Where the Woods Grow Wild

by Nate Philbrick

  Martin and Elodie decided to spend the rest of the day in the cottage. Podgin volunteered to cook enough food to make up for all the lost meals, and those who were able dragged the broken roof timbers outside.

  “This cottage is older than I am,” said Illo. “I’m surprised the thatching lasted as long as it did. I’ll have plenty of time to mend it. Someday.”

  The cleaning commotion woke Bramble. He sat up, yawned, and dragged his feet past the kitchen. When Martin went to look for him, the little creature had found an empty shelf in the pantry and was already asleep again.

  The next morning found everyone gathered around the table for a late breakfast. Bramble dozed between the honey jar and the water pitcher. Illo picked at her plate while Podgin licked his clean. A tangible sense of unease settled around the table, as if everyone knew what to do next but no one had the will to do it.

  Martin and Elodie sat together. Neither of them said it out loud, but Martin felt an understanding between them. It was time to go home.

  Aguilax spoke first. “Well, then. I should get back to work. Our saltbox won’t restock itself, and I know a spot where pheasants like to roost.” On his way to the door he stopped by Elodie and Martin, rubbing his head against their legs in turn. “You two look out for each other, understood?” He hopped onto the windowsill, and with a whisk of his stubby tail he flew away.

  Illo pounded her fist on the table, causing Bramble to wake in a fright. “No sense in putting things off any longer, I guess. Pack your things, not that you have any, and I’ll take you as far as the Turtlegabble. There’s no telling what calamity might befall us if you stay in the woods another day.” She grinned, but not without effort, and it was a hollow kind of grin.

  “I thought you didn’t know that part of the woods,” said Martin. “That’s what you said when I sat here for the first time.”

  Illo shrugged. “I fibbed because I didn’t like you. Do you want a guide or not?”

  “We’re ready,” said Elodie.

  At that moment, Bramble broke into miserable sobs. “Martin and the sun-drop girl must go back to bricky-village, and Bramble will be left alone, for Bramble has no home and no friends!” He flung himself down in such anguish that he rolled right through Podgin’s plate.

  “Oh, stop that,” said Illo. “You can stay with me and Aguilax, if you want.”

  “Bramble can live here?”

  “I don’t see why not. That shelf in the pantry has your name on it, if it suits you, as long as you promise not to nibble anything.”

  Bramble clapped his hands, delighted. “Bramble must go see Bramble’s new snoozy-shelf!” He leaped off the table and was halfway to the pantry before he stopped and shuffled back. “But...Bramble must also say goodbye to Bramble’s friends.”

  Elodie picked him up and pecked him on the forehead. “Try to stay out of mischief.”

  “Bramble promises.”

  She set him down, and he scampered to Martin.

  “Remember,” he squeaked. “Mustn’t poke a turtle blossom, and mustn’t eat a puffernut.” Then, his blue eyes pooling up with tears, he left the room.

  “Shall we be off?” Illo stood. “Care to come with us, Podgin?”

  Podgin peered up from a handful of mushrooms. “Illo, please,” he sighed. “I’m simply too worn out, and I stubbed my toe on the way back yesterday. I may never walk again. No, no, you must go on without me, as terrible as it is.” His nose quivered, and he licked his thumbs.

  “Oh, Podgin,” said Elodie. Much to the little man’s dismay, she wrapped him in a tight hug.

  “Thank you for everything you did to help us,” said Martin. “I know you didn’t mind it as much as you pretended to.”

  “Outrageous lies,” said Podgin, but a toothy grin parted his beard.

  “That reminds me,” said Illo. She ducked out of the room to the pantry, and came back with a short spade. She slapped it on the table in front of Podgin. “Forty-two steps straight across the brook, then six more to the right. There’s a red oak waiting for you. I think you’ll like what you find there.”

  Podgin twiddled his fingers with glee.

  Illo rolled her eyes. She led Martin and Elodie outside. “Now...let’s get you home.”

  * * *

  Illo knew every twist and turn between the cottage and the Turtlegabble. Without her guidance, Martin and Elodie would have been hard pressed to find the river. The woods grew quieter the closer they got. Then the Turtlegabble gurgled at their feet.

  Martin looked around, wondering if he might recognize anything from his first encounter with Bramble. Nothing felt familiar, as though the woods themselves had changed as much as he had since that fateful moment. They followed the river and found the bridge, broken rail, tree branch, and all. He stopped on the first plank, taking it all in with a sigh.

  “Branches don’t fall out of place willy-nilly, you know,” he said.

  Illo came up beside him. “No. I don’t suppose they do.”

  “Can you believe we’ve been gone for over a week?” said Elodie.

  “It feels longer than that,” said Martin.

  “Who do you think will be the first to see us come out?”

  “With our luck?” said Martin. “Percy.”

  “And to think they have no idea what the forest is really like.”

  Illo cleared her throat beside them. “Trust me, as long as that’s the case, everyone wins.”

  Martin and Elodie slowly crossed the bridge. Halfway over, Martin turned. Illo hadn’t set foot on the planks.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “This is as far as I’m going,” said Illo. “You don’t need me anymore. I...I should head back.”

  “You could come with us, you know,” said Elodie. “Bardun Village may not be exciting, but it’s a good place to live. You could stay at the mayor’s with me. He has plenty of room, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind one more mouth to feed. We’d have so much fun pranking the maids together.”

  “Thanks, but no. This is home to me. Always has been, always will be. Besides, someone has to tend to the garden now, and Aguilax doesn’t have thumbs.” A tiny drop glistened on her cheek. She pretended to scratch an itch and wiped it away.

  Elodie went to hug her, but Illo backed away.

  “Cut it out already. Can’t you see I’m trying to get rid of you?”

  “We’ll sneak away for a visit now and then,” said Martin. “You know, to make sure the Champion of the Woods hasn’t burnt everything down.”

  “Sure thing, hog-moggins. Elodie, keep an eye on him, won’t you?”

  Elodie put her arm around Martin’s waist. “You know I will.”

  Illo opened her mouth, but if she had more to say, she changed her mind. She hesitated, then hoisted herself into a tree and disappeared into the wild woods.

  Martin and Elodie shared a nervous smile. They crossed the Turtlegabble side by side and passed through the silent oaks. Bells rang in the distance, little more than an echo, as the clock tower struck the change of the hour. They followed the sound of the bells.

  18. Home

  The back door of the Cabbage Cart Inn was locked from the inside, so Martin rapped his fist on the peeled paint. He stood in the shade under the sagging veranda and waited.

  Evangeline Pig inhaled slop in her pen nearby without acknowledging his presence. Martin went over to pat her between the ears, shutting the pen gate in the process. A week’s worth of firewood lay strewn about the grass by the stable.

  He knocked on the door again. Someone—it wasn’t hard to figure out who—bellowed in the building’s bowels, and footsteps hastened down the hall. The latch slid, and Percy Durbity opened the door, tenderly rubbing his backside.

  “Hullo, Martin,” he said. “I thought you’d still be in the market square with everyone else.” He glared back down the hall and lowered his voice. “I wish Mr. Stump would let me go. I haven’t tasted a fruit pie since Mayor Clarenbald celebrated his forty-fifth birthd
ay. Say, you can even hear the laughter from here! Just think, if I’d gone into the woods with you and Elodie, they’d be celebrating for me too, and I’d eat all the fruit pie I could fit in my stomach, even though Mother told me I ought not to eat too many sweets in one day.”

  Martin patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t be too jealous, Percy. It’s not as fun as it seems. Most folks only showed up to gawk and whisper. We got back two whole days ago, and they’re still treating us like damaged children. Anyway, I’m here to talk to Stump.”

  Hergelo Stump was one of the few people Martin hadn’t yet seen since their return. Percy, who had fainted cold when Martin and Elodie strolled into town looking like forest savages, went to fetch him.

  A minute later, Stump himself lumbered to the door. His one exposed eye scrunched to match his scowl.

  “I suppose you’re the cause of all the hootenanny in the clock tower square,” he said. “Everyone thought you were dead.” He looked Martin up and down. “But you’re not.”

  “No sir, I’m not,” said Martin. “I’ve come to ask for my job back. Again. I’ll make up for all the days I missed, and you don’t even have to pay me for them. Please, Mr. Stump. I need—”

  “Get in,” said Stump.

  Martin faltered. “I’m sorry?”

  “Get in before we lose Percy to a landslide of dirty pots—you’ll be washing those today, mind you.”

  “Of course,” said Martin. “Right away. And thank you. Can…can you give me five minutes?”

  Stump grumbled like a condensed raincloud, but he nodded his chins and let the door swing shut.

  Martin rounded the pig pen to the back of the stable. Elodie was already waiting for him there. She sat on an overturned rain barrel, a mischievous grin brightening her face.

  “Look what I brought from the square,” she said. She held up a tin with half a pie. “The mayor tried to keep this one hidden for himself because it has orange slices in it, but I found it anyway.”

  She offered him a piece.

  “I don’t know if I can eat anything after all the pride I just had to swallow,” said Martin.

  “Then give it to Percy. Did you get your job back?”

  “For better or for worse, yes.”

  “Just like I told you,” said Elodie. “Stump can’t afford not to re-hire you no matter how many weeks you miss.”

  “And you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’ll take me a few days to get used to the uniform again.” She pinched the blue fabric between her fingers. “And yes, I put the ring back in Clarenbald’s drawer. That doesn’t mean you can break the promises you made, though. Those still count.”

  “I know.”

  Elodie glanced in the direction of the market square, where the music and voices were already dying down. “That’s that, I guess. Back to normal life. I’m supposed to be delivering Clarenbald’s payment to the bakery, and you have onion soup to make.”

  “Anything to please the mayor’s speediest courier,” said Martin.

  He dodged a smack aimed at his arm.

  “Now that you mention it, though,” said Elodie, stifling a giggle. “Stump still hasn’t connected the dots. If you’re lucky, one of these days I might concoct another scheme to steal you away. No pigs this time.”

  Martin agreed wholeheartedly. “No pigs.”

  They listened to the fading festivities.

  “I should get going,” said Elodie. She hopped off the barrel. “I suspect the Cabbage Cart will fill up quite a bit this evening, given all the rumors that are sure to start spreading about us. If anyone happens to ask about a certain cricket in a certain maid’s tea, it wasn’t me.” She winked and started around the corner.

  “Elodie,” he called after her.

  She turned. “Yes, Martin?”

  “I...” Martin shuffled his feet and jammed his fingers into his pocket. “I’m glad you didn’t give up on me.”

  Elodie tossed her hair. “Why on earth would I do a silly thing like that?”

  Turn the page for a special sneak-peek at the first chapter of Where the Woods Grow in Flames, the sequel to Where the Woods Grow Wild.

  Martin and Elodie’s adventure has just begun…

  Where the Woods Grow in Flames

  Chapter One Sneak-Peek

  A man stumbled through the trees. He bent against the vicious wind, tossing to and fro with each step. One hand held up his coat to shield himself from the gale, the other pressed against his bleeding and useless eye. The oaks leered at him and the wind cut like blades, but the man curled his lip and battered through it all.

  Dusk darkened the cloud-stricken sky. The man snarled, quickening his pace. He had to make it out before nightfall.

  The river opened at his feet. The man nearly plunged into the swift water in his half-blind haste.

  “Turtlegabble, good,” he said, his voice all but lost to the wind. “Bridge. Where’s the bridge?”

  With labored breath and ramming heart, the man fought the wind upriver for a quarter of a mile. There, he found the bridge.

  “Just in case we need it, just in case ever we need to cross…”

  Storms had raised the river. The water bit at the bridge’s belly, but the man didn’t care. He tore across, still clutching his eye. His foot slipped. He drove into the rail and felt the structure groan and crack under his weight. The rail held. The man made it across.

  Past the river, the oaks grew young and green. The woods thinned and broke like waves up a sandy beach. After the last tree spread flat fields of wild grass. Then the village. All the man saw in the waning light was an unfinished clock tower rising from a tight mass of flickering lights amid the dark shapes of houses.

  The man didn’t stop at the forest’s edge. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not now. He stepped out into the open field. Without the trees to ebb its force, the wind drove the man to his knees. He set his broken sight on the nearest farmhouse and fought across the field.

  A stone wall cut him off. No time to go around. The man hauled himself over the wall. He fell flat on the dirt road on the other side. He pulled himself up again. The farmhouse was close.

  “Hang on. We can make it. Hang on.”

  The door was locked, the shutters bolted in place. The residents had turned in already.

  Lightheaded, the man pushed through the gate and stumbled up the walkway. He beat on the door with a single fist.

  “Open up, please! I need help, someone…” His mouth went slack.

  A flame flickered to life inside, casting orange light through the gaps in the doorframe. The door opened. The man fell at the feet of a shocked farmer and his wife, both wearing nightgowns and gaping mouths.

  The farmer helped the man up with his burly arms. He pulled the man into the warm house. There were hot coals in the hearth and a bucket of sand beside it.

  “Oh, my. Look at his face.” The farmer’s wife still hadn’t moved from the door. The oil lamp trembled in her grip, the flame blown out in an instant.

  “More light,” the farmer said.

  He flipped the sand bucket over and helped the man sit down on it.

  The farmer’s wife piled kindling on the coals and got the flames going. The farmer peeled the man’s sticky hand off his face. He winced.

  “What happened to you?”

  The man shook his head. “Not me.” His voice rasped and cracked, but it was enough. “Her.”

  The farmer looked around. “Who? You’re alone, stranger.”

  “Help her.” The man pointed out the door, across the fields, to the dark wall of trees. “Please. Help her. Help my daughter.”

  Wind kicked the door shut. The man cried out and jumped up too abruptly. His head spun in a haze. He toppled over, hit his head on the fireplace mantel, and swirled into blackness.

  …More tales unfold in Where the Woods Grow in Flames…

  About the Author

  Nate Philbrick is an adventure-driven fantasy author living near Barce
lona, where he teaches English as a second language. He believes the primary objectives of writing stories are to do a good job entertaining the reader and to reflect the creativity of the Creator.

  Nate loves to connect with readers through a variety of platforms. He sprinkles snarky nonsense on social media, writes mostly useless blog posts, and is a recent National Novel Writing Month participant.

  Contact

  www.youwritefiction.wordpress.com

  Twitter @NatePhilbrick

  Related work

  Where the Woods Grow in Flames

  Coming 2017