Madman
“Breathe long and low,” Marie kept telling herself, in spite of the vile stench that now singed her nostrils. She strained to listen as best she could to the trollogre, only ten feet away. Marie wondered how powerful this creature really was, realizing it had somehow barraged her with continuous spells of drowsiness last night.
Her next concern was whether the monster now smelled her or was the peanut butter distracting it? If not, how was she going to escape? Until she came to the Rainbow’s End, Marie knew she was not ready to confront Gwylligwitch.
She plucked up courage and lifted herself again, gritting her teeth in searing pain. The running water was all she could hear, obscuring any sound the trollogre made. Marie peeked above the tree a second time.
Her heart exploded in alarm— the trollogre was even closer. Through the thinning fog, Marie saw a deformed limb thrust upwards* as it sluggishly rummaging through her pack, which she guessed meant that the peanut butter indeed made the monster drowsy. She at last got a real look at the creature in the growing, gray light. Sick to her stomach it made Marie; so hideous was Gwylligwitch.
*Note per Marie: “When I drew the picture of myself seeing Gwylligwitch for the first time, I extended her limb much closer to me, because at that horrific moment that’s how it felt. In reality, the monster was some 15 or 20 feet away.”
The female monster was huge, some ten feet in height. The hide of her torso was protected with leathery spikes. A mammoth hump swelled from a deformed shoulder. Her extremities bore no outer flesh; only black veins wrapped around gray and red sinew. One of her rippled arms was freakishly long, dragging along the ground when it wasn’t used. The other was shorter, thin and spindly. From her haunches sprang an immense forked tail, each length like a deadly, coiled snake. Yet most striking of all was the monster had no head. Piercing red eyes were deeply set below a wide mouth in what appeared to be her chest.
Marie collapsed back under the tree in utter dread, unable to stop her frenetic gasps. None of her mental and emotional readiness had prepared her for this. It was only a matter of seconds before the trollogre discovered her. She could hear the guttural, choking sounds in the monster’s throat. The tension was unbearable. Marie considered crying out and simply giving herself up. Why couldn’t Gwylligwitch just grab her and get it over with? Without knowing what else to do, she withdrew the globe charm from under her shirt. Peering into it, she saw that the green liquid surrounding the small piece of black rock was madly bubbling, as if in anger. This was quickly followed by a dull ache in her heart, which suddenly went cold in a terrible shiver. Marie closed her eyes and held her breath. When she opened them again— she was face to face with her enemy.
Gwylligwitch stared straight down at Marie, who in turn now saw the cause of the trollogre’s deformed shoulder: a dribbling, festering wound. Marie knew it was the result of Thurle’s attack, as the professor explained. The injury only intensified the rank stench of the beast. From her blistered mouth, steamy saliva dripped onto Marie’s cheek, followed by a long, single curved fang.
The strange thing Marie remembered was the trollogre’s hesitation at that moment. Did the peanut butter slow its reaction or did the monster glimpse something, perhaps a hint of helplessness, innocence— or was it recognition? Whatever the reason, it didn’t last. The hand of Gwylligwitch came forward, reaching for the side of her head. Marie shrewdly guessed its intention: the monster coveted her gold earrings; the same she had worn since she left home, her mother’s earrings.
Marie acted, shoving her amulet straight up. The globe burst into blazing white moonlight, smashing into whatever face Gwylligwitch possessed, dead center between her malefic eyes, angrily singing her sparse flesh. The monster wailed in pain, seizing the necklace from Marie.
In an abrupt and clumsy lurch, Marie dragged herself out from the fallen tree trunk. Rolling to her feet, she stumbled, her pounded and battered muscles instinctively locking up and ignoring the demand of all available strength. She somehow managed to remain upright and repeated what she had done all the previous night: run blindly in any direction, as swiftly as the knife-like pain in her feet could carry her. Seconds later she was splashing through the water of whatever stream or brook was so near.
Reaching the other side, Marie briefly looked back. Thirty yards away, Gwylligwitch advanced. With a wave of her forked tail, the fog around her vanished. She was on the chase now; she no longer needed to weave a misty snare. Strewn and badly tangled within her wicked hands was Marie’s charm and necklace, whose radiant glow stung at the beast. She tore at it ferociously, trying with all her brute strength to shred it apart, which she could not.
Watching from the stream’s far side, it occurred to Marie that Gwylligwitch was trying to destroy the amulet no longer out of mere fury, but because the monster could not rid herself of it— as if the charm would not release the monster from its own grasp. Marie clearly saw the suffering that the charm’s encapsulated moonlight inflicted on the trollogre, yet she also marked that its power was not enough to destroy, much less overwhelm the creature. In a final rabid attack upon the object, Gwylligwitch cried out in feverish rage. Yet the globe amulet and its fine silver necklace, cast within a forgotten spell by a murdered gnome, could not be marred in the least. At last, the monster broke free of the charm and its imposed pain. With another revolting shriek, the trollogre flung it from her hands out into the water.
“No!” Marie gasped, straining her eyes to follow the charm’s flight. Thankfully, dawn had fully risen, making it easier to see. Her amulet splashed into the water, about midway between her and the beast. She ran after it, but the charm was whisked away, disappearing downstream. Her only chance of rescuing her mother had just vanished.
Now it was Marie’s turn to be angry. She defiantly faced her enemy across the running water. She also noted how easily the trollogre shook off whatever torment the amulet had dealt. Its headless bulk curiously stared at her, stepping up to the stream bank. Headless or not, Marie could have sworn the creature was now grinning at her.
“Whatever you do to me now won’t matter,” shouted Marie. “My friends will hunt you down!”
Marie was not sure if her enemy knew English, but she assumed the monster gathered what she meant as it stood at the very edge of the water. This appeared strange, Marie thought— her words surely provoked Gwylligwitch, yet the monster paced along the stream, but never dared to enter. Marie was astounded at her sudden good fortune. Moments ago, she was sure it was all over.
Twenty feet behind Gwylligwitch was a good-sized oak tree. The trollogre approached, tightly wrapping both her arms around it. Her great forked tail took hold as well, clutching the tree base, near its roots.
Marie watched in awe. With a low roar, Gwylligwitch heaved with all her might. Marie heard the sounds of vigorous pulling and ripping through dense earth, as the thick and gnarled roots were rent from their underground refuge. The entire tree was retched out from the only home it ever knew. Unbelievably, the trollogre lifted the tree and carried the entire mass to the edge of the water. Until she let it fall.
The monster’s aim for Marie was impressive as she watched the height and girth of an oak tree suddenly thrust down upon her. Marie took off, racing downstream as the lumbering giant crashed through the treetops, across the stream and deep into the far bank with a thundering boom.
When she returned to the fallen oak, Marie watched in sly amusement as the monster climbed onto it. Trying several times, Gwylligwitch could still not pass the rushing water’s boundary. Something was preventing the trollogre from crossing its threshold. When the monster caught Marie’s eye, she returned a cold, empty gaze.
“When we meet again,” Marie said to herself, lightly rubbing her injured arm, “I’ll be ready.” With that thought, she turned away, heading onward into whatever lay ahead.
The morning was beautiful. For the first time since Marie had entered Spellhollow Wood, the sunlight broke in and burst through to the wooded ground. It was now a much thinner tract of forest, mostly pine and maple trees. Similar, Marie remembered, to the eastern part of the wood, near the professor’s house. But the terrain here was ever more open and accessible. The ground was softer and darker in color, mostly peat mixed with some scattered clay.
Marie shook her head in frustration. She would have enjoyed a lovely stroll through this part of the woods, except for the terrible shooting pain in her broken arm, which she supported upright with her other hand— not to mention her stinging leg and foot muscles.
She had survived, all alone, the black night of the wood. She came face to face with her terrible enemy, yet had escaped. But she now had no pack, meaning no food or water. The enchanted lock of hair given to her as a guide was gone. Most of all, she had lost her globe charm, the only hope to save her mother. Marie spent some two hours searching downstream for it, with no luck. If there were any sign directing her what to do next, Marie entirely missed it.
Sometime near mid-morning, Marie could again hear the sound of running water ahead. When the ground dipped into a tapered ravine, she soon came to a second stream, where she halted and glared in amusement. The largest green bullfrogs Marie had ever seen, all with fiery red limbs, were leaping out from the water in high arcs, croaking with pleasure then landing again in springy plops. The streaking sunlight dramatically backlit the green acrobats, like stage illumination. They leapt up in patterns and at intervals, looking like a well-choreographed water dance.
Marie decided to sit near the bank and admire the bullfrogs’ performance. At the very least, it would lighten her mood. Carefully lowering herself, keeping her bad arm propped upon her knee, she curiously noticed something in her boot: the flare given to her by Campbell. She had forgotten all about it, realizing how she might have needed it last night against Gwylligwitch. Then, she reflected, perhaps not, as the flare had no doubt gotten soaked in the storm, days ago. When she relaxed her leg, kicking it out, she heard a hiss and a sharp snap from behind. Both her legs were seized and dragged. She rapidly slid away on her back, colliding with a pine tree in a heap of tangled rope. Before blacking out yet again, Marie knew she had been caught in some type of trap.
Marie gasped as her eyes snapped open. She was sitting up against the same tree. Her broken arm was in a newly fashioned sling, being tended to by the filthiest looking person she had ever seen.
He appeared about her father’s age. He wore the remnants of a flannel shirt and work pants, which were now little more than swarthy rags. His dark, red hair grew wildly past his shoulders, exceedingly matted and greasy. He had a months-long unshaven look, with scattered clumps of beard. There was a half-inch of grime under his fingernails and his breath marked a new definition of foul.
“Thank you,” said Marie, motioning to her arm, and she meant it. No doubt the most painful work to reset her fracture had taken place while she remained unconscious. The tormenting sting had lessoned and it felt more secure again.
“I didn’t do you any favors,” answered the dirty man. “I fixed your arm, so I could move ya’, that’s all.” His voice did not fit his narrow, freckled face— whatever freckles were not covered by muck. To Marie’s relief, he began to untie her from the trap.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What happened?”
“You fell into one of my traps,” he said. “I got lucky today. Today, I’m going home.”
It was a strange voice indeed, sounding like that of a feeble old man who probably spoke to himself often, who was perhaps a tad peculiar, but harmless. Unfortunately, this first impression did not warn Marie in time.
“Do you set your traps for food?” she asked.
He peered at her with a half smile. Marie now observed in alarm that he kept one rope securely attached to her waist in a slipknot, tying its other end to his waist.
“For people.”
Marie struggled to get away, but once she felt the muscle of her abductor, she wasted no more of her strength.
He dragged her across the stream, away from the leaping frogs. If she fought back, he drew tightly on the slipknot, crushing her waist. He cleverly walked at an angle to always keep his attention on her. Marie’s nimble mind began searching for a course of action.
“At least tell me your name,” she said, deciding to keep him talking.
“Macmanus,” he muttered, briefly looking away, as if ashamed to reveal himself.
“Macmanus?” she repeated, followed by a quick afterthought. “Can I call you Mac?”
He halted, studying Marie closely, like she had discovered something very personal about him. “Only my dead sister, Trickett, started calling me that five years after her funeral, when she became a fish captain. How did you know?”
“I didn’t,” admitted Marie, “it just seemed easier to remember.”
He continued to stare at her, though Marie marked how he began looking through her, hinting an errant, wandering mind. She also noticed something straight, stuck in his long grimy hair. She couldn’t tell what it was.
“Do you know the date?” he asked abruptly, yet in earnest.
Marie blinked, uncertain. “I’d like to know myself. A few days ago, it was May 1.”
“Not the day, you didwiddle brat. The year.”
Macmanus’s answer lurched Marie’s thoughts again back to Campbell and his fate of being misplaced in time.
“You’re lost, aren’t you?” she answered. “I can’t tell you what’s happened since, Mac, but when I entered these woods, it was nineteen sixty-eight.”
She saw then, not unlike Campbell, the same shock of bitter truth flash across Macmanus’s face.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
Macmanus wrenched Marie forward again, harshly leading her on. The swelling anger within him was ably transferred through the rope to her waist, where she stumbled more than once, always in fear of falling on her arm.
“Hey, take it easy!” she yelled out. “Just tell me, what do you want with me?”
“You’ll find out soon, son-sonny.”
Marie carefully studied her surroundings while being dragged. She could not help but notice how this thin-wooded land between the streams appeared a friendlier, peaceful place. However, this serenity did not keep her from again spotting the bearded, ghostly face she had seen the day before— or was it two? It stared at her from within a clump of pines, looking alarmed at seeing Marie captive. She was certain she saw mercy in his pale eyes. The ghostly form quickly vanished no sooner than it appeared.
Then Marie saw someone else just ahead: a longhaired woman with her back turned. Whatever she wore appeared like a gray and fuzzy glow, yet even from the back she was only too familiar.
“Mom?” she cried out. “Mommy, is that you?”
Her mother turned, filled with delight to see her daughter again, until she saw Marie tied and dragged. Her expression turned downcast, heartsick and angry, all at once.
Macmanus drew on his rope even harder. “Never mind that,” he said, “just keep moving!”
“No!” Marie shouted. “Let me go! Let me go to her!”
Macmanus threw both his shoulders into his rope. But she would not yield, falling to the ground, luckily on her good arm. Macmanus hauled her off through the brush. The last Marie saw of her mother were tear-filled eyes.
After almost one hundred yards, Macmanus halted. He picked Marie up again, making sure her arm remained in its sling. She was too sore and disgusted to fight him, certainly after experiencing his brawn in having lugged her so far along the ground.
“It’s only just ahead now,” he said with an alarming calm, as if Marie was being invited to a harmless tea party.
He led her to a shallow clearing of what appeared to be a shabby, makeshift living area. There was a low overhang of rock, which lead to a cave. Near the entrance was a years-old fire ring, along with the many bones of — she hoped— animals stuck in the ground. Leaving her bad arm free, Macmanus securely tied Marie, standing up, to a thick spike nailed into a maple tree. He then untied himself from her and sat down, drawing out the object from his hair: a large knife with an ivory handle. It was rusty, but still sharp. He used it to dig out the bowl of a hand-carved pipe, which he then re-filled with ordinary crumbled leaves. He lit the pipe by squatting down next to the bright embers of his fire.
Macmanus sat up and stared at an old tree stump next to him. Set upon the stump was a single ‘itchy ball’, one of the brown, spiky balls that drop from a sweet-gum tree, of which several stood near. Macmanus gazed at it, nodding to himself.
Then he spoke to it.
“Helter-pork dimples?” he said, whatever that meant. “Yeah she has, hasn’t she? After all this time, we finally caught a break.” He turned to Marie again, appearing like he was waiting for her reaction to a question he never asked.
“I knew you were a rude brat,” he said to Marie. “Answer him.”
Marie adjusted her tightly tied arm into a more comfortable position. “Answer who?”
Macmanus lifted the itchy ball. “Don’t you pretend he’s not here,” he said gruffly, as serious as a Sunday sermon. “His name’s Ritchie Delmo, my only friend and he’s been stuck here with me for years. He thinks you came to us just in time, but he wants to know how you heard about us.”
Marie swallowed hard. If this was a joke, it was bad. And if it wasn’t, it was worse. Who was this lunatic hermit she had run into?
“Hello,” she said, looking at the spiky thing. “I didn’t know … you were awake.”
Macmanus placed the itchy ball down on the stump. He raised his knife again and eerily scraped its blade across his dried, cracked lips. “I don’t think me or Ritchie would have made it much longer if something didn’t change.”
Marie wanted to spew out all the rage she now felt toward this man, but knew that would only give him the advantage. She had no idea what he might do. Marie instead remained calm and for the meantime played his game.
“Let’s start again, Mac,” she said. “What do you want?”
Macmanus exhaled pipe-smoke from his nose and mouth. “I need you to show me the way out of here. Out of these grooberlob woods.”
“I can’t show you out until I finish something I have to do. I’m sorry.”
Macmanus stuck his knife back into his matted hair, like its own sheath. He then dug into a pocket, which Marie could not believe he still had in his decrepit pants. He pulled out the last thing she ever expected: her globe amulet on its chain.
“Tell me what this is and what it does,” he said, glaring at it with a devilish scowl.
“How did you find that?” demanded Marie angrily. “It belongs to me. Give it back to me now.”
Macmanus cackled like a mad old man, just as Marie imagined him. “No, it’s mine, you rotten brat.”
“How did you find it?”
“Was at the right place at the right time,” he said. “I saw the demon monster throw it into the water while I was hankie wrestling a six-bucks tadpole. It washed on downstream, ‘till it just about floated up to me. Like it was a butter and granite sandwich. Like it was lookin’ for me.”
“You saw the monster chase me?” asked Marie, trying to filter through the nonsense-talk.
“Yeah, Ritchie told me this morning he heard it coming ‘round again. Round and ‘round and out of boiler plots.”
“Do you know why she couldn’t step in the stream?”
“No demon can cross running water,” answered Macmanus, “no matter what it’s after. That’s why I stay put on this side of the river. It’s good to always know that creature can’t get to me and Ritchie.”
Marie nodded, suspecting such a thing. She examined the hermit’s sparse living area. It seemed this filthy madman kept busy. Among his meager possessions were several self-constructed things: a board with stick-like darts, a flimsy, wire-framed basketball hoop tied to a tree trunk, with the ball under it made of packed-together acorns and yet more itchy balls. Most curious was a chessboard, with the board and all the pieces hand carved from wood. Marie quickly saw the various formations of a game currently being played.
“You like chess?” she asked.
At the mention of the game, Macmanus’s eyes flashed, kindled with excitement. He leaned over to the chessboard and moved a rook, then nodded with satisfaction.
“Yeah-oh,” he said. “I’ve never lost a game.”
“Never?” asked Marie.
“Nope, slippy fat-lip, never once.”
“Yeah, but it must be really boring always playing against yourself. How about a real challenge?”
“Hey, Ritchie’s pretty good.” Again, his eyes flashed. “You play?”
“Never lost yet,” Marie fibbed, if only to titillate his curiosity.
Macmanus sucked in his cheeks; his breathing quickened. He reached for the chessboard and set it down between them. He was at first uncertain which set of pieces he wanted, but at last chose a side. “You’re about to get your first butt-kicking,” he said.
“Are you that sure of yourself?”
“Just watch and learn.”
“Well then,” Marie suggested, “why don’t we make it more fun? Let’s bet on the game.”
Macmanus looked up from arranging his pieces. “Bet?”
“Yeah,” continued Marie. “If you win, I show you the way out of here. And I’ll tell you the magic secrets of the charm. Believe me, there’s magic in it. But if I win— you let me go free and give my charm back.”
Macmanus reached for his knife again. He began idly sticking it back and forth through his hair. “You’re showing me the way out anyhow,” he said. “No gain there.”
“Nope,” said Marie boldly. “The only way I’m gonna do what you want is if you checkmate my king. Then you have my promise that I’ll help you. Do I have your promise if I win?”
“You don’t have a chance, nishtikote brat.”
“Prove it, Mac. Let’s see if you’re good enough.”
From his oily rags, Macmanus took the globe charm and tossed it on the ground next to him. Marie tensed as he drew his knife and stabbed it between the necklace into the dirt, while he glared at her with pleasure.
“Over spider thumbs and liver tails? Done.”
“Done,” said Marie. “But you’re going to have to untie me some. I don’t think I can play standing up.”
Leaving his knife in the ground, Macmanus stood and untangled the two sections of rope so she could sit in front of the tree. However, he kept the main cord tied between them, where he reattached it to himself, again at the waist.
Marie quickly set up her pieces, which were a fair likeness for being roughly carved. “Who begins?” she asked. “Which is white and black?”
“I start,” he said, moving his pawn out one space.
Marie moved one of her pawns two spaces.
Macmanus immediately moved his bishop out. Marie glanced up at him, grinning. She knew that he was attempting to set her up for a quick kill in only a few moves.
She maneuvered a crucial pawn. He brought his queen out diagonally. Marie brought her knight out. That did it; Macmanus’s plan was thwarted. After studying what she had done, he scratched his cheek.
“All right,” he admitted, “you’ve played a game or two.”
“My dad used to play that same quick attack against me,” said Marie. “I had to learn to defend against it.”
Macmanus now had to implement a new strategy; by trying to quickly checkmate Marie and failing, he was already off to a bad start. He wondered if Marie realized this. If so, she didn’t let on. With his next moves, he shifted into a more conservative opening game. Marie did the same.
“What happened to you, Mac?” she asked, looking right at him. “How long have you lived here in the woods?”
He took a long drag from his pipe, but kept his eyes fixed on the board. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Thirteen.”
“Mmm,” he responded. “That so? Well that’s easy. I’ve been lollyblistered stuck here in these woods since you were born.”
They exchanged several more careful moves. “Stuck here?” asked Marie. “Why? What happened?”
Macmanus’s gruff expression softened as he looked up from the board to her, searching for a hint of something Marie felt might be trust or honesty.
“I guess you would believe me,” he said. “You know what’s here in these woods if you’ve already seen the troll monster.”
“After what I’ve seen, yes Mac, I’ll believe you.”
Macmanus’s eyes dimmed. “I got lost one day, trying to save someone: a young girl, not much younger than you. On the eve of Halloween it was. When I tried to get her out of the woods, something attacked me— another dibly creature, a lot smaller than the troll monster, but just as dangerous. It was a goblin, an evil, gruckruckling goblin.”
With lingering fear in his voice, Macmanus immediately returned his scrutiny to the game, making his next move. It appeared the chessboard had somehow summoned back his concentration.
Marie’s thoughts raced. She had heard this story before, more than once. It was one of the fairly common tales told throughout the village. Now she tried to remember the story’s details. Marie carefully inspected his move, before countering with her own.
“What did the goblin do to you?” she asked.
Macmanus inhaled deeply on his pipe. He didn’t look up this time. “Had its way with me. Tortured my mind and cast wicked spells on me. Then it left me, dirgy asleep, where all I had was nightmares. I’d wake every Halloween Eve after that just at midnight, to be attacked again. To relive the dibly’s torture.” He recounted his tale like it was a distant memory, yet Macmanus never lost his focus on the board before him. He took Marie’s rook with his knight.
She quickly took his bishop with a pawn. “Why? Why did the goblin do all this to you? Did you try to hurt it?”
“Castling,” said Macmanus as he exchanged his king with his rook in a queenside castle. Marie did not miss the fact that he first moved his rook, then his king.
“It’s supposed to be done king first and with only one hand,” she said. “But that’s nit picky, I guess.”
“I know the rules, that’s what I did,” he angrily lied. “I didn’t do anything to that gruck goblin,” he added, answering her prior question. “It attacked me out of hate. Hate only.”
“Castling,” said Marie, as she executed the same maneuver, but to the king’s side, generally considered safer. Macmanus cleared his throat, seeing it correctly done.
He then took Marie’s knight. She took his other rook. He moved his queen out. She took his pawn with one of her own.
“Then, all of a sudden it stopped,” he continued. “I woke up and had no more bad dreams and nothing happened on Halloween. But—”
Another pawn was captured. And another. And another bishop. The board was quickly clearing.
“—You couldn’t find a way out of the woods?” said Marie.
“I tried every day. Always found myself going in circles. I madhat knew it was a trick of that evil gruckruckler. It would never let me leave again. Not on my own.”
Marie moved her queen out, taking another pawn. Macmanus brought his queen across the board, then squatted to re-light his pipe from the embers of his fire ring.
“Until I found a way. Until today. Me and Ritchie are going home.” Marie moved her other knight into attack. Macmanus sat up and moved his only bishop, taking her bishop. “Sheriff Dan will be thrilled to see me again. I was his best.”
“The sheriff’s best?” said Marie, allowing his boast to register. She moved her other bishop to block his attack.
“That’s right,” he said, moving another piece into attack as his excitement mounted. “I was First Deputy Earl Macmanus before I got lost. Check.”
He had cornered her king with his queen and bishop. Marie had to move her castling rook in defense. In spite of recounting his tale, which Marie hoped would sidetrack his thinking, Macmanus was playing a deftly sharp endgame.
However, Marie’s hope was twofold. Macmanus’s focus and particular attention on their game thankfully allowed her to pursue another gamble. In between chess moves, using her leg and good hand, Marie had gathered a bit of the rope her disturbed adversary untied after he secured her to the tree. She had slyly knotted one end of it to the loop now taut around her waist. Her plan also included the thick spike nailed into the maple tree now just behind her head. Whether she could succeed or not depended on her getting hold of the knife stuck in the center of her charm’s necklace.
Macmanus repositioned his queen, taking another of Marie’s pawns. “Check,” he sa