Caught in a Prickle

By Rachel Dib

Martin awoke to a few unexpected discoveries, the first of which was finding himself suspended upside down from a tree branch. Considering his last memory was losing his footing and tumbling down a sharp embankment, this predicament came as a relief. After all, he wasn’t dead or grievously injured. So that was a plus.

What bothered him was the fact he was tightly wrapped from shoulder to toe in a cocoon of vines. He tried to wiggle, but nothing would move. Since he doubted rolling down a steep incline would result in any kind of vine cocoon, much less one so restricting, he was left with the disconcerting notion that his bonds had been intentional rather than accidental.

Questions swirled through Martin’s mind. Who had tied him up? And why had they used vines instead of rope? Even if it was rather effective, it was still an odd choice.

Yet these weren’t his greatest concerns. No. He was most concerned with the porcupines.

There were dozens of the creatures. Gathered directly below him, their beady black eyes stared intently at his hanging form. If Martin hadn’t known better, he’d have suspected they were waiting for him to fall.

But, of course, this couldn’t be the case. While Martin didn’t know much about porcupines, he assumed they didn’t position themselves under helpless victims vying for the chance to impale them.

Which meant the animals had been placed there.

Had someone really released a porcupine prickle beneath him to eventually impale him on? And if so, why—because what had Martin ever done to them? He didn’t even know anyone on Prince Edward Island besides his grandmother. Surely, she had nothing to do with this.

Though hiking in the Wabanaki-Acadian Forest was her idea.

He briefly considered this, but then jumped to a more important issue: how did said villain get the porcupine prickle not only to stay still but also to stare so raptly up at him?

Martin couldn’t help but be impressed by that feat. He had a hard enough time training his dog to pay attention for any length of time. Teaching a bunch of porcupines must have taken some tremendous skill and patience.

Still, why porcupines?

Martin examined them closer. Such odd-looking creatures, too. I never knew their spines were so thick and spear shaped. And what soulful eyes they have. Wait, is that one wearing shoes?

The longer Martin studied the spiky creatures, the less he found they resembled porcupines. Their ears weren’t round and furry, as he’d first assumed, but rather pointed and fleshy. Some were even pierced with golden and silver hoops. Also, they had bulbous noses rather than snouts, and their mouths had distinct lips.

If Martin could have felt his hands, he suspected they’d be clammy. As it was, his forehead started to sweat. At least with porcupines he’d known he was dealing with animals—and possibly a kidnapping hermit hiding somewhere nearby. He had no idea what to expect.

As if realizing that Martin had discovered their true nature, the imposter porcupines all rose homogeneously to their feet. Now they looked somewhat humanoid—outside of the quills that sprouted from their backs, anyway. While their arms were covered by elbow-length gloves and their feet with sandals, Martin noticed they had distinct fingers and toes—including thumbs. Each one stood between two and three feet tall with dark oval eyes and curious, albeit not particularly friendly, expressions. They wore gray loincloths matching their skin tone. A few had a swatch of fabric draped lengthwise across their bodies and tied in the back in a makeshift shirt. Besides the earrings, none of them wore any color, giving them a washed-out, almost ghostly, appearance.

Were the creatures some kind of demon? If so, did that mean he was actually dead? Could he sweat this much in the afterlife?

The porcupine-infused being standing closest to Martin rose up on his toes. He pointed a finger at Martin.

Martin closed his eyes, preparing for the worst.

His eyelids popped back open as yelling erupted to his right.

A park ranger sprinted toward Martin, wagging an accusatory finger at the porcupine people. “What have I told you about kidnapping hikers?”

While most of the little beings lowered their heads in shame, the one by Martin placed his hands on his hips. He made a tittering noise, pointed up at Martin, and stomped a foot.

“I don’t care if he fell into your territory,” the park ranger snapped. “Let him go.”

The little being stomped the other foot and tittered some more.

The park ranger bent down until he was nose to nose with the little imp. “Did you just threaten me, Lillipotle? Because you know what happens to our little agreement if you ever threaten someone in the park service.”

Turning his face away, Lillipotle crossed his arms and made a noncommittal twitter.

“I didn’t think so,” the park ranger replied. He straightened. “Now get him down.”

With an annoyed snort, Lillipotle pointed a finger at Martin.

Martin yelped as the branch holding him snapped. He plummeted headfirst and was surprised when he stopped short, landing in the park ranger’s outstretched arms.

“What just happened?” Martin asked as the park ranger laid him gently on the ground. He glanced around, expecting to be suddenly swarmed, but all of the porcupine people had disappeared.

“Pukwudgies.” The park ranger shook his head. “They’re harmless most of the time. On occasion, though, they forget their manners and…” He motioned to Martin’s bound form.

Martin struggled against his bonds. The vines held as tightly as ever. “Pukwudgies are just local folklore.”

The park ranger lifted a brow in an “are you serious right now” expression and then shrugged. “Sure. It’s probably safer you maintain that line of thinking.” He tugged at a vine, sighed, and unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Hey, this is Barrows. I’m down in Pukwudgie territory. I’m going to need a pair of hedge cutters.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachel Dib is a stay-at-home mom of three small children. After marrying a soldier, she left her home state of South Carolina to live in random places across the United States. Her works of short fiction have been published by On the Premises Magazine, Havok Publishing, and Ye Olde Dragon Books. She has also had short stories published by Toasted Cheese Literary Journal under the name R.J. Snowberger.

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