Two dozen woodcutters entered the forest to eerie silence. No rustling. No bird songs.
"It’s too quiet," said Jeroboam.
"Well," said Nehemiah, "Let’s find some good trees and make some noise."
He took the lead. He found a great oak that must have been two hundred years old. "Time to go to work, boys."
A wolf growled.
The men froze, then slowly looked around. Eyes peered out at them from within dark spaces under the forest canopy. Large gray forms moved swiftly through the trees around them.
A raven croaked. Then another. Then a chorus.
The woodcutters looked up. Scores of ravens sat nestled in the trees above them. They had remained silent until this moment.
Jeroboam shuddered. "They say these woods are haunted."
"They’re just stupid birds," said Nehemiah.
"And the wolves?"
"Pfft! I ain’t afraid of no puppy dog. Stand back."
Nehemiah raised his axe high and took a powerful swing into the oak’s trunk.
The beasts sprung into action. Ravens descended on the woodcutters, batting at their faces with their wings and pecking at their eyes. Dozens of wolves leapt from their hiding places, knocking men down and savaging their arms and legs with bites.
The woodcutters fled from the forest, bruised and bleeding. The wolves chased them for one hundred yards before stopping. They stared at the men for a moment before slowly turning and loping back into the wood.