Warren the 13th and the Whispering Woods

by Tania del Rio

  Sure enough, the shadow of a flying witch passed overhead, and Warren heard a sharp whistle. He instinctively ducked and fell to the ground, expecting a spell to blast him at any moment.

  Instead he heard a familiar voice: “Warren?”

  “Petula?!” he cried in astonishment and looked up to see his friend and beloved pet Sketchy clinging to a broom that hovered overhead. Sketchy looked terrified; the creature’s tentacles were wrapped tightly around both Petula and the broom handle.

  Petula steered downward and landed roughly beside him, sending her and Sketchy sprawling. The broom clattered lifelessly to the ground.

  “Oof!” she said. “I’m still getting the hang of that thing.”

  Sketchy let out a shaky tweet as a tentacle wiped its brow.

  REUNITED AT LAST

  “What are you doing here?” Petula and Warren asked each other in unison.

  They both tried explaining at once, but in their excitement their voices overlapped. “Hold on, hold on!” Sir Sap said, interrupting the babble. “One at a time!”

  Petula nearly shrieked. “A sap-squatch!”

  “Yes, and it’s a great pleasure to meet you,” Sir Sap said, shaking Petula’s hand. She blinked in astonishment at his impeccable manners.

  “My name is Petula,” she said. “I’m a friend of Warren’s.” Then she looked at Warren and cried, “You need to know something! There’s a mimic at the hotel who’s impersonating you!”

  “I know!”

  “You—you know?”

  “Yes! I’ve been trying to catch the hotel so I can stop him!”

  Petula went on to explain that her mother had been captured by Queen Calvina’s coven. “She’s somewhere in the Black Caldera, and I’m going to free her.”

  “You’re in luck,” Warren said. “Sir Sap is from the caldera, so he knows his way around.”

  Warren then went on to tell her about the sap shortage, and how the queen was holding the sap-squatches prisoner as well.

  “I think I’ve made a pretty good plan,” Warren said. “Once I get inside the hotel and defeat the mimic, I’ll use the building to storm the Black Caldera and create a diversion. That will give you a chance to save your mom, and then Sir Sap can find where all the sap is going.”

  “You mean, you’ll allow the witches to attack the hotel?” Petula cried in alarm.

  “The hotel was built for battle,” Warren reminded her. “It can handle it.”

  “It’s an excellent distraction,” Sir Sap said. “Once I release the sap, my fellow sap-squatches will be strong enough to fight and overthrow the witches so that you and your hotel can escape.”

  “Okay, let’s do it,” Petula said, and Sketchy wiggled excitedly.

  “Can I use this to fly to the hotel?” Warren asked, picking up the broom.

  “It won’t work unless you’re a witch,” Petula said. “I’ll take you.” She turned to Sir Sap and said, “You start heading toward the caldera. I’ll find you after I drop off Warren.”

  “Then we’ll sneak into the caldera together,” Sir Sap said. “I know of a hidden entrance!”

  “What about Sketchy?” Warren asked.

  “There’s not enough room for all three of us on the broom,” Petula said.

  Warren patted Sketchy on the back. “Sketchy, can you go with Sir Sap and help him find the missing sap?”

  Sketchy whistled and tapped its head.

  “That means yes,” Petula explained.

  “Then it’s settled!” Warren said. “Let’s go!”

  “One moment,” Sir Sap said, looking bashful. “Before we say farewell, I wanted to give you this. Just in case I never see you again.”

  He handed Warren a little carving. It was a perfect miniature replica of the Warren Hotel.

  “Now you’ll always have your home with you,” Sir Sap said, “should you ever find yourself lost again.”

  Warren blinked away tears and hugged Sir Sap. “Thank you! I’ll consider it my personal good-luck charm. And I need all the luck I can get.”

  Without further ado, Petula hopped onto the broom, which instantly lifted off the ground. “Ready?” she asked. Warren nodded and climbed on behind her. “Be safe, Sir Sap! You, too, Sketchy!”

  The broom took off like a rocket and Warren couldn’t help but let out a “Waa-hoo!” as they shot into the sky.

  “Hold on tight!” Petula said. “This broom doesn’t seem to like me too much.”

  Sure enough, Warren could feel the broom resist, bucking several times like a wild horse.

  “How high can we go?” he asked.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Petula said. They soared higher and higher until the hotel looked small as a bug. From above the clouds, Warren could see the distant plains to the west, where he had started his journey, and the obstacles he had faced along the way: the top of the talking oak and the pool of quicksand and the bone bridge over the murky river. I walked all that way, he thought in amazement.

  Looking over his other shoulder, Warren could see down into the Black Caldera, with all its little huts and Queen Calvina’s sprawling palace made of bones. But one building especially stood out. On its roof was painted a strange symbol.

  “Do you see that?” Warren asked, pointing at the hut. “I wonder what that symbol means.”

  A BROOMSTICK RIDE

  “It could be some kind of magical ward to protect the building from spells,” Petula said. “Maybe that’s where the sap is being stored.”

  “We should certainly check,” Warren said, making a mental note of the building’s location.

  Petula tilted the broomstick and they began their descent toward the hotel. She steered to the front door, taking care to match the hotel’s speed so that they wouldn’t be crushed by the building’s forward momentum.

  Warren hopped off the broom and onto the porch. “Thanks, Petula! Good luck!”

  “You too, Warren!” Petula said. “Remember to go see Mr. Friggs right away!”

  Warren nodded and waved as she zipped off to rejoin Sir Sap. Then he pressed his ear to the front door and listened, making sure that no one was in the lobby. He couldn’t hear anything, so he slowly eased open the door and peeped through the crack.

  The lobby was empty.

  He stepped inside, quietly pulling the door closed behind him. He crept across the checkered floor toward the staircase, knowing that any noise would echo loudly in the cavernous lobby. He had reached the staircase when he heard his Uncle Rupert’s voice cry out:

  Warren froze. It sounded as though it had come from the dining hall. Uncle Rupert was in trouble!

  Warren instantly changed course and ran down the side hallway to the ballroom, skidding to a stop just outside the doors. He knew he shouldn’t barge in—he wasn’t even sure what he was dealing with.

  With heart pounding, Warren gently pushed the door only an inch or so to avoid causing the old hinges to squeak. He pressed his eye to the opening, fully expecting a horrific scene. Instead he saw Uncle Rupert, Chef Bunion, and Mr. Vanderbelly all sitting around the dining table eating dinner with the mimic, Worrin. The air was filled with the fragrant aromas of baked ham and mashed potatoes. Rupert stretched his arm across the wooden surface, reaching for a gravy boat just beyond his grasp. Again he cried out, “HELP!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mr. Vanderbelly muttered.

  But Worrin leapt to his feet, grabbing the gravy boat and carrying it to Uncle Rupert. “It’s no problem, Mr. Vanderbelly,” he said sweetly. “Nothing brings me more joy than meeting all of my uncle’s needs!”

  Rupert smiled gratefully. “You’re a good boy, Warren,” he said. “The best nephew a man could ask for!”

  Warren almost choked. For years he’d been running the hotel while his Uncle Rupert loafed about, and he’d never received any such compliment. Could it be that Uncle Rupert preferred Worrin to Warren?

  “He’s certainly the best hotel manager I’ve ever met!” Chef Bunion said.
“Let’s raise a glass to Warren! He keeps cool under pressure and keeps us all safe from danger!”

  “Hear, hear!” Mr. Vanderbelly cheered, holding up a glass.

  “Please, stop!” Worrin said. “You’re making me blush!”

  “You deserve our praise,” Chef Bunion said firmly.

  “I agree!” Mr. Vanderbelly added. “I’ve always admired the service here, but since entering the Malwoods it has been absolutely outstanding. Truly, you’re the best hotel manager I’ve ever met!”

  Warren felt sick. All this time, he imagined that the imposter was ruining his hotel. He’d fully expected to find his friends in peril. Instead, they seemed happier than ever. They loved Worrin.

  Maybe Worrin is a better hotel manager, Warren thought glumly. He tried to shake off those feelings. Nothing changed the fact that he needed to defeat the mimic and reclaim his hotel. But first he had to find Mr. Friggs.

  Warren wasted no time scurrying up to the fourth floor, pausing when he heard footfalls receding.

  “Mr. Friggs?” he asked aloud. “Is that you?”

  No response. Perhaps it was just a rat scurrying over the floorboards. Warren continued to the library and was surprised to find the door locked.

  “Mr. Friggs?” he said, banging on the door. “It’s me, Warren!”

  “Go away!” came a voice from the other side.

  “No, it’s the real me!” Warren insisted. “Not the mimic!”

  THE HALL OF ANCESTORS

  “I’m not opening this door!”

  “Please, Mr. Friggs. I need your help!”

  “I said, GO AWAY!”

  Warren reeled. His mentor had never spoken to him so cruelly. He realized that Mr. Friggs didn’t care that he was back. Perhaps he preferred the mimic, too.

  Warren left the library and trudged back down the hall. If no one wanted him around, maybe he should just leave.

  “It’s my own fault,” Warren said bitterly. “I was foolish enough to lose my hotel. Maybe I don’t deserve to keep it.”

  With a heavy heart, he walked down one floor to the Hall of Ancestors, where portraits of all of his forefathers hung in a neat row down a long hallway. The flickering candlelight seemed to animate the Warrens’ faces, and he nodded respectfully to each one as he made his way past. Often he felt as though the paintings were windows through which the spirits of his relatives peered, sometimes approvingly and sometimes scornfully. Right now Warren couldn’t help but think it was the latter.

  But his father’s portrait, which hung at the end of the row, always looked patient and kind. Seeing the gentle expression in Warren the 12th’s eyes only made Warren the 13th feel worse.

  “Dad,” he said, “I’ve failed the hotel and I’ve failed you. I’m sorry, but I’m giving up. No one wants me around anymore. The guests have all gone, and even my friends are happier without me. It’s for the best.”

  He waited a moment, hoping to recall one of his father’s lessons or sayings. But nothing came to mind. Perhaps even his own dad had turned his back on him. Warren looked at the framed artwork hanging next to the likeness. It was a family portrait that Warren had drawn, featuring him and all his friends in the happy days after he discovered the hotel could walk, when everything seemed possible. He wished he could get that feeling back.

  Long before the drawing, a mirror had hung there, and he would often look at it and imagine his own portrait next to his father’s. The mirror was now on the opposite side of the hall, and when Warren turned to look at it, he could see his father’s portrait reflected in the glass. Still watching. Still smiling.

  As for Warren the 13th, he looked tired and dirty from all his travels—not at all how the manager of a fine hotel should look. “Beauty is on the inside,” his father used to say. “As long as you have a good heart, that’s all that matters.”

  Warren realized that advice sounded familiar. He reached for his sketchbook and flipped to the page on which he’d decoded the trees’ second message:

  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!

  Curious, Warren glanced back at the mirror. He spoke the magic word rorrim and was shocked to see the surface shimmer and ripple like water. Suddenly, his reflection began to change; he grew taller, older, more confident, courageous even! In this new reflection, Warren saw that he looked just like his dad.

  It’s me on the inside, he realized. It’s my true heart reflected!

  Almost as soon as the image had appeared it faded away, and Warren was left looking at his regular self: a short, bug-eyed little boy. Yet something stirred within him. He knew that he had a courageous heart. What kind of boy with a good heart would abandon his family’s hotel and all his friends in a time of need? Beatrice still needed to be saved, and Petula and Sketchy were out there risking their lives to find her. He couldn’t leave them to fight this battle alone.

  WARREN’S REFLECTION

  Warren turned back to his father’s portrait. “Thanks, Dad.”

  He finally knew what he had to do.

  arren returned to the library and banged on the door again.

  “Mr. Friggs!” he said loudly. “I know you’re afraid, but we’re all in danger and I need your help before the hotel reaches the Black Caldera!”

  “You’re just trying to deceive me!” Mr. Friggs called back. “Petula warned me not to open the door for anyone!”

  Warren thought hard. How could he convince Mr. Friggs that he was the real Warren?

  “IS IT YOU!”

  Warren said. “Ask me a question that only the real Warren could answer.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Friggs said after a long moment. “Tell me: what did your father say to you at your seventh birthday party?”

  Warren remembered it well. His eyes grew misty as he recalled the small party his father had staged on the grassy lawn outside the hotel. In those days, the grass was beautifully manicured and brimming with flowers. Mr. Friggs and Chef Bunion were in attendance, as well as hotel guests who were fond of the boy. Balloons were strung from the animal-shaped topiaries that dotted the grounds. Warren’s gift was a small leather-bound sketchbook and a tin filled with watercolor paints.

  “He told me, ‘Never forget that a hotel has as much room for friendships as it has rooms. This means you’ll always have friends to count on, no matter what life may bring.’ ”

  Warren heard the sound of a turning lock, and the door opened.

  Mr. Friggs’s eyes glistened with tears. “It is you!” He pulled Warren into a strong embrace. “What happened? Tell me everything!” he said, locking the door behind them and hobbling to his desk. Warren obliged, launching into a hurried explanation of everything that had happened up to that point.

  “I need to defeat the mimic and retake control of the hotel before it reaches the Black Caldera,” Warren said. “Do you know if he has any weaknesses?”

  Mr. Friggs dropped a thick book onto his desk. The title on the cover read CREATURES OF THE DARK: FAERIES, GOBLINS, AND TROLLS, AS WELL AS ASSORTED OTHER MAGICKAL PESTS.

  “You’re in luck,” he said. “I’ve been up all night researching, and I’ve found just the thing.” He thumbed through the yellowed pages and landed on a section titled “MIMIC [see also DOPPELGANGER AND FETCH].”

  “Did he take something from you in order to transform?”

  “Yes, my tooth!” Warren said.

  “Then you must get it back. The tooth is sustaining the illusion.”

  “That’s going to be tricky,” Warren said. “It’s in his mouth.”

  “I’m afraid that’s the easy part,” Mr. Friggs said. “Once you have the tooth, he’ll revert to his true form, and that’s when your difficulties will begin. A mimic can haunt and torment a person as long as it pleases. Some people are driven mad by vengeful
mimics that refuse to let them be. The only way to vanquish it is to speak its true name.”

  “But I don’t know its true name.”

  “You will need to find it out,” Mr. Friggs said. “And I believe that if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Friggs,” Warren said, giving his mentor another hug. “Stay here where it’s safe. I have a feeling things are about to get pretty crazy.”

  Warren left Mr. Friggs in the library and stepped out into the hall. He felt nervous, but he had no time to dwell. He looked out the nearest window and saw the Black Caldera in the distance. They were getting close, and Warren knew he needed to deal with Worrin alone. But how?

  Luring Worrin away from Uncle Rupert and Chef Bunion was essential. Warren wouldn’t dare confront the mimic if it meant putting his friends in jeopardy. He walked over to the intercom in the wall, cleared his throat, and pressed the button. In a high-pitched voice he said, “Warren! This is Petula. Can you meet me in the attic, please?”

  Even disguised, Warren’s voice sounded nothing like Petula’s, but he hoped the static would make it less obvious. In any case, he knew the mimic would take the bait. Warren scurried up the stairs and pulled down the ladder leading to the attic.

  He was relieved to find that his room was exactly as he’d left it. The walls were covered with his drawings, along with doodles and scribbles by Sketchy. The bed was still made, and his few belongings were stacked in a neat pile on the nightstand: his Jacques Rustyboots books, a shoe polish kit, and a bag of marbles.

  Warren remembered how his evil Aunt Annaconda had forced him to live in the small out-of-the-way space when she first moved in to the hotel. Now that she was gone and he was manager, Warren could have claimed any chamber in the hotel for himself. But he decided to stay in the attic. He had grown to like it. It was his home.