The fall mist settles in flowing waves over the grasses , meadows and forested lanes of central Wormwood, and the trees begin to show their remarkable changing colors in slowly evolving waves, stretching and arching to capture beams of light as the sun brakes over the Eastern Mountains, cresting the old Abbey at St. Bernard's Peak. As morning light creates piercing lines of yellow across the dark sky and filters into the nooks and cranny's of Wormwood Valley, the town slowly starts to come alive.
Early morning in Wormwood always starts with the aroma of fresh coffee and exotic teas from Kashnipits Coffee and Tea, located just south of the Wormwood Fountain in central Wormwood. Now, as everyone should know, Kashnipit's prepares this time of year to celebrate it's annual origination from the Battle of Wormwood as the fall weather turns to winter, offering free cups of Slug Bean tea, piping hot and served with crumpets and cakes from Genghis Khan's Confectionary Delights.
It was in this fall frenzy of early morning palatable bliss that I found myself strolling this morning through the Wormwood Valley Forest, taking the old Forest Road past Lost Limb hill and West towards the Old forest crossroads and Old Pumpkin Bridge. There alongside the Old Forest Road, stands an ancient Wormwood Tree, named by the local residents, Crawley's Corner. It is a distinctly designed tree, with a most unique bark color and an unusual shape and twist to it's main trunk. This symbol of the power and majesty of the Wormwood forest inspired the desire to dredge up past Wormwood Valley histories and refresh the tale of Crawdad Crawley and his ill-fated thought to tinkle on a tree, something everyone in Wormwood should always be cautious of if they find themselves walking about under the canopy of the Old Wormwood Trees when nature calls.
It was nearly 30 years ago that Crawdad Crawley, a local Accumulator at the Wormwood Reclamation Facility and Lost Limb Hill Attachment Division had an unfortunate encounter with an angry old Wormwood Tree, forever sealing him as a local landmark and an unfortunate victim of the temperament of Wormwood Forests longest, and largest, permanent residents.
Now Crawdad Crawley was of course, a crawdad, his spindly legs and twiggy appendages worked marvelously for pulling small fingers, toes, thumbs and noses from the mixers on Lost Limb Hill. As everyone knows, Lost Limb Hill is rumored to repair and replace many of the "lost" or "erased" parts of local residents here in Wormwood, and while there mission remains somewhat secret and often just simply "not discussed" here in Wormwood, everyone has their own beliefs and opinions as to what goes on behind those massive steel doors. It is for this reason that Crawdad Crawley, a little known resident, was so valuable of a worker. He socialized with few, had little interest in local gatherings, festivals. or history, even in Pirating season, and kept to himself in his small dugout hole at the edge of the Wormwood River. He would don his yellow hard hat and bright orange vest each morning and scurry along the road, thermos in hand to his post at Lost Limb Hill, barely saying a word to anyone along the way.
The only time in fact, that anyone ever did see Crawdad in any form of regular occurrence was during Renaissance season, a time after the fervor of the years Pirating tournament has wained but before the onset of the typical Wormwood Valley Holidays like Turkey Death Day and St. Claws Eve. It was during this strange time that the local fencing, medieval warfare and table top wargaming clubs unite in Wormwood Central park for massive and often times bloodthirsty battles, both on paper and in person. Armed with a variety of foam, steel and even wooden weapons, the great battles draw huge crowds as armored knights, mail-clad warriors and fantastical beasts fight for the spectacle and entertainment of local residents. The fact that it coincides with the Wormwood Valley storytelling season is no small coincidence, and many of the participants are adept artists, writers and gamers. It is an all-together glorious time in Wormwood Valley when no costume is too outlandish, no story too fantastic and no fable too faulty.
It was at a large post-battle gathering, seated around a roaring bonfire one crisp fall evening, that Crawdad begun to spin a yarn of eerie forest spirits filling the very trees with intelligence, ferocity, and dark old magic. All in earshot sat poised for the climax to Crawdad's story, his slow drawl slurping the words from beneath the large woolen cloak he wore each year, hiding his iridescent green bug-like eyes and spiky shelled frame from the dancing light of the evening fire. At the end of the fictional history that Crawdad told of the founding fathers of Wormwood Valley loosing scores of explorers to the great lurking demons within the very trunks of the Wormwood Trees, the crowd cheered at the questionable history, the dark danger lurking outside their doors and the chill of fear pulsating through the crowd of well-wishers and imaginative re-enactors. They laughed heartily, giving little thought to the story Crawdad shared, and chalked it up to another fantastic tale of fictional history in Wormwood Valley, of which, there are plenty.
As Crawdad ventured home late that night, holding aloft only a single lantern, he thought about the story he revealed and scoffed at the naivety of his fellow combatants. Having lived along the shores of the Wormwood River his entire life, Crawdad had seen many a strange thing lurking in the trees late at night, and he knew for a fact, that what others thought of as an "entertaining story" was in fact, very very real. Each Wormwood Tree had it's own spirit, it's own mindset and temperament. Their branches stretched forth like great lurking arms, sprouting leaves and foliage in an effort to protect and shroud their individual trunks from the cares of the valley and its peculiar and quirky set of residents. And this night, Crawdad could hear the trees talking. They creaked and moaned, stretched and groaned with the rustle of a late night breeze. He quickened his pace as he scurried along the old forest road, looking behind, below, and above him in every direction as the ill-wind seemed to follow along at his heels.
Reaching the edge of the old forest, he quickly drew out his tarnished pocket watch, a gift from his father, Count Crayfish Crawdad who unfortunately had met his demise some years earlier at the end of a long fishing pole as he wandered carelessly some ways downstream. Crawdad clicked open the small steel cover, peering at the time beneath the flickering lamp light, and hoping beyond all hope that it was not yet midnight. It was, as all should wisely know, considered extremely foolish to be out past midnight in the Old Forest. Any number of dark unmentionable things could be hunting their evening meal along the old road, and those things seen are never half as bad as those that are not. As he peered down at the watch, he let out a sigh of exasperated relief as he realized it was nearly thirty minutes to twelve, and that should leave him plenty of time to reach Old Pumpkin Bridge and his warm sandy hole at the edge of the Wormwood river.
Unwisely however for Crawdad, he had partaken of far too much of Madam Mickering's Madman Punch, a drink made from rotten apples, old cloves and a bit of dried fig. He quickly looked about the road, seeing to his privacy as he attempted to relieve himself on the edge of a large Wormwood Tree. And that's where he learned his great and final lesson. Never tell a story, be it true or not, unless you plan to apply what you create. Stories, especially in Wormwood Valley, have a certain way of coming true. And more often than not, they have a dark and contorted end. Sadly for Crawdad, his was no different.
As he sighed with relief, he heard the crackling stretching arm of the branches above him, the twisted knots and aged bark of this giant lurking Wormwood Tree contorting into a cruel and wicked smile. He looked up horrified, and realized his foley, but it was too late. In one swift arch, the Wormwood Tree groaned a great ancient growl, and scooped poor Crawdad up in it's leafy arm, twisting and cracking his small shell-fish frame until it was swallowed hole into the dark cavernous maw of the great old tree. Crawdad scratched and clawed at the inside of the wooden tree bowel, but his digestion was complete. His twisted growl of foolish agony can, to this day, be seen within the bark itself, the trunk formed into a perfect replica of his last horrified expression. Even his hands, held aloft in clawing fear are formed in perfect statuesque wood. And in the distance, on cool fall evenings when the clock reaches nearly thirty minutes to twelve, some have claimed hearing a slight tick, as if the very tree itself still held the old pocket watch deep within it's trunk.
So as the fall weather turns cool, and the skies darken early, the leaves turn a deep golden hue and the trees stretch and groan to hold onto their last remaining bits of weathering foliage, remember, always ask before tinkling on the trees, for you never know which ones may not take kindly to your hasty relief. Dark things lurk in the trees come fall, and the warning of Winter is only weeks behind.
Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,
Inkley Tolew III Esq.
Commander in Charge
Wormwood Daily
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