”

  Now it was Sir Sap’s turn to blush. He unloaded the food onto the ground and quickly changed the subject. “Well, it was my father who taught me that these are edible. Though I must warn you, they taste atrocious.”

  It was true—the roots and leaves and fruits formed a bitter and foul-tasting salad, but Warren was too hungry to care. Meanwhile, Sir Sap finished the last of his sap. He looked mournfully at the empty bottle and said, “Well, that’s the end. Who knows when my next meal will be.”

  “Soon!” Warren said, pulling out his sketchbook. “Especially if I can decode these symbols.”

  As Warren puzzled over the code, Sir Sap stretched out by the fire and began carving tiny sculptures using the kindling that Warren had gathered. Before long a cluster of little sap-squatch statues were lined up by the fire.

  After a while, Sir Sap fell asleep. He snored loudly, and it reminded Warren of his uncle Rupert, whose wheezing and snuffling could be heard throughout the hotel. Warren missed him.

  He decided to distract himself by focusing on the words from the bridge that he had recorded in his sketchbook. The first was in his own language:

  Here rest the bones of those quick to give up:

  the lazy, the foolish, and those without moxie.

  They will never rejoice in freedom.

  And the second was in the ancient language:

  Tolo lops sto yihop id stipo baunm si vuxo ak:

  Sto reqj, sto diirupt, ehz stipo fustias gicuo.

  Stoj furr hoxol lowiuno uh dloozig.

  Eventually Warren realized that by matching the letters from each passage, he was able to come up with a key:

  A B C D E F G H I J

  E Y N Z O D V T U W

  K L M N O P Q R S T

  M R G H I K B L P S

  U V W X Y Z

  A X F C J Q

  He double-checked his work and nodded, pleased with his discovery. Now it was time for the fun part: decoding the message that was whispered through the woods.

  Bit by bit, Warren swapped out the letters using his key. And as he did so, a message was revealed:

  Help us!

  Our roots lead to the caldera

  Our sap flows to the queen

  We are trapped

  Free us!

  Warren was astonished. All this time, the trees weren’t threatening or warning him to stay out of the forest. They were asking for help! He was tempted to awaken Sir Sap immediately and share the good news, but he decided to wait. The sap-squatch needed his sleep, and the hotel manager in Warren was loath to disturb a guest.

  Glancing out of the mouth of the cave, Warren saw that the rain had stopped. Perhaps this was his chance to talk to the trees and get some answers. He grabbed his sketchbook and hurried outside. He needed to walk several yards from the cave, since the fire was still glowing brightly within.

  Finally, Warren was far enough into the darkness that the whispers returned in full force. Now that he understood what the trees were chanting, he could sense their urgency and frustration.

  “I hear you, trees of the forest,” Warren called out. “Tell me what I need to do to get your sap back!”

  The whispers seemed to ignore his appeal, continuing to chant the same plea over and over. Realizing that he needed to speak in their language, Warren flipped open his sketchbook and translated what he wanted to say.

  He repeated his plea, this time in the language of the whispering trees: “U toel jia! Sloop id sto dilops! Waps sorr go ftes U hooz si zi vos jail pek yenm.”

  The whispering silenced for a moment and Warren knew they had heard him. All at once, the pines seemed to tremble, their soft boughs hissing as needles vibrated against one another. They seemed…energized. Perhaps even excited!

  The whispering started again, only this time with a new chant. Warren hastily wrote the words in his sketchbook, then translated them into English:

  You are a little boy and still quite young

  But your true self is bigger and braver

  To reveal the truth within,

  Look into a mirror,

  Say “rorrim,”

  and the heart will be reflected!

  Warren winced. He didn’t particularly appreciate the comment about his size, but he was pleased with his progress. He shut his sketchbook and trudged back to the cave. At least in the morning he’d have good news for Sir Sap. The trees might not have offered a solution, but now he knew the queen was responsible for the sap shortage. Somehow she was controlling all the roots in the forest, forcing them to lead to the Black Caldera and draining their sap. Well, not for long, Warren thought. He clenched a fist and vowed to save not only his friends,
but the trees as well.

  All he needed was a plan.

  he following morning, Warren told Sir Sap what he had learned. “Now that we know all of the sap is flowing to the queen, we just need to figure out where she’s hiding it.”

  “That will be difficult,” Sir Sap said, scratching his furry chin. “The queen is the most powerful witch in the Malwoods, and the Black Caldera contains an entire village of her most evil devotees. I don’t see how we can sneak past all of them.”

  “Well, we won’t accomplish anything by staying here and wondering,” Warren said. “Let’s get going!”

  So Warren and Sir Sap set off, energized by the task ahead. They walked briskly, and before long the terrain became even hillier, with less vegetation and sparser trees. As they crested a hill, Warren could see the basin known as the Black Caldera and, just beyond it, the glittering ocean.

  The crater was about a mile wide and surrounded by stone cliffs fifty feet tall, except for one section in which a giant doorway was carved; the door was flanked by gargantuan stone statues of witches holding staffs. Purple and green smoke rose from the crater, obscuring whatever lay within, but Warren could discern the dark shapes of witches on brooms as they darted in and out of the haze.

  Warren could also see his hotel to the west, marching down the road that led to the mouth of the Black Caldera. “There it is!” Warren said, pointing. “My hotel will reach the caldera soon. I need to get back on board before it does!”

  But how? Warren was still miles away from home, and without a vehicle like Sly’s jalopy, there was no way he could move fast enough.

  “Come on!” Warren said, tugging on Sir Sap’s arm. “We have to hurry!”

  They ran as fast as they could down the hill, trying not to trip over stones and logs dotting their path. Warren felt a little nervous—there were few trees around to cover them, and plenty more witches were zooming around.