by Colin Meloy
“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Vlad.
Dmitri barked sharply and leapt at his compatriot’s throat, his teeth flashing.
Through the mossy ground cover, Curtis crept his hand along until it met Prue’s, and he squeezed her fingers. She squeezed back, not daring to take her eyes off the battling coyotes. The two soldiers had fallen to the ground and were thrashing about in a desperate whirl of motion, their jaws locked on to each other’s throats. Their pained and angered yips caught the immediate attention of the rest of the platoon, and the commander roared as he ran over to the tangle of the two soldiers. He had drawn his saber from its sheath, and when he arrived at the warring coyotes, he grabbed the first one he could get his hands on—Vlad—and yanked him from the scrum, his blade’s edge at Vlad’s throat.
“I’ll have your heads on tree branches!” swore the Commandant. “I’ll see you strung limb from limb, so help me God.” He threw his captive to the ground and swiveled, swinging his sword point so that it was a mere hairbreadth from Dmitri’s muzzle. He spoke more slowly. “And you, you raggedy, snot-snouted, pathetic excuse for a coyote: I’m prepared to end this right here, right now.” Dmitri whimpered at the point of the blade, and the commander brought the sword up to swinging height. From above, Curtis gaped and Prue buried her head in her hands to avoid witnessing the gruesome scene to come.
Suddenly a breeze picked up and whispered down through the trees, traveling over Prue and Curtis’s bodies from their feet to their neck, out over the promontory and down into the meadow below. The violent scene playing out below them froze into stillness as each of the coyotes’ ears flinched and their snouts sniffed the air. The commander huffed, his saber motionless above his head in midswing. Dmitri, his sentence temporarily commuted, let out a rush of breath and looked around him. Prue lifted her head from her hands. Slowly, the Commandant lifted his nose and took a deep, lingering inhalation.
“HUMANS!” the Commandant shouted, breaking the silence and swinging his sword to point at the stand of ferns above them. “IN THE TREES!”
In an eruption of action, several soldiers who had been flanking the Commandant broke away and started clambering up the embankment toward Prue and Curtis.
“RUN!” shouted Curtis, pushing himself up from the ground. Prue scrambled to her feet and dove out of the bushes, away from the embankment. The coyotes were baying frantically behind her as they crested the lip of the plateau and tore through the ferns. She sprinted back through the trees until she arrived at the ravine they’d been following. She took one wild step over the edge, caught a foot on a tangle of briar, and was thrown headlong into the gully.
Curtis had plowed in a different direction, choosing instead to make his way up the hillside in the direction they had been walking. The grade was steep and unrelenting in this densely wooded area, and the birch branches and blackberry vines thrashed at his face and arms, hampering his scrabbling sprint. The coyotes, accustomed to the terrain, raced through the underbrush on all fours, and Curtis had barely made it ten yards from the embankment before the first coyote lunged on his back and brought him to the ground.
“You’re mine!” hissed the coyote, and Curtis’s arms and legs were pulled taut and pinned to the ground as more soldiers arrived at the scene of his capture.
“C-Curtis?” Prue mumbled, gaining her bearings. It was clear she’d been knocked momentarily unconscious; she found herself lying facedown in the bracken of the ravine with a splitting headache and the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. She heard a distant howling and was jolted into her present circumstance. Staying close to the ground, she dragged herself through the underbrush and peeked over the lip of the ravine. Apparently, the soldiers had not seen her headfirst vault into the gully and had chosen to take down Curtis instead. From her vantage, she could see the soldiers hauling Curtis to his feet. She watched the Commandant slowly approach, grab Curtis by the scruff of his coat, and shove his muzzle into either side of Curtis’s throat, sniffing. She could see the fear in Curtis’s eyes. He was surrounded by a group of coyote grunts who were skulking around his feet on all fours, whining and snapping. The Commandant barked a series of orders, and their captive was bound by rope and thrown over the back of one of the larger coyotes, and the party disappeared into the woods.
Prue fought the urge to cry; she could feel the sobs coming from the pit of her stomach, and her eyes started to well with tears. Her fingers clenched around a tussock of grass and squeezed as she willed her mind to quiet. She felt with her tongue the spot on her lip where there was a small bulb of blood and licked it clean. The air was still and the light was flat as the early afternoon sun began to dim. She thought about the note she’d left for her parents that morning. Back later, it had said. Despite the gravity of the situation, she couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. She pulled herself up from the ground and sat on the edge of the ravine, dusting the stain of dirt from the knees of her jeans. A squirrel popped its head from behind a rotted tree stump and looked at her quizzically.
“What do you want, squirrel?” she jeered. She laughed to herself and said, “I suppose I should watch what I say. You probably talk too. Do you?”
The squirrel said nothing.
“Great, that’s actually a bit of a relief,” she said, propping her chin in her hands. “Though you might just be the quiet type.”
She scanned her surroundings and then looked back at the squirrel, which had cocked its head to the side, studying her. “So what do I do now?” asked Prue. “My brother was kidnapped by birds. My friend was captured by coyotes.” She snapped her fingers. “And I nearly forgot: My bike is broken. Sounds like a country song. If country songs were really, really weird.”
The squirrel suddenly straightened and froze, its ears twitching. Beneath the hush of the breeze in the tree branches came an unexpected sound: the putter of a car engine. As it grew louder, the squirrel dove from its perch and disappeared. Prue jumped up and started running toward the sound, fighting her way through the fallen tree branches and brush. “Stop!” she shouted as the sound seemed to grow louder. The woods were particularly dense here and the hillside steep, and Prue’s run became more of a desperate stagger as she tried to reach the sound. A hedgerow of blackberry brambles bloomed in front of her and she dove into them, feeling the thorns tear at her coat and hair. Her eyes closed, she fought through the bushes, flailing at the stinging branches until suddenly she was released from their clutches and she fell forward onto the first level, empty ground she’d seen since entering the woods. She looked up to find she had fallen onto what appeared to be a road. And quickly approaching along this road was what appeared to be a van. Prue leapt up and waved her arms frantically, and the driver slammed on the brakes, the vehicle’s tires skidding in the dirt of the road.
It was a bright red cargo van, and it looked like it had seen better days. It was of an indeterminate age, though the amount of rust and scraped paint on the sides suggested it had seen its fair share of punishment. The side of the van was emblazoned with a strange crest that Prue did not recognize.
As she stared in disbelief at this mysterious vehicle, she heard the distinctive click of a shotgun being cocked. She looked to see the driver’s-side window being hastily rolled down, and a grizzled, balding head emerged, eyes squinting down the sight of a massive double-barreled rifle that looked to be of Civil War vintage.
“Make one move, missy, and I’ll fill you full of holes,” said the driver.
Prue threw her hands into the air.
The driver cautiously lowered the rifle and gaped at Prue.
“Are you . . . ,” spluttered the driver, “are you an Outsider?”
Prue wasn’t quite sure how to respond; the question was bizarre. She stared blankly for a moment before hazarding a response: “I live in St. Johns, in Portland.”
The shotgun was now lowered at a much less threatening angle, and Prue’s pounding blood relaxed in her chest. “Is that what you call it?” asked the
man in the van.
“I guess so,” responded Prue.
The man continued to gape at Prue. “Incredible,” he said. “Just incredible. In all my years, I never in my life thought I’d ever run into one of you. From the Outside.”
Now that the shotgun was no longer at his eye, Prue had a better view of the driver. He was an elderly man—his skin was pale and weathered and two great plumes of wiry hair were his eyebrows—but there was something Prue couldn’t put her finger on that seemed to exude from him, something that made him seem like no one she’d ever met before. It was a kind of aura or shine, like the way a familiar landscape is transformed in the light of a full moon.
Prue summoned her courage and spoke. “Sir, can I put my hands down?” When he nodded consent, she dropped her hands to her sides and continued, “I’m in a little bit of a jam. My little brother, Mac, was kidnapped yesterday by a flock of birds—crows, actually—and brought somewhere in these woods. On top of this, my classmate Curtis stupidly followed me into the woods, and we were attacked by what I think were coyote soldiers. I managed to escape, but he was captured. I’m really tired and a little confused by all that’s happened today, and if you wouldn’t mind helping me, I’d really, really appreciate it.”
The speech seemed to render the man at a loss for words. He pulled the shotgun back into the cab of the van and looked behind him, down the road. Then he looked back at Prue and said, “Okay, get in the van.”
Prue walked around to the side of the van, and the driver opened it from the inside. She climbed into the cab and extended her hand to the man, saying, “My name’s Prue.”
“Richard,” said the man, shaking her hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He turned the key in the ignition, and the van grumpily sputtered to life. Behind the cab was a metal gate leading into the cargo area. Through the gate Prue could see piles of manila-colored boxes and crates teeming with neatly tied stacks of envelopes.
“Wait,” said Prue. “You’re a . . . mailman?”
“Postmaster general, miss, at your service,” said Richard. He wore a tattered uniform: a royal-blue blazer with dirty yellow piping. A patch on his chest sported the same emblem as Prue had seen on the side of the truck. His chin bristled with a week’s worth of white, unshaved stubble, and his face was etched with wrinkles.
“Okay,” said Prue, assessing the situation. “Well, it’ll have to do. Now: My friend Curtis was taken just back there. They can’t have gotten far. Between you and me and that shotgun of yours, I figure we can probably devise some sort of plan . . . where are you going?”
Richard had gunned the van, and it lurched forward, moving bumpily along the uneven road. He had to shout his response over the roar of the engine: “No way we’re going back there,” he hollered. “It’s way too dangerous.”
Prue’s eyes widened. “But—sir! I have to help him! He’s on his own out there!”
“I’ve never seen these coyote soldiers you’re talking about, but I’ve heard about ’em, and believe me, your friend is beyond help at this point. No sense in us getting killed as well over it. No, best we get back to South Wood and report this to the Governor-Regent.”
“The what?” stammered Prue, and then, before waiting for Richard to respond, “Listen: Those coyotes might look scary, but they’ve only got swords and old-looking rifles. You’ve got a really big gun. With you waving that shotgun around, I’m sure we could get in and out of there without a scratch.”
“I’ve got a job to do,” said Richard, gesturing to the piles of mail in the cargo hold. “And I’m not about to jeopardize it over some boyo who gets himself nabbed by coyotes. This is Wildwood, kid, and I can’t afford to stop for anything. You’re lucky you jumped in my way. Otherwise, I’d have left you on the side of the road.”
“Fine,” said Prue, and she started fumbling at her side for the door handle. “I’d like to be let out, please. I’m going to save him myself.”
Before she could swing the door open, Richard shot his hand across her lap and held the door closed, the van swerving nearly into the roadside ditch. A single wheel hopped over a stray tree branch, and Richard yelled, “Don’t go out there if you value your life—I ain’t joking around!” Prue retracted her hand and crossed her arms over her chest grumpily.
“Listen to me,” said Richard calmly. “This is no place for a young girl to be out alone. And an Outsider one at that. Those animals will catch your scent from a mile away. I don’t know how you got this far on your own but I can tell you, your luck wouldn’t likely last much longer. If the coyotes didn’t get you, the bandits who camp in these parts would. In the cab of this van is the safest place you could be right now. I’ve got to take you straight to the Governor-Regent. It’s protocol.”
“Who is the Governor-Regent?” asked Prue. “And why does everyone keep calling this place Wildwood? I heard the coyotes say that too.”
Richard pulled a half-chewed cigar from the ashtray and put it between his teeth, leaning out the window to spit a few flecks of tobacco onto the road. “The Governor-Regent,” he said, talking around the stogie in his mouth, “is the leader of South Wood. His name is Lars Svik.” He suddenly lowered his voice. “Though, between you and me, he’s got enough snakes around him hissing advice into his ears to populate a sultan’s salon.” He glanced at Prue. “Figurative snakes, that is. Bureaucrats and the like.
“Wildwood,” Richard continued, “is the uncivilized country.” Using the dashboard as a map, he traced his finger along the vinyl. “It stretches from the northernmost border of the Avian Principality all the way to the border of North Wood. I found you about halfway in the middle of nowhere, right smack in the center of Wildwood where there ain’t nothing but wolves and coyotes and thieves living off what they can scavenge from the ground or loot from the occasional passing supply truck. Or mail truck—which is why I carry that piece of iron down there.” He pointed at the shotgun. “Being the postmaster general, it’s my job to deliver mail and supplies and whatnot from the folks in South Wood to the country folk in North Wood and vice versa, and I do that by driving this blasted road—it’s called the Long Road, which is a no-brainer of a name—back and forth between the two places, braving this madness and putting my life and limb at great risk every week. And I tell you one thing, Port-Land Prue, being a state employee is not a pathway to wealth and riches.”
“You can just call me Prue,” was all she could think to say. She was dumbstruck by Richard’s monologue. She had so many questions swirling around her head, begging to be asked, she was barely able to sort them out. “So there are other people. Living here. In these woods. Where I come from, this place is called the Impassable Wilderness.”
This made Richard laugh so hard his cigar flew out of his mouth, and he had to fumble around at his feet to find it again. “Impassable Wilderness? Oh boy, would that it were. I might have a little more time at home. Nah, I don’t know who told you that, but you Outside folk have got it all wrong. ’Course, you’re the first of your kind I’ve ever seen here, so it stands to reason that no one ever made an effort to find out about the Wood—Wild, North, or South.” He looked at Prue and smiled. “Seems like you just might be our first pioneer, Port-Land Prue.”
CHAPTER 6
The Warren of the Dowager;
A Kingdom of Birds
The ropes stung Curtis’s wrists, and his chest ached from being bounced against the coyote’s bony spine. The pack moved quickly through the forest, undaunted by each sword fern and low-hanging tree branch that lashed at Curtis’s face. The forest floor was a blur below the feet of his coyote captor, but Curtis kept his eyes open, trying to register any change in the environment that might allow him to retrace their tracks. This endeavor seemed hopeless until the pack broke through a particularly dense patch of brush onto what appeared to be a wide dirt road. The coyotes picked up speed here over the level ground, and Curtis looked sideways at the oncoming terrain. The pack was approaching what appeared to be a ve
ry large wooden bridge. They hit the bridge at breakneck speed, and Curtis gave a little yelp as he looked down over the edge, through the ornate railings of the bridge: A massive chasm yawned below them, stretching downward into blackness. Just as quickly as they’d arrived at the bridge, they made the other side and scrambled back off the road and into the trees. Curtis strained to see behind him, to catch another sight of this awesome gap they’d crossed, but the towering firs swallowed up the landscape, and he returned to staring down at the forest floor.
He wasn’t sure how long they’d traveled, but the afternoon was waning when finally the pack emerged into a wide glade in the woods. In the center of the glade was a small hill, covered in ivy and deadfall, where a man-sized hole had been burrowed into the earth. Without a word, the party hustled through the hole and began following a long, dark tunnel down into the ground. Twines of ivy and tree roots supported the roof of the tunnel as it descended, and here and there, burning torches affixed to the dirt walls provided a hazy light. The unmistakable smell of wet dog was everywhere, though Curtis thought he smelled something like cooked food and gunpowder as well. Finally, the tunnel opened into a massive chamber bustling with activity. He was in the coyotes’ warren.
A group of soldiers in the center of the room made a tight phalanx and were being commanded in a drill by a menacing sergeant. A host of aproned coyotes were preparing a dinner in a black iron cauldron resting on a raging fire, where a line of eager soldiers waited patiently with tin plates extended in their paws. A crude stone chimney carried the smoke from the fire upward into the central trunk of a giant tree, whose roots provided the structural bones for the room. The winding root tendrils of the gargantuan tree framed the openings to a myriad of grottos and tunnels leading off this main room. The walls were lined with wooden racks where rested a massive arsenal of weapons: rifles, halberds, and sabers. Upended crates, their packing hay spilling out, littered a corner of the room, and a small troop of soldiers was busily checking their contents. Ancient-looking muskets were being inspected; sacks of gunpowder were unloaded and safely stowed in a nearby hollow.
