The wise mentor: a staple of any heroic journey. Wisdom has never been an attribute to take the limelight in stories. There are only a few famous exceptions, such as the intuitive detective from 221B Baker St., which focus on the least flashy of Numbers. Reality, surprisingly, is not dissimilar, with very few people self-reporting their record-setting wisdom Numbers. The highest confirmed wisdom Number is 968, photographed by a tourist to a Alcantan mountain temple on the arm of an unnamed monk.

- Excerpt from “Extreme Numbers: Fact and Fiction”

As I settle down, I consider my plan. "Fight" is probably a strong word for what I'm about to attempt.

Honestly, that's a good thing. There's no way I would be able to overpower the tree-monster physically, not at my former Numbers, and definitely not at my current Numbers. I suppress a momentary shiver as a vision of my fellow students' crumpled bodies flashes through my mind.

No, I'm definitely not going to attempt to engage the tree monster in any sort of close-up battle. It would be complete suicide. Despite this resolution, my knuckles are white around the solid wooden handle of the spade.

Some habits are hard to break, I guess.

The sky is completely black now, as I kept up my pace up for another hour to ensure I had plenty of time to set up everything that's needed for my plan to work. Ideally, I would have liked to wait until morning and the sun before attempting my strategy, not wanting to be any more handicapped than I already am, but I was already barely able to make it this far without collapsing. If I had tried to walk through the night, the monster wouldn't even be needed to kill me -- exhaustion would do its job for it. If my plan works, the darkness won't be as much of a handicap for much longer, anyway.

As I sit staring at the road, I can't help but hope that maybe the tree-monster will never show up. I quickly quash that thought, however.

As important as it is to be hopeful, realism needs to take a front seat for the duration of this ordeal. And, to be frank, my hopeful side hasn't had such a good track record the last few days. It's time to let out my inner pessimist.

My eyes drift close for a split second before I jerk them back open. Any second now...

Thirty minutes of "any second nows" later, I hear the rustling of undergrowth being shifted to the side, and see a branch flash in the moonlight from the direction of the road. It's finally time.

My heart suddenly pounds heavily in my chest. I've never been this nervous before -- when I fought the dog-monsters, I had no time to prepare, and even my run down the hill was a spur-of-the-moment decision.

This moment, however, is something I've planned for. Committed to. It is clearly the best option I have -- the only option I have. But then why won't my body accept it and relax?

I reach my shaking hands down and grab the jug next to me, preparing for the moment of truth. I'm currently hanging from the highest branch of the easiest to climb tree I could find, out of reach -- hopefully -- from the stunted tree-monster's tallest limbs.

I'd never been that big of a tree-climber growing up, which I thoroughly regretted on my climb up to this position. I had already attempted, and failed, to climb up two other trees, as well as climbed halfway up two more before finding a tree that has climbing branches extending both high enough to get above the tree-monster's grasp and low enough to allow me to successfully begin my ascent.

I stick the spade into my back pocket and begin to pull out the half of the blanket that's been soaking in the jug for the last hour. Making sure the jug is securely wedged back into its home between two nearby branches, I reach with my other hand and pull out of my front pocket the final ingredient to my plan: a box of matches.

I almost hadn't brought the half-gallon jug of gasoline with me when choosing what to pack in the wheelbarrow. In the end, however, I had plenty of space left over for it, and I wasn't very confident in my ability to start a fire without a little chemical assistance. It got thrown in, along with everything else.

And as I prepare to light the match, I can't help but breathe a sigh of relief for that casual decision. As the tree-monster crawls its way into the clearing below me and stretches its topmost branches in my direction, I feel amazingly optimistic of my chances tonight. After all, what has been the eternal killer of trees, and forests, everywhere?

Fire.

Lighting the match, I hold it under the soaked portion of the blanket. I wish I had had an extra blanket or more gasoline to test this out on before committing, but there's little help for that now. With a whoosh, the fire spreads to the rest of the blanket, and I throw it into the mess of outstretched branches that are beginning to beat against the trunk and limbs of my climbing tree. The blanket is heavy enough that it falls straight down into the center of the mass of branches, right next to the trunk.

At first, nothing seems to happen. A few seconds later, as I'm pouring the rest of the jug from my perch onto the fiery blanket and tree monster below it, I see the first signs of increased agitation from the monster, as a few of its branches start to spasm in a direction that isn't me.

A few seconds after that, I stare in amazement, and horror, at what I've done. The up until now eerily silent tree-monster begins to emit a high pitch screeching, and the entire trunk swings back and forth, whipping the branches furthest out quickly through the air, unknowingly supplying more oxygen for the now rapidly growing fire.

My main worry when concocting this plan was that the tree-monster wouldn't actually be made of wood and be flammable, which, considering that it seemed to be alive and trying to kill me, was a very real possibility. There was no guarantee that the tree-monster was in any way related to actual trees. I breathe a sigh of relief at how mis-placed that fear seems to have been.

And immediately release all of the air inhaled in the sigh in a giant fit of coughing. Sitting directly above the burning, flailing tree monster, it's beginning to get less hospitable. The acrid smoke from the gasoline fire is rising directly into my face and the heat is causing my already sweat-soaked shirt to steam into the night air.

I slowly reposition myself on the branch, and start to edge back to the main trunk of the tree. There are more hand-holds there, and it is less directly above what is quickly turning into a raging inferno. The fire seems to be doing its job -- my job now is to just survive.

As soon as I have that thought, the tree-monster flails one of its larger limbs into the trunk of my tree, and the branch I'm perched on shakes underneath me as my legs slide off of the branch. Suddenly, I find myself hanging with only my forearms wrapped around the branch, my legs dangling below me. I hold in a scream of pain as my scabs scrape against the bark, but I don't allow my grip to loosen.

Then, I feel a burning sensation as a small, thin branch wraps around my ankle. Surprisingly strong, it tugs me towards the fire, where larger branches are waiting to crush me.

Then, unable to hold my scream in any longer, my grip slips, and I fall into the flames.

S: 82

D: 31

W: 36 (+1)

I: 28 (+1)

C: 25

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