Ork’s First Scrithams Tree

Oft I’ve yarned ‘bout Ork and his many adventures, first inventing, then later saving Scrithams Day, but on this uncommonly icy night, I’m reminded of a tale me ole paps used to tell ‘bout the start of some of our eldest Scrithams Day traditions. So, gather close ‘round the hearth, with a mug of your favorite hot drink and listen.

*

That year, winter marched down from the Dragon’s Backbone early and as cold as a frost hag’s heart. The first snowflake landed on Burkta’s nose as she and Ork walked from the Town Hall after the Last Harvest Dance. By the time they made home, the barren, stubbly fields of the surrounding farmland wore a thin blanket of white.

Snow fell night and day from clouds that hid the sun and stars, and ice formed on the Mill Stream what wandered through town. The quick of it is the town of Rancor was caught flatfooted by the shrewish weather and folks had to hole up in their homes.

Shoveling snow to go out, if they went out at all, left scant hours of dingy daylight to collect firewood. That, together with a growing distance to the nearest sources of seasoned wood, left many folks short. They smiled at their children and secretly reckoned time by the number of logs they had left in their dwindling pile. To make it last, some folks closed their homes and moved in to share with family or neighbors. Of course, all the animals came in too. And not just the dog and cat, but the cow and chicken, the goat and pig, and the mouse and sparrow. Even the cricket came in to sing for his supper near the fire.

But as dire and crowded as things seemed, no one in Rancor dared venture into Witchwood, not even Ork. Unlike the townsfolk, Ork wasn’t worried about the curse, but crossing that tangled, jumbled, splintered scrith with drifting snow was invitin’ a sprained ankle or worse. He only dared enter that foreboding place this time of year when he desperately needed his dear friend, Scrithams. And while he yet had a sleigh, a horse, and a good ax, things weren’t that desperate yet.

One Fireday night, as Ork hurried home from Ricketspent with a sleigh-load of wood, he stopped at Shady’s to warm the ache from his bones and lift a pint with Glamwart, who never missed a Fireday night. He dismounted in the cold stillness, made sure his horse had cover, and entered the pub. The bell over his head clanged. It seemed louder than ever. The usual hubbub was subdued.

The regular crowd, bundled in their furs and hats, mumbled and muttered under their distilled breaths and few looked up from their tankards. Glamwart wore his goatskin hat and sat with his arms crossed at a table with two pints and two shots. He licked his lips when Ork came through the door.

“I almost give up ya,” he said.

Ork dropped his hat on the table, then stretched and rubbed his backside before sitting in the waiting chair. It was no more welcoming than his sleigh bench. The room was lit dimly by a small fire in the hearth and candles, a first for Shady’s.

“Well…?” said Glamwart eying the drinks on the table.

Ork took the shot glasses and dropped them into the pint tankards. He then took a slug from one and set it down. Glamwart snatched it and threw it back, taking several gulps. He slammed down the half-empty tankard on the table as Ork took a long drink on the other.

“What kept you?” asked Glamwart.

“I went to Ricketspent.”

“Why so far?”

“Have you tried to gather wood ‘round here lately? You’d be pressed to find a scrap of kindling. Rancor has grown, my friend, and the woods here ‘bout have grown thin.”

“What about Hob’s Thicket?”

“That’s for the folks in Hamshackle. There’s not much there, but they’ve little else.”

Ork took another pull on his drink and Glamwart asked, “And Witchwood?”

Shady’s fell silent as a tomb.

Ork and Glamwart felt the eyes of the tavern on the back of their necks. Ork made eye contract with a number of them over the lip of his tankard. He took a big gulp, then, with foam on his lips, belched as loud as he could in the direction of Axegrindel. Not to be outdone, the big warrior uncorked one of his rafter rattlers and the whole pub broke into laughter.

As the crowd returned to their tankards and a hubbub more suitable for a Fireday night, Ork leaned forward and whispered to Glamwart, “No one’s going in there.”

Within moments, a slight scuffle started amongst the men crowding the hearth. A jostle, an elbowed rib, a spilled drink, then chairs screeching back from a table. The first fist flew and the Fireday night brawl was on.

Mind you, it wasn’t a landmark brawl. Sure there were plenty of hackles up, and for good reason, but no one had the black blood for eye gougin’ or bitin’ or anythin’ serious. When all was done, the only thing broke was a stool, a few tankards, and a single tooth.

The broken stool soon found its way onto the fire, which warmed spirits if not hands. Ork wiped the blood from his lip then turned and left the pub.

Glamwart, stared after his friend, and raised his split eyebrow as the door shut.

A few sips later later, Ork came through the door with an armload of firewood and dropped it by the hearth. Several men patted him on the back and toasted him.

“Kurah, kurah!” they cheered. “Ork, Ork, Ork, Ork!”

Ork held his hands up, bowed and sat across from Glamwart.

“I thought you left.”

“Without my hat?”

Glamwart looked at Ork’s hat, still resting on the table. “Huh.”

“’Sides, I haven’t finished my drink.”

One drink soon became many as Shady and his customers bought Ork a few rounds.

Before he knew it, Ork sat in front of a stack of empty pints and shots. Everyone had left for the night, when Ork and Glamwart finished their drinks and Shady shooed them out the door. Their breaths floated like steam on the frosty air.

Ork tottered towards his sleigh, both steadying and steadied by Glamwart. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”

“Should you drive?”

“I’m not going to. The horse knows the way.”

Ork brushed the snow off the seat and his friend collapsed onto it with a grunt. Glamwart looked ‘round curiously, then tugged Ork’s sleeve as he picked up the reins.

“What?” said Ork.

“Didn’t you tell me you got a load of wood from Spicketrent – Ricketspent today?”

Ork eyed the empty floor of the sleigh at Glamwart’s feet, then turned to see behind the front seat. His wood had been plundered, save an armload, maybe two. His fuzzy head started to clear as the black blood bubbled in his gut.

At that moment, Ole Catchrat appeared next to the sleigh and reached for some of the remaining wood. Ork stared at the tribe’s chronicler and cleared his throat.

Catchrat looked up from the firewood in his bony arm. “Ah, Ork, me lad,” he said, takin’ another piece, “I’m glad I caught you.”

“You … caught … me.” said Ork.

(Lucky for Catchrat, Ork’s blood was half grog.)

“You may not have been the best apprentice, but you did right by your tribe this night. Reminds me of the Tale o’ Baldhammer in the Blood Tome, may his ghost bless you.”

“Baldhammer?” said Glamwart.

“Oh, sure,” said Catchrat. “I’m certain Ork can tell you.”

Ork stared blankly at him, dulled by too much grog and stunned to see his moralizing boyhood master brazenly takin’ wood from his sleigh.

“Surely you haven’t forgot?” said Catchrat. “When Baldhammer saved the tribe from freezin’ to death…? It happened right here! In a winter much like this one. Anything…?”

Glamwart edged closer to Catchrat. “Baldhammer was in Rancor?”

“Of course! Near the end of the Time of Wandering. I’ve been ruminating on it much of late.”

“How did he save them?”

Catchrat glanced once more at Ork, then began. “Well, the tribe was on the journey when a sudden, early blizzard blew down from the Dragon’s Backbone and snowed them in place. Why they couldn’t move, and had no way to keep warm. They would have died, if not for Baldhammer. He brought the whole tribe enough wood to last the winter!”

“How did he do that?”

“With his magic ax—“

“Gladmoon,” said Ork under his breath.

“That’s right! So you do remember.”

Ork stared at his dwindled pile o’ wood and said, “He marched into the scrith, and, in one night, brung here enough wood for the entire tribe.”

“And…?” prompted Catchrat.

“He did this for three nights, and when he was done they had wood enough for winter.”

Catchrat nodded. “And that was the start of Rancor.”

“The scrith?” said Glamwart. He leaned forward with large eyes and whispered. “You mean Witchwood?”

“Indeed,” said Catchrat. “Though some argue it was Ricketspent or Hob’s Thicket. In those days, none of them had a name.” Catchrat sighed. “‘Tis pity we don’t have that ax now.”

“What happened to it?”

“On this, The Blood Tome is silent, but some say Baldhammer lost it in the scrith, while others say he threw it into a lake.”

Glamwart sat back. “Why would he?”

“Baldhammer feared the people would leave the journey, settle into an easy life and grow soft.”

“The way of the journey,” muttered Glamwart.

“The strength of the tribe,” replied Catchrat.

Ork shook his head and sighed. “It’s just a story.”

“Ork!” scolded Catchrat. “It’s in the Blood Tome!”

“Miracles and magic axes? Bedtime tales for children if you ask me.”

Catchrat smacked Ork’s knuckles with a piece of firewood.

“Ow!”

“You’re just lucky I’ve an arm load or I’d lick upside your empty head with another.”

The words echoed in Ork’s head. How many times had he heard Catchrat say them after a sharp strike to Ork’s knuckles?

The black blood belched and began to boil. Ork, stared at the bookish historian and his nearly empty sled. The thought that he, the greatest taker in Rancor, had been taken by some drunks and an old fool…?

Ork pointed at Catcthrat and said, “Take your wood and go home, old man!”

The frail chronicler stiffened, spun, and scurried up the road to town. Ork snapped the reins and his horse pulled away in the other direction.

Ork was still fuming when he saw Glamwart to his door. He was about to stomp back to his sleigh and drive away when he saw how dim and chilly it was inside, and how much Glamwart’s wife shivered, all bundled up in her quilt by the hearth. He remembered what a good friend Gudra had been to his family when they were sick. And so, gritting his teeth and grumbling, he fetched the last full armload of wood and gave it to the good woman. She thanked him and off he went home.

*

Ork stabled his horse in the barn, gave him a few strokes with the brush and went to the back of the sleigh. Three pitiful pieces of wood, some twigs, and bits of bark were all that remained. He gathered these up and weaved his way to the house. Before going in, he stopped beside the woodshed to frown at the few sticks he found there. Finally, he stomped the snow from his boots on the porch and entered the house.

“Good,” said Burkta, as he placed the wood next to the hearth. “We were almost out.”

Ork grunted.

“Need help unloading the sleigh?”

“No. It’s done.”

He shed his furs without another word and stumbled into bed. But Ork couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned, trying to find a position where the room didn’t spin ‘round him. Closing his eyes only made it worse. He sat up on the side of the bed.

“Too many at Shady’s?” asked Burkta.

Ork grunted.

She patted him on the back, then rolled onto her side. As soon as Burkta snored, Ork got up and went to the kitchen.

He stared once more at the small pile of wood on the hearth. “Well, there’s nothin’ for it.”

He donned his furs and lit a lantern. At the door, he threw on his lucky cap, picked up his cold-iron hatchet and dag, and slipped outside into the frosty air.

He took his pulk sled from the barn and trudged through the deep snow to the back of his land where it bordered Witchwood. At the rickety fence, he stopped to wipe his brow and take in the face of that accursed clump of misery.

The tangle of viny brambles and warped ironwood trees looked impassible. He was the only one in a century that had dared enter, and the only one what kenned there were good-burnin’ trees, like oak and clawthorn, deeper in what wouldn’t destroy an ax.

He took down one end of the fence’s top rail and pulled the sled through the openin’ to the edge of the scrith. Still breathin’ hard, he  looked down the hill to his house. It appeared much closer than he expected.

Ork grunted.

He fidgeted the sled’s harness into place and marched into the hoary, twisted trees.

*

Ork slowly picked his way through Witchwood for a while. The drifting snow made everything strange — an illusion the pale, yellow light of his lantern could not dispel. He hadn’t seen a landmark since he entered, nor had he found any of the oaks or pines he had hoped for. What’s more, in his tipsy state, the tangled roots and sudden dips hidden beneath the snow sent him face-first to the ground more often than not.

After another frustrating fall, Ork sat up and scanned the area. There was no decent firewood to be seen what wasn’t rotten ironwood. The older and knottier it got, the quicker it dulled or broke blades, and once it died, iron wood became petrified within weeks. Even a cold iron hatched like Ork’s didn’t stand a chance.

Just a few feet ahead of him, he made out some footprints and drag marks in the snow. Looking back, he saw an identical trail behind him.

“I’m goin’ in a big circle!”

Ork rubbed his head where it hit a tree in the fall. “I bet Scrithams could help me find wood.” He closed his eyes and smiled. “Old fool! Why didn’t you think of that before?”

“Let’s see… If I came from that way, then Scrithams should be there.”

He got himself together and set off for the clearing where he usually met up with Scrithams.

After another hard trek, Ork found himself in a large glade, but it wasn’t the clearing he was looking for. All around him, there were thick stumps. Something glinted at the edge of his lantern light so he trudged towards it. There, he found an ax jutting from the largest stump in the middle of the glade. It’s long, blond handle was polished smooth. The blade of its silvery head was buried deep through the center rings of the clawthorn.

Ork put his foot to the stump, took hold of the handle, and pried it from the wood. It slipped from the tight rings without complaint, revealing a large, untarnished blade with an edge like a crescent moon. The lantern gave it a warm, golden hue.

As Ork raised it up for a closer look, the clouds parted and moonlight streamed into the glade. The ax seemed to smile, with the moonlight glinting off its bright edge.

The ax was marvelously light and Ork tried a few one-handed swings. It cut through the air like a knife.

“I bet we could cut and move a load o’ firewood, you and me. What fool left you out here?”

A sudden dark thought crossed his mind and he scanned the area for a body. All he could see within the wide ring of trees was the field of stumps and a few logs stacked on the far side.

“Lets give it a go.”

He put the ax in his sled and crossed the clearing to the logs. The ones on bottom were leavers, but them on top were in surprisin’ good shape and solid clawthorn at that.

He put down the lantern and picked up the ax. He stretched with it a moment, then waved it in the air, to get a better feel for it. Suddenly, the log on top of the stack shifted and rolled towards him. He jumped back and raised the ax. The end of the log hit the ground and flipped up, catapulting a pile of snow on Ork. He stood his ground, blinking, spitting, and shaking off the snow, and scanning the dark beyond the logs for a person or beast or even a monster, but none came.

“That you, Scrithams?”

His voice echoed briefly from the woods.

Ork relaxed and lowered the ax. The log, which had stood on end, creaked and fell towards him. He jumped back again and it landed a few inches in front of him with a thud.

Ork kicked the log. “Well, let’s see what you got.”

He took a swing. The ax sung as it cut deep into the log. He retrieved it easily and swung again. This time when the ax rang out the log was parted.

He frowned. “Rotten. I should have known.”

He tried to push away the piece cut off with his foot, but it was too heavy. He grabbed his lantern for a better look. The end of the log was perfect.

He scratched his head and muttered, “Not rotten.”

He chopped the log again and again, and in no time it was in pieces that would fit in his fireplace. He smiled at the ax. He wasn’t even sweating. He had never seen anythin’ that could cut through clawthorn so easily; not steel, not even cold iron.

He leaned the ax against the sled and picked up a piece of clawthorn to load into the back. As he hefted the wood, the ax fell and smacked his boot. He put the clawthorn in his sled, pushed the ax back against the sled and and turned to grab more wood. The ax fell into his leg. He looked down at the handle resting against him.

Ork picked up the ax and went to place it in the sled, but the log rolled to block the bottom. He blinked and moved the ax to put it next to the log and it intercepted him again. He pulled the ax towards him and the log rolled to him.

“What was in the blood grog Shady served us?”

He tried several times to put the ax down in the sled but the log continued to block him. He tried moving fast, then slow, then pretended to look the other way. Nothing got past the log. Finally, he lifted the ax head to eye level. The little log stood up on end in the sled.

Ork’s frosty breaths fogged the polished face of the ax. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

The ax made a faint hum and Ork dropped it in the snow and jumped back. He waited, and scrutinized the weapon as his breathing returned to normal.

Slowly he approached the sled and reached for the ax. Then gingerly, he lifted it from the snow and pointed it at one of the chopped logs. He tentatively waved the ax toward the pulk sled with a scooping motion and watched in wonder as the log rolled across the snow and onto the back. He quickly repeated this, growing more confident with each log, trying different ways of movin’ them, until he was movin’ several at once and his small sled was loaded.

Ork slipped the ax in his belt and got into the pulk’s harness. He leaned forward and pulled, but even on the snow, the sled pulled hard.

“What I really need is someone to help me bring all this wood back to my house. I wish Scrithams was here.”

He eyed the ax and had perhaps the cleverest idea of his life, save the invention of Scrithams Day that is.

(That clever, clever Ork.)

He took the ax and chopped several of the large clawthorn logs into various lengths, and more in the fireplace size besides. He then took a deep breath and pointed the ax at his new stack. The pile quivered and quaked and shifted.

“Come on, ax. Help me do this and I’ll give you a good oilin’.”

Suddenly vines and tree limbs erupted from the snow, intertwining with each other and the clawthorn pieces. As more wrapped the fresh cut stack, it pulled itself together and stood up. What now towered over Ork was a wooden giant with two legs and two arms.

Ork concentrated harder and he felt the ax humming in his hand. The giant turned at the waist and seemed to look at Ork, flexing its large, branching hands into fists. Ork felt a little nervous under its eyeless gaze, but thrust the ax out before him like a tribal talisman. The giant scooped up the pile of smaller logs at its feet and put them in the crook of one arm before taking hold of the sled harness with the other hand and dragging it into the clearing.

Ork slowly lowered the ax which had grown silent. He slipped it into his belt and followed the giant through the glade and into the woods where he had entered. Ork’s giant plodded through the forest, pushin’ between the crowded trees, even those of ironwood.

Before long, Ork found himself and his giant leaving Witchwood and crossing his fence. Though the clouds covered the sky once again, he could tell it wasn’t yet dawn.

At the house, he pointed at the sled and said, “Put that here.”

The giant left the sled by the front porch as told.

Ork then pointed to the woodshed. The giant put the logs it carried inside then faced its master. Ork used the ax to direct it into a sitting position.

“Well done,” he said. “You’re finished.”

The giant seemed to nod, then collapsed into a jumbled pile. With that, Ork took an armload of wood from the shed and entered the house.

He stoked the fire with the well seasoned wood. As he knew it would, the clawthorn lit up quickly and burned hot. With the fire burning bright, he shed his furs and went to bed.

*

Ork rose near noon and found Burkta cookin’, while Korka and Isslerud played hammer-shield-arrows by the hearth. His head throbbed, so he sat and poured himself a cup of water.

Burkta left her stew and sat across from him at the table, kneadin’ her hands. “Ork?”

Ork grunted.

“Did you take the wood  you brought home in the night?”

Ork opened one bloodshot eye.

She leaned forward. “I mean, did you take it from Rancor?”

He squeezed both eyes shut and tried to think. Finally, he said, “No. I went to Ricketspent yesterday.”

“Ork?”

Ork grunted.

“Gudra came by to check on you this mornin’ and told me you gave all your wood to Rancor.”

Ork squinted at her again and held his head. “I did what?”

“You stopped at Shady’s night last…”

“Uh-huh.”

“You had a lot to drink…”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you gave all the wood in your sleigh to the fellas…and Catchrat.”

Ork’s eyes popped open. “I thought that was a bad dream.”

“No. So where did you get all the clawthorn?”

Ork eyed the log burning brightly in the fireplace, then leaned back and lifted his furs off the floor. Beneath them, leanin’ against the wall, was the silver-headed ax with the broad grin.

He stood and hung his furs on the hook above the ax. “I think I went into Witchwood night last.”

“Witchwood? In this snow?”

He returned to his chair. “We were out of wood,” he said with a shrug.

“Ork, you could’a got hurt.”

“I thought it was a dream too, but there’s the ax I found, and there’s the wood I chopped.” He scratched his head. “So why’s it so important I didn’t take this wood?”

“I’d rather freeze before you take wood from the tribe.”

Ork took in his wife. She was a proud woman and fierce protector of her tribe. She knew the way.

“Where’s Scrithams?” she asked.

“Scrithams?”

“As much wood as you brought back, surely he helped you.”

Ork shook his head with a frown. “I couldn’t find him.”

Burkta scrunched her eyebrows and leaned forward. “You think he’s gone?”

“No. I just got lost. Couldn’t find the clearin’.”

“Well, you’re lucky to be alive. And you’re luckier I don’t kill ya,” she said, shaking her knuckles at him.

Ork grinned and poured another cup of water from the pitcher.

Burkta got up and returned to her stew. “You know what else she told me?”

“Who?”

“Gudra!”

“Did I give away my sleigh too?”

“No, but I hope you don’t mind … I gave Gudra some more wood.”

“Glamwart burn through it all already?”

“No, but listen.”

Ork sat back in his chair and took a long pull on his water.

“She told me,” began Burkta, “that Rua was found near dead in her home night last.”

“What?” Ork sat up and put his cup down.

“Dunk and Tula went to check on her and found her door froze shut and her near frozen.”

“She stands proud, but she should’a moved in with them.”

“Did so night last.”

“Good.”

“But Ork, she’s not the only story. Folks all over Rancor are without enough wood for winter. They’re gettin’ sick. They’re dyin’ in Hamshackle and Potter’s Alley thanks to this foul storm.”

“Widow Glumpot?”

“She too is sick.”

Ork growled with a deep frown.

“What’s more, Blacktooth’s talkin’ ‘bout canceling the Scrithams Day feast.”

Ork jumped to his feet. “What? No! He can’t!”

Burkta leaned over her stew. “We could sure use Baldhammer ‘bout now.”

“Baldhammer?”

“Aye. Gudra said Grimwart’s been jawing on and on ‘bout him all morning.”

Ork looked beside him at the wall. “No, by Baldhammer’s beard … we need his ax.”

“What?”

Ork began donning his furs.

“And where do you think you’re goin’?”

“I’ve got to find Scrithams.”

“Now? In Witchwood?”

“Aye.”

“But you haven’t ate.”

Ork picked up the smiling ax and examined its razor edge. “Gladmoon,” he whispered, and the polished head quietly vibrated.

“Come eat some of this stew,” said Burkta.

“I’ll take some stone bread.”

“It’s too dangerous in that scrith now, Ork. Besides, didn’t you get lost on the way there night last? What makes you think—”

“Night last I couldn’t ‘ave found an elf in Faelendale.”

“But—”

“There’s nothin’ for it, good wife. The tribe needs wood, and Scrithams and I are the only ones what can get it done.”

Burkta came to him and put the stone bread in his pockets. Then giving him a long hug, she said, “How? Even with Scrithams, that’s too much wood.”

Ork kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll explain later. With Scrithams Day peekin’ ‘round the corner, there’s no time to waste.”

With that, Ork slipped his cold iron weapons and the ax in his belt, pulled on his lucky hat, and left.

*

Witchwood was still, and despite the deep snow, Ork found his way to the clearing by sundown where he met Scrithams each year since the day of his finding. (The benefit of his determination and the absence of grog sloshing ‘round in his brain.) On the way there, he discovered the ax could force back tree branches with one wave or sweep away a snow drift.

With Gladmoon’s help, Ork built a small fire near the trees, then pulled out the last of his stone bread and waited. Before he finished a second piece, a ball of light came down through the trees, circled Ork, and then the ax before settling on the snow. There was a flash and Scrithams appeared.

He tilted his narrow, angular face and twitched his elf-like ears. “You are a bit early, by my reckoning, though you know how I am with time.”

“If I was here to collect you for Scritham’s Day, yes.”

“But you’re not.”

“No.”

“Is it sickness again? I sense your people are troubled.”

“Aye.”

“And your chief is threatening to cancel our day once again?”

“How did you know?”

“I know Blacktooth, and I’ve seen that look on your face.”

“My face?”

“Like you’re going to miss out on some squealerky pie.”

“I wish missin’ pie was my only concern.”

“What is it, Ork? What scheming have you come up with for us this year?”

“Scheming?” said Ork with a pouty lip. “Am I some common taker?”

“Certainly not. Your – um – elaborate plans are always fun!”

Ork grinned, remembering some of the things they had pulled off together. “Well, let’s get to it.”

Scrithams nodded.

“The problem,” said Ork, “is this blasted storm. Rancor has run out of firewood and they won’t make it if we don’t get them all enough for winter. And we’ve got to do it before the Scrithams Day feast in two days or there won’t be one.”

Scrithams looked puzzled. He pointed at Ork, then himself before holding up two fingers.

“Three,” said Ork, picking up Gladmoon. “Wait till you see what this fella can do.”

Scrithams eyed the ax and his ears went back.

“What’s wrong?” asked Ork.

“I saw him when I arrived. I sensed his power, though I don’t ken how he got here. I assume you brought him here?”

“Aye.”

“You should put him back. He’s been in this scrith for a very long time.”

“Why should that make a difference?”

“Ork, as cunning and crafty as you are, you do not see these woods as I do. Come.” Scrithams turned to walk away.

“Wait! Did you know Gladmoon was in Witchwood?”

Scrithams nodded.

Ork’s eyes widened. “And you just left him in that clearing?”

Scrithams turned back to face Ork. “You were never meant to find that clearing.”

“Why not?”

“My parents hid it from your people.”

“Why?”

“You cannot ken the entwined powers at work in this tangled place. There is true darkness here, Ork. Sometimes, it is better to leave things where you find them. I feel that ax is one such thing.”

Ork took a deep breath and blew it out, fogging the polished surface of the ax. “If this were another day, and my people were safe, I might heed you, but today my people are in danger.”

Scrithams nodded then tilted his head. “I wonder.”

“What?”

“Would you heed my warning on another day?”

Ork looked at his warped reflection in the ax and scrunched his face.

Scrithams laughed. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

Ork grinned sheepishly.

“Well, if we are … throwing caution to the wind,” said Scrithams, “then this should be fun!”

“I’m glad you get me.” Ork chuckled and slipped the ax into his belt. “Throw caution to the wind’, eh? I rather like that.”

“Something I heard among the humans.”

“Huh. They might not be such a bad lot after all.”

“What do you need of me?”

“You know Witchwood better than any, so take me to the best place to collect lots of firewood — hopefully clawthorn and oak. And, if you will…”

“What?”

Ork pointed to his friend’s ears. “You could fix all the rotten wood, makin’ our job easier.”

Scrithams smiled and his ears stood up. “I do like fixing things.” He clasped Ork’s wrist and began to glow, starting at his ears and rapidly spreading through his body.

Suddenly, Ork felt like he was floating. Everything was hazy light and dancing shadow. He couldn’t see or even feel his limbs. And just like that it was over.

He blinked and he was standin’, with wobbly knees, in another wooded area on the edge of a small glade. There were lots of hardwood trees and limbs on the ground in the clearing, just like he wanted. The light from Scrithams faded back to his ears and winked out before he released Ork’s wrist.

Ork held up his lantern. “We still in Witchwood?”

“Yes.”

“And Rancor?”

Scrithams nodded. “That way.”

“Not quite what I had in mind. I thought you’d just lead me here.”

“I thought we were in a hurry.”

“Well … yeah.”

Scrithams smiled and gestured for Ork to proceed.

Ork broke out Gladmoon and said, “Now watch this.”

As had the night before, the clouds parted and the moon shown through on the scrith. The bare limbs of the trees here twisted and snaked ‘cross each other against the sky. The ax made quick work of cutting several piles of long logs from the fallen trees. Ork pointed the ax at one woodpiles, and vines, limbs, and roots entwined it. In seconds, amidst creakin’ and grindin’, the whole thing shifted, unfolded, and stood up. It twisted at the waist then tilted its head down at them.

Scrithams’ mouth widened and his ears went back. He stepped back as his eyes climbed up the enormous frame of Ork’s giant. “Why is it eying at me like that?”

Ork looked at Scrithams and then the giant. “You’re imaginin’ it.” He held out the ax and said, “Stay right there.”

The wood giant straighted and stood at attention.

Ork pointed Gladmoon at a second pile of logs. Momentarily he had two large basket-like cages joined at the top by two arches.

“Pick it up,” ordered Ork.

The giant picked up the cages.

“Now, put it on your shoulders.”

The giant did as Ork instructed and the two cages came to rest on its chest and back.

“Now, fill them with good firewood.”

The giant lumbered around the area scooping up pieces of wood and loading the baskets.

“See now?” said Ork. “That’s how we’ll gather all that wood for Rancor.”

Scrithams stepped up beside him. “What happens to your… pet when it finishes delivering wood to your people?”

“It becomes more firewood.”

The giant groaned and stared at them as it stooped to pick up several logs.

Scrithams whispered. “Perhaps you shouldn’t mention that in front of it.”

“It’s just logs.”

“I am not so sure.”

“Well, I am.”

“Why did you give it a head?”

Ork shrugged, “That’s just the way I saw it. I made the other one the same way.”

“You made another one?”

“Aye. Night last, but not as big.”

“Where is the other one?”

“Back at the house.”

“You left one of these just walking around your place?”

“No. It’s a pile o’ wood in my yard. Here,” said Ork, holding out Gladmoon. “You give it a try.”

Scrithams stepped back and crossed his arms.

“He won’t bite,” said Ork. “Look, if I can do this, than I can’t wait to see what you can do.”

Scrithams shook his head like a child burned by a hot cauldron.

“Suit yourself,” said Ork, “but you’re missin’ all the fun.”

Scrithams paced nervously as Ork took the ax and went about makin’ two more giants with baskets. When these were complete and gatherin’ wood with the first, Ork turned to Scrithams and said, “Look, if we’re gonna to gather enough wood for Rancor by Scrithams Day, we’re gonna need more of these wood men.”

“More? I can’t believe you made these!”

“Have you got a better idea?”

Scrithams frowned as he watched the giants collecting wood. He put one hand to his mouth and his ears glowed faintly. At last, he recrossed his arms and said, “I must be spending too much time with you.”

Ork grinned. “So you’ll try?”

Scrithams rolled his eyes and shook his head. Then he looked at Ork. “Promise me I won’t regret this.”

“I promise it’ll be fun.”

Scrithams gave Ork a double-take, then sighed and took the ax. He waved it at one of the log piles and waited.

“Oh, you’re not even tryin’.” said Ork.

“I am! I waved it at the wood.”

“You have to concentrate. Picture in your head what you want to happen, then point the ax at it, and … you wave it around a little.”

“Wave it … around.”

“A little.”

Scrithams stretched his neck side-to-side and adjusted his shoulders, then took a deep breath.

“Throw caution to the wind,” said Ork, with a broad sweep of his hand.

Scrithams glowered at him.

“Fine, fine,” said Ork. “I’ll stand over here.”

Scrithams widened his stance.

“You’ve got this,” Ork whispered.

Scrithams cleared his throat and closed his eyes. The tips of his ears lit up and emitted a thin tone like a tiny bell that grew higher in pitch as the light brightened. Gladmoon hummed in response. At last, Scrithams lifted the ax and pointed it.

A blast of air shot out in all directions from Gladmoon’s head. Ork was knocked back into a tree and lost his footing. Scrithams dropped the ax and collapsed to his knees in the snow. Darkness returned to Witchwood as the clouds swallowed the moon.

Scrithams’ back was illuminated by pale light from the fallen lantern. Ork got up and ran to him. “Are you hurt?”

Scrithams shook his head. “I only need catch my breath.”

“Yeah,” said Ork, scannin’ the woods surrounding them.

The scrith was still, save the giants collectin’ logs a short distance away in the clearing.

“What just happened?” asked Ork.

Scrithams looked at him and shrugged. “I tried.”

Ork patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks for tryin’.”

Just then, a deep moan echoed through the woods. Ork and Scrithams looked at each other and froze. Scrithams broke the silence.

“Did you…?“

“Aye.” Ork’s hand drifted to his cold iron dag.

“Bear?”

“The wind, wasn’t it?”

“What wind?”

Ork picked up the lantern and scanned the trees. “The wind. Had to be,” he said with shrinking confidence.

Then there erupted a creakin’ and crackin’ noise from all around them. The trees began to sway as if buffeted by a great storm. They rocked back and forth, wrenchin’ their roots from the clumpy, frozen soil.

Scrithams grabbed up the ax and went back-to-back with Ork who pulled his dag.

“What by Baldhammer’s beard did you picture?” yelled Ork over the racket.

“At first … a giant like yours …”

Slowly, the two of them edged farther into the clearing with the giants and away from the thrashing trees.

“At first?”

“Yes. But at the moment last a thought popped into my head.”

Ork paled. “What?”

“I thought, wouldn’t it be more fun if a lot of big trees marched into Rancor instead.”

“Fun?”

Scrithams shrugged. “Seemed fun at the moment.”

“You and I have to have a talk about what fun means.

Just when it looked like the trees would topple into the clearing they stopped. The scrith was again still.

Ork sighed. “That was a close one.”

No sooner had he said this that one tree stepped, or rather falumped, into the clearing. Falump, falump. Slowly it shambled toward them, groping unsteadily with blind roots before dragging itself forward. Falump, falump, falump. After its first steps, it was joined by another and another, comin’ from all sides of the clearing, about twenty trees in all. The shambling trees closed in around them and Ork’s giants, forming a tightening ring. Without warnin’, two eyes opened in the trunk of each, shinin’ like the eyes of wolves.

Scrithams held the ax towards them and said, “Stay right there.”

The trees kept coming.

“Stay!” he said firmly. “Ork? They’re not stopping.”

“Here. Gimme that,” said Ork. He handed Scrithams the lantern and took Gladmoon. He stepped forward, thrust the ax at the trees and shouted, “Stay! … Hold! … Stop! …”

The giants stopped pickin’ up wood and stood erect. Movin’ faster now, the trees pushed past two of them, gettin’ close enough to take a swipe at Ork with their long, claw-like branches. Ork ducked them and Scrithams pulled him back to safety.

Ork continued to yell at the trees as they retreated to the center of the clearing. “Wait! … Go back!”

“Try waving it around a little,” said Scrithams.

“Stop!”

“You tried that one already.”

“Halt!”

“I don’t think these trees are listening.”

“Freeze!”

“Did you try waving it around a little?”

Ork spun ‘round, “Fine, fine! So maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, but you’re the one what thought an army of trees would be fun!”

“You’re the one who put the ax in my hand and told me to … ‘wave it around!’”

“A little! I said a little! Does this look like a little?”

“I don’t know. I only took beginner ax waving at the ax waving academy.”

Ork suddenly stopped blustering and burst into laughter. “Ax wavin’ academy?”

Scrithams laughed with him until they were forced to retreat again.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Ork, runnin’ for an opening between the trees. But the trees snatched at them and moved close the gaps between them.

Finally Ork and Scrithams made for cover at the feet of the remainin’ wood giant. The trees continued to close in. Ork handed Scrithams his cold iron weapons and they went back-to-back again.

“Stop!” said a faint voice, and the trees froze.

Ork could feel his heart pounding in his neck. “Was that you?” he whispered.

“No,” replied Scrithams.

Again, they heard the voice. This time from just beyond the ring of trees. “Move aside.”

Two of the trees across from them parted, revealing an ancient, gnarled oak. It had bright, flinty eyes similar to the circled trees, but also a long, pointed nose and grim mouth. Despite its overall rough appearance it was distinctly feminine. She stepped forward on two sturdy legs and the trees closed ranks behind her.

“You!” she said, pointing at Ork. “Violator!”

Ork’s silver tongue failed him. “Uh…”

His accuser continued. “I have suffered your kind for far too long. You take and spoil, kill and burn.”

“I don’t ken.”

“You stole our water and spoil the rest with your foul practices. You kill trees and burn their remains in your revolting, little dens. Now, you bring that thing back to my lands, wake these angry spirits, and you make these…” She gestured to the giant.  “These horrors! The fruit of a disturbed mind and a savage heart. I shall suffer your kind no longer.”

The oak narrowed her eyes at Scrithams. “And you — a child of the forest — you should know better.” She turned her back on them. “Your presence here has condemned you. Take them.”

The shambling trees shifted their focus to the trespassers. Ork swept a drift of snow into the eyes of two of the trees with the broad ax head. They stepped back and tried to brush and shake the snow from their eyes.

Ork grabbed Scrithams. “Get on!” he shouted and lept onto one leg of the giant. Scrithams jumped onto the other leg as Ork shouted, “Get us out of here!”

The giant strode between the blinded trees and roughly shoved them apart. It continued its march into the open as they fell to the ground with a crash.

(Oh, that crafty ole Ork.)

“Get them!” the oak woman screamed.

All the trees turned and shambled after the retreating giant. Two more tripped over their fallen companions.

The oak shouted orders to her topsy-turvy troops. “Get up, you oafs! And you two! Help them up! You others go after them!”

“Whoa!” said Ork and the giant halted.

“Why are we stopping?” asked Scrithams.

Ork hopped off and turned back to his other two giants. He pointed Gladmoon at them and the trees, and said, “Keep them from following us. And her too!”

The two wooden men turned and strode toward the trees, flinging logs at them from their baskets. The logs knocked the trees off balance and they stumbled (as well as falumping trees can stumble).

Between fallin’, stumblin’ and tryin’ to right their companions, most of the trees were ill prepared for the giants’ attack. When their ranks clashed, the giants pushed the first two down with ease.

“Don’t let them push you around!” the oak woman shouted. “Use your roots!”

Under the direction of the oak, the trees soon recovered, some fightin’ the giants while the others got upright again. The fightin’ was fierce, with bark and branches flyin’, but the trees held their ground.

Slowly, the trees started to push the giants back. Eventually, the trees surrounded the giants, held them and began to pull their limbs apart. Some of the trees withdrew from the fray and followed after Ork and Scrithams.

“We better get out of here,” said Ork. They remounted their giant’s legs and strode from the clearing in the direction of Rancor.

As they entered the tree line, the oak woman yelled after them, “By my sap, I shall destroy your village and scatter you to the four winds before the end of Long Night!”

*

Despite the dense forest, Ork urged the giant into a run and soon they had come more than a mile with their joggling lantern haphazardly splashed its amber light on the passing thicket. He looked over and found his companion leaning out from the giant’s leg to catch the wind in his hair, a wide grin on his lips.

Scrithams glanced at Ork and said, “I told you…fun!”

Ork shook his head, but an irresistible smile stole onto his face.

Scrithams leaned back and howled, “Wahoo!” and Ork broke into laughter.

When they were a short distance from Rancor, they came to a steep hill that funneled into a narrow, dry ravine.

“This is the only way to Rancor from up here,” said Scrithams.

“Good.”

The giant took them down into the ravine, which emptied onto low wooded hills. Ork stopped the giant again and instructed it to build a fence in the ravine to stop the trees. The giant nodded and marched back to the ravine while Ork and Scrithams continued to Rancor on foot.

Before long, Ork spotted the village lights through the trees. “Better wait here,” he said. “No tellin’ what they’d do if they saw you.”

Ork took a few more steps and realized that Scrithams was still walking beside him. He looked at Scrithams but saw instead a green-eyed youth dressed in furs with tribal bead work like anyone in Rancor, but he was thin as a rail, too thin for a child of the tribe, and his ears were a little too big.

Ork stopped. “Scrithams?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doin’?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“I’d rather do this alone.”

“I am partly to blame. Let me help.”

Ork screwed up his mouth as he examined Scrithams from boots to belfry. “Fine, but wear my lucky hat to cover those ears, and try to talk more …”

“You want me to speak more?”

“No, no. Try to talk … more like … a man.”

“A man?”

“Like me.  Talk like me.”

Scrithams tilted his head. “I thought I was talking like you.”

“It’s just, when you talk, you’re all … buttons for every hole.”

Ork placed his hat on Scrithams’ head. It was sloppy, but it hid his ears.

*

They emerged from Witchwood near the edge of Rancor, where the tangled trees ended and the road began. The snow-covered village was thinly veiled by a light snowfall.

Suddenly, globs of wet snow smashed into their faces and chests, and slipped past Ork’s fir collar and down his back. They both leaned forward to shake and brush off the snow. There were blurts of laughter.

Splat! Just as they looked up, more snowballs struck them with surprising accuracy.

Four boys stood, two on each side of the low stone bridge, pressing snow into balls and snickering. Ork growled and rushed a couple steps forward. The two closest boys dropped their snow and ran for town, but the last two stood their ground and continued to pelt the newcomers. It was the Hatchet brothers, twin troublemakers and well-known pranksters, and Ork and Scrithams had stumbled into one of their infamous ambushes.

They advanced on the boys, blocking the constant barrage with their hands.

“Hatchets!” Ork shouted. “Stop!”

The volleys continued.

Ork handed Scrithams Gladmoon, then ran the last few yards to tackle the boys into a snow bank. The boys laughed and wrestled with Ork until he too was laughing.

At last they stopped and all three laid on their backs, breathing hard and looking up at the lanky youth grinning down at them from the road. He helped them to their feet and they brushed each other off.

“What are you boys donin’ out here?” asked Ork.

“First thing, Ma sent us to sell carrots and bruss-cabbage at the market,” said one.

“You’re a long way from the market or home,” said Ork.

“Well,” began the second brother, “no one was at the market yet, so we decided to have some fun.”

“We saw Buck and Roan walkin’ this way and we followed them.”

“You mean ambushed them.”

The boys laughed.

The first one said, “They were makin’ that snowman an’ didn’t see us sneak up on ‘em. It was great!”

“Well, you boys need to get home. Things are ‘bout to get dangerous here.”

“What do you mean? Can we help?”

“No,” said Ork. “I mean real danger.”

“We can help,” said the first brother, thumping his chest with his thumb. “We’re nearly thirteen!”

Both boys stuck out their chests and raised their chins.

“I don’t know,” said Ork.

Scrithams put his hand on Ork’s arm. “Perhaps they’re right. Maybe they can help.”

“Yeah, Ork. We can help!

Ork stared at his friend. “You know what we’re facing. What can they do?”

“How many times did they blind you with snowballs just now? Remember how we got away from the trees at the clearing?”

Ork looked back at the boys. What snowballs he hadn’t managed to block had hit him in the face. “I see what you’re saying, but there’s too few of us.”

Scrithams leaned in close. He subtly slipped Gladmoon into Ork’s belt and whispered, “You could make more…”

Ork craned his head back. “I thought you were against all that.”

“I was, but as the humans say—”

“Throw caution to the wind?”

“No. Well, yes, but they also say, ‘Hanged for a horse as a pony.’”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Throw caution to the wind!”

Ork scanned the area. “It’s an idea, but there’s no good wood ‘round here. And those over there are all iron wood. All we have is lots and lots of snow.”

Scrithams nodded to the unfinished snowman. “From what I’ve seen, I don’t think you need much wood.”

Ork eyed the snowman and approached it. “You boys still got carrots and bruss-cabbages?”

“Our ma would switch us sure if we didn’t.”

“Bring ‘em here.”

Ork finished the snowman’s head and used Gladmoon to cut two branching sticks of green ironwood for arms. When the Hatchets returned with their baskets, he added a carrot for a nose and pressed in two bruss-cabbages for eyes. He added a few more to form a mouth.

“There,” he said. “No one’s gonna miss a few bruss-cabages.”

He pulled Gladmoon from his belt and waved the boys and Scrithams back. He stepped back a few feet himself, pointed the ax at the snowman and closed his eyes.

“You gonna kill the snowman?” said the second Hatchet.

From behind, Scrithams slipped his arms over their shoulders and his face between theirs. “Sh-h-h! If this works, you will ken what’s happened and believe everything else we have to tell you.”

The boys glanced at each other and eyed the strange youth.

Ork breathed out, opened his eyes, and waved Gladmoon at the snowman … just a little.

The snowman blinked and shook its head, spraying a fine mist of snow around it. It then flexed its wood arms and thick fingers, and swiveled back and forth at the waist and neck.

The boys’ round eyes and open moths were identical.

“Snowman,” said Ork. “Make a snowball.”

The snowman swiveled and scooped up some snow and formed it into a ball.

“Good. Throw it hard at the knot in that big tree.”

The snowman flung the snowball and hit the knot dead center.

“Great!” said Ork. “Now, can you make larger snowballs like you’re made of?”

The snowman looked down at itself and nodded.

“Good. Make more snowmen.”

Immediately, the snowman’s lower ball rolled forward with its chest and head gliding over it. It bent and began rolling snow into a big ball.

“Hatchets,” said Ork. “Hatchets!”

The boys blinked and drug their eyes away from the living snowman. “Yeah,” they said in unison.

“Make lots of snowballs.”

“Uh… Can we ask why?” said the first boy.

Ork nodded. “Because in a couple hours, maybe less, an army of angry, walkin’ trees will raid Rancor and try to tear it down. Our job is to slow ‘em down.”

“Walkin’ trees?” exclaimed the boys.

“You see that snowman?” said Scrithams, “It’s sort of like that but scarier.”

Without another word, the boys started to work.

Scrithams took Ork aside. “Even if we manage to slow them down, then what?”

“I’m workin’ on it. I’m workin’ on it.”

“Well, work faster.”

Before long, the Hatchet brothers had a big pile of snowballs and, with Gladmoon’s help, there were several blank snowmen standing on the dead-end road before Witchwood. Ork and Scrithams finished the snowmen with branches, carrots and bruss-cabbages and Ork brought them to life. He set these to work making more snowmen, snowballs and a snow fort.

“What good will a wall of snow do against angry tree spirits?” asked Scrithams.

“You’re going to fix it when it’s done,” said Ork.

“Fix it?”

“Turn it to solid ice.”

“Ah-ha!”

(That clever, clever Ork.)

When the snow fort was finished and Scrithams had discreetly fixed it, Ork turned to him and said, “I’ve worked it out.”

“And…?”

“Even if we slow the trees down and stop them here, we’re going to need help to defeat them. We’re going to need warriors.”

He put his hands on the Hatchet brothers’ shoulders. “Boys … men. Go to Blacktooth and tell him we need warriors at this bridge. Don’t tell them anything else. Rancor is depending on you.”

The boys swelled with pride and ran over the low bridge toward Blacktooth’s lodge.

*

Ork and Scrithams continued to make preparations and snowmen as they waited for warriors to arrive. The time seemed both fleeting and painfully slow. They paced back and forth, checkin’ and double-checkin’ their defenses and tryin’ to figure out anythin’ more they could do. Scrithams used his powers to make a tiny fire on the bridge away from the snowballs and laboring snowmen. It melted a small circle in the vast white blanket exposing the ancient, dark bridge stones beneath their feet.

“Where are they?” asked Ork, rubbing his hands together over the flame and shivering. His companion didn’t bother to reply as it was not the first time he’d asked. Ork’s stomach complained loudly. “Should ‘ave told those boys to get some food while I was at it.”

Just then, the Hatchet boys broke through the snowy veil at the bend and came up the road. Their heads hung low. They were alone.

Ork and Scrithams rushed to them.

“What happened?” asked Ork. “Where are the warriors.”

The first boy looked up, with tears in his eyes. “They didn’t believe us.”

His brother added, “Called us liars an’ scoundrels.”

“An’ Grimhand kicked us on the way out of the lodge. Never even got to see Blacktooth.”

“Said they weren’t fallin’ for another of our pranks.”

Scrithams pushed his hat back on his head. “What do we do now?”

Ork frowned. “Boys, you stay hear and guard the bridge with Scri-itch … my cousin. I’ll get help.”

They escorted the boys over the bridge and watched them trudge back to their fort.

“Scrithams, ole friend. I need to you to stay and watch after the boys. Their safety is the most important thing.”

“I will keep them safe.”

Ork started for Blacktooth’s lodge, but stopped on the bridge. “Hatchets, snowmen! If the trees come before I return, slow them down best as you can. Blind them with snowballs. Keep them off balance. That is their weak spot. If they get too close, especially if they breach the wall, you run for it. Scritch is in charge. Got it?”

The boys and snowmen saluted and Ork left.

*

Ork spotted Grimhand and a handful of guards at Blacktooth’s door. He watched as they sent away all petitioners without a word. This, however, did not discourage Ork. He had snuck into the lodge on numerous occasions. And the falling snow was actually an advantage as the guards were more interested in stayin’ close to the brazer out front.

Ork crept into the lodge through a rear window, slipped through the servant’s quarters and burst into Blacktooth’s hall.

“My chief!” he said, announcing himself.

The room fell silent. Blacktooth, Tigara and  their daughter sat close around the hearth with many of the elders.

“Ork?” said the chief. “Did Grimhand let you in here?”

“I am here with dire news.”

“This is a meeting of the counsel,” said Blacktooth.

“But this is really important.”

Grimhand appeared behind Ork and grabbed his shoulders. “I’m sorry, my chief. This mischief-maker snuck by my men somehow.”

Ork ducked and slipped out of his furs, then stepped backwards into the room to face the massive warrior. He addressed Blacktooth again. “My chief, the trees of Witchwood are on their way to destroy Rancor!”

Grimhand tossed Ork’s furs on the floor and entered the room. “The Hatchet brothers were here earlier spillin’ the same swill ‘n’ hoke yarn. This is not the time for pranks, Ork.”

“It’s not a prank.”

“Walkin’ trees? You’re drunk, Ork! Go home.”

“No.”

Grimhand grinned. It sent a chill up Ork’s spine.

“You have this comin’,” said Grimhand, and he drew the long dag from his boot.

Ork yanked Gladmoon from his belt without thinking and raised it to strike.

“Stop!” shouted Tigara.

The men froze and she continued. “The blood of our ancestors burns hot against this bitter winter in all of us, but your are both men of the tribe and this is my home.”

Grimhand clenched his jaw and adjusted the weapon in his fist. “Well, Ork?”

“I can’t leave before you hear me out.”

Blacktooth growled and stood next to his wife. “Ork, so help me…! You are loosing any favor you had in this lodge. If you don’t leave now, Grimhand will have no choice.”

Grimhand nodded to the chief and steeled himself. To Ork, he looked like a mountain lion ready to pounce.

“Wait!”

Everyone turned to face the far side of the room. A puff of smoke wafted from the shadows. After a pause, a boot-faced man in a beaded fur robe with a wolf-head hood emerged. As he quietly walked to Ork, folks parted to let him pass. In the firelight the deep lines of his weathered face were like canyons.

“Ork,” said the old man.

Ork bowed his head. “Whitewolf.”

The shaman took a long draw on his pipe and blew the smoke at Ork. He waved his free hand to encourage the smoke to rise around him. At last he spoke.

“How came you by that ax, Ork?”

Ork glanced at Gladmoon then back to the shaman. “I found it in the scrith, two nights past.”

Whitewolf took another puff on his pipe. “Has it told you its name?”

Ork nodded.

“You must have had a deep need to go into Witchwood two nights past.”

“I went to collect firewood for my family.”

Whitewolf nodded. “Tell me what happened in the scrith night last.”

Ork glanced around the room and found all eyes on him. Grimhand still held his blade.

Ork cleared his throat and said, “I went into the scrith to get firewood for the tribe.”

“But that’s not what happened, is it?”

Ork shook his head. “I accidentally woke some angry tree spirits and now they are on their way here to destroy Rancor. I didn’t mean to do it, my chief!”

Whitewolf turned to the chief and said, “He speaks true. The ax he found is no ordinary weapon, and I believe Rancor may be in real peril.”

“The spirit trees may be approaching the low bridge even now.”

Blacktooth glared at Ork and Ork looked at the floor.

“I advise,” said Whitewolf, “that you ready the warriors while Ork and I scout the low bridge. Oh, and bring lots of axes, just in case.”

*

Ork walked from Blacktooth’s lodge with Whitewolf, happy to have escaped a thrashing by Grimhand and his men. He stared at the revered elder matching him step for step.

“What is it, Ork?”

“I know of you, of course, but I didn’t think you even knew my name.”

“Why not? I’m the one what gave it to you.”

Ork stopped in his tracks and Whitewolf stopped to look at him.

“You thought that was your Pa, huh?”

Ork nodded.

“Come. If you left the Hatchet brothers to guard the bridge, they may have burned it down by now.”

Ork chuckled and they continued at a quickened pace.

Ork pulled the ax from his belt. “This is Gladmoon.”

“Do you know who once wielded it?”

Ork nodded. “I know the story.”

“Did you seek it?”

“No. I was drunk and just got lucky.”

“You think you finding that ax now, in the tribe’s time of need , was luck?”

Ork examined the ax. “I suppose not.”

*

When Ork and Whitewolf got to the bend in the road, they heard shouting. They ran to the low bridge to find the boys and spirit trees engaged in an all-out snowball fight. The Hatchet brothers, Scrithams and their army of snowmen had brought the trees to a full stop at the tree line and continued to pelt them with shot after shot. The front row of spirit trees had turned their backs and joined branches, forming a kind of fort, from which their compatriots launched their own massive volleys of snowballs.

Ork and the shaman ran up and squatted behind the ice wall of the boy’s fort. The defenders bobbed up and down to let the trees’ snowballs fly overhead, then pick up more ammunition and return fire. Several snowmen were busy making more snowballs.

“What’s happening?” said Ork.

Scrithams threw his snowballs, then crouched and said, “The spirit trees only just arrived. We ambushed them — the boys are really good at that — and so far, we’ve got them stopped.”

Scrithams stood up to throw another snowball.

“What do you mean, ‘so far’?”

Scrithams pointed to the pile of snowballs. Those won’t last forever.”

A large snowball slammed into one of the snowmen and knocked off his head. He fell into a pile and the other snowmen began making his remains into snowballs. A snowman with a missing arm and large cavity in his chest took one of the fallen snowman’s arms and some of his snow and patched himself up before returning to the front lines with a scowl.

Scrithams stood and got clobbered by a snowball that sent him to the ground. He sat up, shaking his head and spitting snow. “And they’re getting better.”

“Who is this lad?” asked Whitewolf.

Ork pulled Scrithams to his knees. “This is Scritch… my cousin.”

The shaman eyed the unusually slender young buck next to Ork. “Cousin, huh?”

“Distant. Very distant.”

“From Raven Tor,” added Scrithams. “Nice to meet ya.” With that he stood and threw another volley.

“Didn’t think they were so polite in Raven Tor.”

Just then, a woman’s voice shouted from Witchwood. “You, in front! Move backwards.”

“Oh, no,” said Ork.

He and Whitewolf cautiously raised up to see over the top of the wall. The front row of spirit trees roughly falumped one falump towards the bridge.

Whitewolf pointed through a tiny gap in the trees. “There’s someone commanding them. Who is it?”

“There was a … an oak woman with them night last.”

Whitewolf hunkered down and Ork joined him.

The woman shouted, “And again!”

Falump!

“An ancient, gnarled oak woman what walks on two legs?” said Whitewolf.

“Aye. You know her?”

“The ancestors call her Knotica. I know of her, but I have never seen her with my eyes.”

“Can we defeat her?”

“Defeat her?” The shaman thought about this a moment. “Even if we could, I don’t think we ought to.”

“Then what do we do?”

Whitewolf absently pulled out his pipe and put it to his lips. “We have to make peace.”

“How? She wants to wipe us out!”

“Are you afraid Ork?”

Ork pouted sullenly and scratched the wart on his chin. “I am afraid for my family and for Rancor.”

“Are you afraid to face her again?”

Ork felt Gladmoon pressing against his waist and was reminded why all this was happening. “Yes, but this is my fault, so I will go.”

“Good, then I’m coming with you.”

“Wait. What if I had backed down?”

“Your blood is black, Ork.”

“Aye, but sometimes it’s not enough?”

“Sometimes you think too much.”

“No, tell me. What if I had?”

“But you didn’t. And that is why you are Ork.”

Another snowman went down in a pile of snow.

“What do we do?” asked Ork. “How do we get to her?”

Whitewolf pointed to an outcropping of trees down stream from their position. “Make for those ironwoods down there.”

They crept to the end of the ice wall and got ready to run. Ork looked back and said, “Scritch?”

Scrithams ducked as snow splattered off the top of their wall. “What?”

“Take care of the Hatchets. Their safety comes first. No matter what, if the trees get to the wall or break through, all of you run.”

“What are you doing?”

“Throwin’ caution to the wind.”

Ork and Whitewolf dashed from the fort, dodgin’ and weavin’ the hail of giant snowballs that followed them. They soon left snowball range and came to the tangle of ironwood trees protruding from the scrith.

“Strike here,” said Whitewolf, pointing at a particularly large and twisty root.

“Won’t that damage the ax?”

Whitewolf laughed. “It was ironwood what Baldhammer first brought to the tribe.”

Ork swung Gladmoon and cut into the root. The second shot chucked out a wide V.

“Knotica!” shouted Whitewolf.

Ork chopped out another chunk.

“Knotica!”

Ork stopped and Whitewolf said, “And again.”

Ork struck the tree again.

“Knotica!”

“Stop!”

Ork looked up the berm to his right. The spirit trees had stopped their attack. Abruptly, the oak woman pushed through the mob of trees and walked over the snow covered, rocky terrain between them.

“That’s enough,” whispered Whitewolf, placing a hand on Ork’s shoulder. “But stay right there and be ready to swing again.”

Ork raised the ax.

“Stop!” she shouted.

Whitewolf pulled out his pipe and set it in his lip. He then bowed his head and said, “Welcome, Knotica.”

She glared at Ork. “You again!” Her eyes softened little when she took in the shaman. “You know my name, but I do not know you.”

“The spoken words of our ancestors tell me your name. I am Whitewolf of Rancor, bearer of the Spirit Crook, and this is Ork. We are here to speak peace.”

“What can your kind know of peace? You sow violence and worship war.”

“It is true that we are restless warriors in peace, but we still seek after it. Peace with our neighbors, peace with nature, peace with the spirits; it is the way of my journey.”

Knotica stopped several paces away and twisted to look behind her. “Continue,” she said, and the spirit trees resumed their attack. She returned her eyes to Whitewolf and said, “Continue.”

“How can we when they’re still attacking?” said Ork.

“They shall continue until your village is destroyed or I am convinced. And be warned, if you are planning to kill me, that would leave no one to hold them back and they would never stop.”

“Then we should get to it,” said Whitewolf, inviting her to come closer.

She took a few steps nearer.

The shaman patted Ork on the shoulder and said, “Put it away.” He brushed the snow off a broad bolder, pulled his furs around him, and sat as Ork lowered the ax and slipped it into his belt.

“Whitewolf, you appear as a man who wants peace. What are you doing with this defiler?”

The shaman stood to put himself between Knotica and Ork. When he had her eyes, he said, “I don’t fully ken what’s happened, but if we have offended—”

“If? If?” Knotica’s branches shook. “My trees are killed, my lands violated, and you wonder if I am offended?”

Ork stepped next to Whitewolf.  “By what right do you claim these lands?”

“These lands are mine, because they have always been. I am their guardian. All things that grow from the soil are under my care and protection.”

Whitewolf turned his face towards Ork but kept his eyes on Knotica. “Ork, please.”

Ork nodded and stepped back.

At that moment, Grimhand and several warriors ran across the bridge, around the boy’s ice fort and charged the spirit trees with their axes. The trees swatted them aside with their long branches, flinging them into the air. One warrior flew into a snowman, completely crushing him against the ice wall, while his ax split the head of the snowman next to him. One-by-one, the men rolled out of the snow and charged again. Like leaves drawn into a narrowing flume, many snowmen, looking very dogged, rolled forward to join the men in the melee.

Whitewolf quickly retook his seat on the rock and asked, “What are your demands?”

“My ‘demands’?” said Knotica, seeming undisturbed by the heightened ruckus behind her.

“What will you have of us to bring peace between us?”

She glanced disapprovingly at Ork, then addressed Whitewolf. “First, you will get rid of that thing. Destroy it, bury it, put it back where you found it. I do not care. You will not enter my woods again, and you will restore the water you took.”

Whitewolf leaned forward. “The water we took?”

She sighed. “Your kind has such short memory. Before your people settled here, there was a creek that fed into my woods upstream beyond the bend.”

Whitewolf crossed his arms and tapped his lips with the mouthpiece of his pipe.

Ork leaned in near Whitewolf’s ear. “When I was Catchrat’s apprentice, he told me the mill once stood on this side of the stream around the bend. They changed the course of the stream due to a drought, but still had to move the mill to its current location.”

The shaman nodded. “Then we will do as you ask, Knotica.”

“And this one,” she said indicating Ork. “He must be punished.”

Whitewolf glanced back at Ork and said, “And this will bring peace between us?”

“Yes.”

“Then let him be punished by our laws.”

“No.”

“I assure you, his punishment will be just.”

“If it brought peace,” said Ork, “I’d willing accept whatever punishment you choose, but why should I, when we will not be able to keep this pact.”

“Ork!” said Whitewolf, springing to his feet.

“What?” exclaimed Knotica. “Is this all then a lie?”

“No!” said Whitewolf.

Ork held out his hands. “Please let me explain.”

Knotica gave him the evil eye. “If this is a trick… If you are untrue…”

“I assure you, it’s not a trick and I will speak true.”

“Then continue.”

Ork bowed his head to Whitewolf  and waited for him to sit.

Meanwhile, the brouhaha continued behind Knotica. The spirit trees had falumped their way halfway between the woods and the ice fort, and were fanning out despite the blinding barrage of snowballs. The field was in chaos, with men crying out and flying in all directions, and some snowmen being torn apart while others got patched up to run back into the fray. More of Rancor’s warriors had arrived and one of Ork’s giants, now armless, limped out of the woods and began kicking the spirit trees from behind, even causing one of them to fall.

Ork focused on Knotica, so he wouldn’t be distracted by the fracas. He cleared his throat and said, “We are not as fortunate as you. We cannot withdraw in ourselves from the winter cold. We must eat and stay warm to survive and need heat from outside us. That is why we need to burn wood.”

“Yes. I smell the smoke from your village.”

“This pact is worthless if our people die this winter, and without wood, we will die. When I entered Witchwood, I only sought to provide for my people, just as you provide for those you protect.”

“Go on.”

At that moment, Ork heard his children calling, “Da! Da!” He looked up and saw Isslerud and Korka running along the stream toward them, with Burkta doing her best to keep up.

He threw his hand up and said, “Stay back.” But the children ran between Knotica and Whitewolf to grab hold of their father.

“What are you doin’ here?” he said.

“We heard you were in a battle at the low bridge, so we came runnin’,” said Korka.

Ork frowned. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“We had to, Da!” said Isslerud. “You taught us to stay together as a family—”

“An’ always help them fight their fights,” added his sister.

Burkta arrived panting. “I’m sorry,” she said, resting her hands on her knees. “We went to the market for food and heard what was happenin’. The next thing I know…”

Ork held up his hand and Burkta quieted.

“This is … your child?” said Knotica, indicating Isslerud.

“Yes. My son.”

She looked at Korka and Burkta, then asked Ork, “He is … born of your blood?”

“No.”

Knotica’s eyes widened. “And this is your daughter and wife?”

Ork nodded. “Isslerud, Korka, and Burkta. This is Knotica.”

The children stared at the oak woman but clutched their father’s furs.

“Go on,” said Knotica. “You went into my woods to provide for your people…”

Ork scratched his chin. “Yes. Even now, our people grow sick and die from cold.” He looked at his family. “Mothers, fathers, children, grand parents … all helpless to save their loved ones. Soon, desperation will breakout like a fever and they will do whatever it takes, including entering Witchwood to gather wood.”

Knotica squinted at Ork. The hint of a smile came to her lips and she said, “You speak boldly and true, Ork.”

Ork glanced down. “I just want my people — my family — to survive.”

Knotica turned slightly to look back. The battle was still chaos with another tree down and several warriors limping away.

“So, what shall we do?” asked Knotica.

“I have an idea,” said Ork. “A way we can both ensure lasting peace between us.”

“What do you propose?”

“We will stay out of Witchwood, if you provide us with wood. You chose the wood, but the harder woods burn longer and will take fewer pieces to get us through.”

The oak woman looked at the woods, the battle, then back to Ork. At last she said, “I have considered what you propose and I agree, but I have another ‘demand’.”

“What is it?” asked Whitewolf.

“Instead of punishing Ork, you will take to your homes each year a sapling. You will care for it, provide good soil and water and sunlight. You will make it welcome in your homes. I have also heard your great winter festival from my woods each year…”

“Yes.”

“Celebrate your festivals with the saplings. Honor them in your celebrations.”

“How should we honor them?”

“How do you honor your own?”

Ork stepped closer to Whitewolf and said, “We give our best warriors tokens to honor their bravery.”

“What do they do with these tokens?”

“They wear them as a point of pride. A warrior with many is respected by all.”

“Then that is what you will do. You will hang many tokens on the trees in you homes to commemorate the festival and this pact of ours, and so they will be honored guests.”

“It shall be done,” said Whitewolf.

Knotica continued. “Two full moons after Long Night, you will plant them between this stream and the edge of my woods. You will take another sapling home on that same day and care for it and honor it for one year. As long as you do this, I will allow your village to stand.”

“How many trees and how will we choose them?” asked Ork.

“I will choose seven trees and seven families from among you this year.” Knotica pointed at Ork and said, “Your family and six others. If you succeed and the trees flourish, we will have peace. If not, the trees of Witchwood will return to destroy your village.

“Each year you succeed, I will allow each of those who succeed to choose three additional families for this honor, until all your people can participate if they so wish. But there must always be at least seven.”

“Anything else?”

“The saplings I choose for you will be of a rare hardwood evergreen that grows quickly. When they have grown twenty-one years or more you may harvest them for wood. If all your people continue to do this, they will have plenty of wood for the winter.”

“Who are the other six?” asked Ork.

Knotica grinned. “H-m-m. Your best friend for starters.”

“My best friend?” exclaimed Ork.

“Assuming you have one.”

“I do. Though doubtless I’ll have to help Glamwart keep his tree alive.”

“That is fine.”

“Who else,” asked Whitewolf.

“Your chief, his first warrior, and two from those living over the hill. You may choose these. And one more … You, shaman. You shall be the seventh.”

Whitewolf bowed his head. “I am honored.”

*

So it was that the Battle of Low Bridge came to an end and the trees of Witchwood returned home. And now you know why, from that day to this, we hold our annual snowball fight and snowman contest on Scrithams Eve. And, of course, why we bring Scrithams trees into our homes and decorating them with bright, colorful tokens leading up to Scrithams Day.

But you want to know more, you say. Well, I suppose I can indulge you a little, but we must save some stories for another time.

So, after the battle, the Hatchet brothers fetched the miller and together, with Ork and his family, they all walked upstream and dismantled the stones what had diverted the water from Witchwood all those many generations past. That spring, when the Dragon’s Backbone thawed, the stream flowed deep and fed, as it should, into its ancient bed in the woods.

The spirit trees returned from Witchwood to the low bridge the afternoon of the battle, and for days beyond with plenty of pine, oak, and clawthorn for everyone. Turned out, they also had need of the people’s help. They had many dead branches and the like what caused them no end of irritation. When the people politely asked the trees for some kindling, they were more than happy to bend low and allow them to clip out itchy dead limbs and crumbling nests, pluck pesky twigs growing from ears, and give brushy eyebrows a good trimming.

As for Gladmoon, Scrithams took Ork and the ax back to the glade and Ork returned him to the stump at its center. But this is not where his legacy ends. When Ork went home, he found the wood giant he had made that first night in the scrith was missing from his yard. No one admitted to taking the wood, and it’s rumored to this day, that if you take a moonlit stroll near Witchwood, you may see a giant ambling through the trees.

In another surprisin’ turn, Knotica secretly granted Ork’s request for passage into her woods to meet with his friend, Scrithams when he had need, as, in her estimation, Scrithams was the sole reason Ork had any redeeming qualities at all. The only thing she required was his pledge to never harm any of her trees.

Well, that leaves us the Scrithams Day feast. That year, it was larger and louder than ever before, despite the bad weather. Seems Rancor, having come so close to desolation, remembered all the great things they had to be thankful for. During the feast, the Hatchet brothers reenacted their epic battle with the spirit trees and Chief Blacktooth awarded them each a token for their bravery and tenacity. And though scoundrels they be to their dying day, they were always respected scoundrels.

Ork and his distant cousin, Scritch, appearing extremely tired Scrithams morning, were also treated as heroes during the feast. Besides many compliments on their decorated Scrithams tree, as well as many toasts or pats on the back, their reward was unequaled company, plenty of good food and grog, and piece after piece of prize winning squealerky pie, until — feet kicked up, backs to the wall — they fell asleep.