The case of the High Bend disappearances was quietly closed, and the public was assured that the nightmare was over. Though they couldn’t elaborate as to what had really happened, certain whispers reached the anxious public. The constable who saw Stuart’s return to nature never recovered his sanity, and currently resides in a mental hospital where he constantly gibbers about the strange insects in the woods and the hungry earth.
Those of a certain age remembered the words of the strange, old woman who lived in the house next to the woods. They recalled her saying that the woods were cursed, and that dark, furtive things lurked within them. The woods were once again shunned by the local, God-fearing folk, and every care was taken to keep their children out of the trees.
Deep down they knew that all it would take for the destructive cycle to begin anew was for another lost child to make the woods their home.
Rouse Them Not
Tim Mendees
“Wassaile the trees, that they may beare
You many a Plum and many a Peare:
For more or lesse fruits they will bring,
As you do give them Wassailing.”
—Traditional Wassailing Song
It was January the seventeenth, and snow covered the ground at the Angove orchard in High Bend. It was a particularly bitter Twelfth Night eve that year, though spirits were riding high. The annual wassailing was in full swing, and the cider was flowing freely. The sympathetic magic of hundreds of revelers flowed around the frigid apple trees, carried on the raised voices and the jangling bells of the local morris men. Before the ceremony was through each tree would be blessed, and would have spiced toast secured in its bows. All except two, that is. Some said they were planted on the graves of two vicious killers. Some said they housed the trapped spirits of witches, others said they were gods. But, whatever the blight, all were convinced that those trees were evil.
The Twins stood over a narrow, dirt track that led to the rear entrance of the graveyard like guards of the dead. Their bloated and warped limbs reached over the path and touched, entwining like fingers on two gigantic hands. They loomed over the path, ready to snatch away unwary mourners. The trees rarely bore fruit, and what fruit they did produce was rancid. On more than one occasion a foolish child had plucked a ripe looking apple and taken a bite, only to suffer from savage stomach cramps.
Daniel and Jonah Green looked upon the ceremony as nothing more, nor less, than a thinly veiled excuse for a drinking session. The two brothers had taken root on a hay-bale and had been steadily getting more and more hammered as the evening progressed. As was usual, on these occasions, their conversation had ridden the gamut from pretty wenches to masculine prowess, then to foolish dares in no time at all.
“How about we wake up the Twins?” Daniel slurred.
“What the Hell for?” Jonah grinned with bemusement. “They are just trees. Or do you believe that god crap?” He gulped strong cider and sniggered.
“No,” Daniel said, rather too defensively. “I just think it would be a laugh.”
“It would irritate the Hell out of the druids.” Jonah mused.
“Exactly.” Daniel smiled. “Just look at that daft lot.” He pointed to where the revelers were singing a song to an old pear tree. “They seriously think all this malarkey will give them a better harvest next year. Ruddy saps, the lot of them.”
“Heh, yeah.” Jonah chuckled and downed more fermented apple juice.
“So, are you in?” Daniel asked, a boozy grin plastered across his young face.
Jonah thought for a second. A nagging doubt was trying to take hold of his brain, but it was swiftly drowned in alcohol. “Yeah, why not?”
“Ok, we can finish a couple of more drinks first. You know, to keep out the cold.” Both men erupted into raucous laughter.
As the two men imbibed Mr. Edwards, the head druid and village squire, had led the procession away to the far corner of the orchard. They were far enough away not to put a halt to the mischievous plan. Neither man believed the folk tales of evil trees, but just enough doubt lingered to make wassailing the Twins a good test of their mettle.
**
Once another flagon of cider was downed the two young brothers started to wend unsteadily along the path to the small graveyard. They were rosy-cheeked and full of bravado on account of all the booze, but even that warm glow was suddenly chilled by the sight of the sinister apple trees.
The moon hung low between the twisted branches, casting ghostly shadows on the path. Daniel halted and put his hand on Jonah’s chest. The elder brother stopped, looking at his sibling with bemusement.
“You are not getting chicken, are you?” Jonah smirked.
“No,” Daniel grumbled. “Look.” He pointed to the low, stone wall behind the trees. There was a bent figure sitting there, arms aloft in supplication.
“It’s old Mrs. Fowles.” Jonah chuckled. “What the Devil is the crazy old bat doing?”
“I dunno.” Daniel shrugged. “Listen,” The old woman was crooning a gentle song. “I think she’s singing it some weird lullaby.”
Both men burst into fits of laughter, which alerted Mrs. Fowles to their presence. She stood and fixed them with the kind of stare that could turn a man to salt at fifteen paces.
“Quiet, you pair of buffoons!” She scowled, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. Mrs. Fowles had long, straggly hair that, along with her aquiline nose and bent posture, gave her the look of a malevolent old crone. She was, in fact, a kindly octogenarian who made the best cream buns in the village. “You will wake them.” She gestured at the Twins with a bent finger.
Jonah sniggered in derision. “Oh, come off it. They are just trees.” He chuckled.
“You know nothing.” Mrs. Fowles hissed. “These trees contain the imprisoned souls of exiled gods. Those idiots have made enough noise to raise the dead as
