The faces of the beasts lit with malevolent glee. They swarmed beneath me in a circle, like a dark tornado. The land quaked and the glass floor cracked open, and foul-smelling gasses rose. About ten yards from me, right at the Woodsman’s feet, the glass shattered and a geyser of putrid chemicals gushed up, creating a stench I could barely stomach, chasing me as I fled. In the midst of the eruption was an army of flying beasts. They screeched and squawked and cackled, celebrating their release like drunken pirates.

Some of the creatures flew low, just feet above us. “Don’t let him push you around,” one of them cried in shrill but perfectly enunciated words that chilled me.

“You can do whatever you want—he’s not your master,” said another. Some of the reptiles whispered suggestions, some screamed commands into the ears of the little people who pounded their nails into the Woodsman’s heel. The beasts herded in more and more of us, close to his bleeding feet. In one moment I felt outraged at the people piercing him with nails, and in the next I looked down to see my own hand bringing down hammer on nail.

Smaller winged dinosaurs hovered over us, trying to sink their claws into the Woodsman. The flying beasts were much larger than we were, but small enough that the Woodsman could easily have swatted or squashed them with his hand. Several of them pecked at his hands, drawing a little blood, the droplets falling to the ground with a huge splash, though far away enough not to touch me. Still, the beasts seemed limited in their ability to harm the Woodsman directly. They had great success, however, ushering the little people to do their dirty work.

“The tyrant is your enemy,” one of them shouted. The monster swooped low and pushed me and several others aside with his slimy jaws. I rolled, then got up shoving and kicking the people who struck and screamed at me. Seething with panicked rage, I pulled more nails from my pocket, held them in my mouth, and in rapid succession drove them into the Woodsman’s heel, drawing blood.

“Take that!” I shouted. “No one can tell me how to run my life. How dare you treat me like this?”

The great foot trembled, as if in a spasm, but did not move away from me. For a fleeting moment I wondered why I was punishing the Woodsman for what the beast had done, for what I had done, for what others had done to me. But in the next moment it all seemed perfectly logical. It felt so good to be in control, to determine my own destiny, to choose to do something with my hands, something that made a difference. I was in charge, the Woodsman was at my mercy—and I showed him none.