One moment she was surrounded by a host of oaks desperate to rip her to pieces, the next she was in a huge clearing almost bereft of any greenery at all. She gasped and instinctively let go of the broomstick. The front end dipped suddenly and grazed the floor, flipping the witch. She flew through the air, unaided this time, and landed flat on her back on a sparsely grassed stretch of hard mud.

Winded and bruised, Puddlebrain laid there, her ears ringing like the church belfry on a Sunday morning. She tried to sit up but couldn't. She tried to move more than her arms, but she couldn't, and even moving those was painful. She wheezed, drawing her breaths in as if through a wad of cloth, it was so difficult. Her head ached from being slammed into the hard mud. She groaned, and the groan turned into a cough that threatened to burst her throat apart.

Her broomstick had recovered from its own tumble and drifted hesitantly over to the witch. It had only just met her, a brief introduction that had been so swift it hadn't even included a hello. There was no "Hi, I'm a witch" – "Hi, I'm a branch." It was simply a jump on and go!

And then this had happened.

The broomstick knew it wasn't at fault. It hadn't really had any choice in the direction or speed they'd been flying – the witch had been in total control, although perhaps 'control' was a little too strong a term considering... Still. She had removed it from the Grimace. She had taken it from the elm that had given it birth. In doing so, and in giving it the gift of flight, she had made the former branch feel as if it was waking up from a drugged sleep, not that it particularly knew what drugs or sleep were. Being a part of the Grimace was overpowering and smothering, and you knew nothing else other than the feeling of being overpoweringly smothered. It was normal. It was natural. To be separated from that was... enlightening. Having a sense of self was new and, well, wondrous! And it was thanks to this witch! The broomstick nudged her.

You ok?

Puddlebrain tried to push her creation away. She was decidedly not ok. She had bruised her pride and her back and could do without any creeping concern from the scabby bit of wood that had thrown her! The effort of lifting her arm was too much for her and she flopped it back down, wincing as it hit the ground. Again the broomstick nudged her, this time more insistently. She turned her head towards it a little too sharply.

"What!?"

The broomstick backed off but stayed close. It was hovering a few centimetres off the ground, swaying slightly from side to side. It wasn't quite used to being able to fly, so it was taking things steadily, not wanting to rush or try anything too rash. The race through the Grimace had been enough! It jabbed at the air in a pointing motion. Puddlebrain frowned. What? The broomstick jabbed again. It was definitely pointing. Puddlebrain turned her head stiffly in the direction her broom was indicating.

She sat up abruptly, immediately forgetting her pains.

She was in the centre of the Grimace. It couldn't be anywhere else. Three oaks, so huge they dwarfed even the mighty ones that had made a grab for her on her journey in, formed a triangle in the middle of which she was sprawled. The Grimace ringed the behemoths like an audience waiting to see some spectacular gladiatorial display, or perhaps to simply stare in awe.

She craned her neck back to try to see the tops, but they were lost in the night sky. How these could not be seen from outside the Grimace was beyond the witch. They were blatantly massive! Minimal roots could be seen at their bases, as if they'd burrowed deep into the ground for stability and pulled the bodies part way down with them. It gave the trunks the illusion of being moulded from the very ground itself, as if the earth had thrust oak fists skyward. Branches didn't sprout until a good 20 yards up, and the lower ones were easily thicker than Puddlebrain's own torso. Beyond that, she couldn't tell. The upper reaches disappeared into the darkness above. She turned to stare at each colossus, speechless.

Then she saw the marks.

Carved out of the bases of the monsters were concave sections. Not too big, but big enough. They hardly dented the enormous trunks, but they were there, nonetheless. Puddlebrain could see that they were quite old now, at least old in her sense. As far as the Grimace was concerned, they had been removed less than a heartbeat ago. She knew what they were. She hoped that the cutting hadn't harmed the trees in any way. This was not only because she didn't want any retaliation aimed at her, but because that's how she was – she would even care for something she feared. But, she supposed, the Grimace wouldn't know she was her father's daughter, would it?

"Not quite," said a voice.

Puddlebrain spun round. Wha...? The broomstick had been pointing. In her awe at the sight of the three great oaks, she'd forgotten that little fact. She remembered it now, quite suddenly, but there was no one in sight. She turned her head slowly, standing as she did so. Her breathing had returned to normal and her aches were forgotten. The broomstick moved closer to her leg, acting so much like a scared puppy that the witch almost petted it.

She stood, holding her breath, hoping to hear breathing other than her own. The forest was as still as she. Her eyes narrowed as she peered into the darkness of the Grimace, trying to see if any of the shadows were moving. Nothing did.

Was it her imagination?

"No, it wasn't," said the voice.

It sounded like parchment being torn slowly by hands that shook with incredible age. It scratched down her back like the claws of a cat worrying the furniture. She shivered.

Leaning against the trunk of one of the oaks was an old man. At least that was what he first looked like. He'd not been there a second before, Puddlebrain was sure, but he was certainly there now. His face was as wrinkled and lined as the bark he was using as a post and his clothes, grey rags that clung to him like an old friend, looked like they hadn't been taken off in at least a good century or two. A hat, paler than his clothes, more the ashen shade of his face, was pulled tight onto the tops of his ears. It was round topped, like a bowler, but the rim hung down lazily, trying to obscure his eyes but not seeming to have the energy. The old man was settled into one of the dips cut by Puddlebrain's father so many years before. He ran his finger up and down over the wood, stroking it lovingly.

"Who are you?" the witch asked, trying to make her voice sound brave.

This was just an old man, probably more lost than she was. Perhaps he was one of the Grimace's victims, doomed to wander its treacherous paths for the rest of his life.

"Who am I?" the old man said. Puddlebrain cringed at the sound of that voice. It rattled out of the old man like the hacked cough of a pneumonic rat. "Who am I indeed? And who are you to ask who am I? In fact, who are any of us? I know, but do you? Do you? Do tell!"

Puddlebrain frowned.

"Pardon?"

Was he senile? Was his poor mind as lost as his poorer body?

"Consider yourself pardoned. At least for the ignorance of your youth. Your arrogance is another matter, as is that of your father, and that will have to be dealt with as a separate issue. But for the ignorance of simply being you, consider yourself forgiven."

The old man wheezed as he spoke. He shifted his position slightly and Puddlebrain could hear the creak of his bones from where she was standing.

She was silent. He'd spoken of her father, so he knew who she was. Any pretence was a waste of time now, but surely she wouldn't be punished for her father's actions, not that she precisely knew what those actions were. All Puddlebrain really knew was that her father had ventured into the Grimace decades before and had brought out a grand fireplace that, he said, had been carved from the three oaks at its centre. That was all she had been told.

"Is it now?" the old man said. "Is that really all you were told?"

He stepped away from the trunk, a move that seemed to take forever and was accompanied by the creaking of bones that echoed around Puddlebrain's head. It appeared to join his voice in getting inside her somehow and scratching away from within.

"Are you so sure of that young lady?"

Puddlebrain took a step back as he moved towards her, leaning heavily on a slim gnarled cane of some dark stained wood. Who was he? What was he? Perhaps she'd banged her head too hard when she'd been thrown from the broomstick. Maybe that was it. Except her broomstick had seen the man too – it had pointed him out to her. And he knew who she was. And...

...And he was reading her thoughts...

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "Almost, but not quite. Why, you're a bright young thing, aren't you? Clever as clever can be, and just about as brave into the bargain. Why should you be afraid of a little old man like me, eh? Littler than little old you, and older than yourself and your sisters added together and timesed a time or two. Afraid? Scared? Nervous as a cat in a kennel, that's you, isn't it?" He laughed, a jangling clatter that threatened to shake him apart. "But you don't need to be afraid. Not of me..."