by Colin Meloy
Above him stood a headless figure, clothed in an officer’s coat, its arms and legs made of the branches of a leafy tree. It loomed over him, inspecting him, ready to strike. Curtis grasped for his duvet and found it wasn’t there; his hands sank into the mossy loam of the dais. His surroundings came into focus: the ornate throne, the root-lined ceiling, the cracked mud of the walls. He immediately realized where he was: the throne room of the Dowager Governess. He scrambled backward, pressing himself against the rough wall, and readied himself for his attacker. The figure did not move.
A voice came from the middle of the room. “Good morning, Master Curtis,” said the voice, growling, gruff, and brittle. Curtis looked over to see one of the coyote soldiers, fresh from his dream, walk into the light of the braziers.
A sinking feeling of nausea was creeping up on Curtis. His mouth felt uncomfortably dry. He quickly glanced back over at the uniformed figure by the moss bed and realized, to his relief, that it was only a dummy.
“The Dowager Governess wished you to have this uniform. She instructed me to dress you and to make sure it fit correctly,” said the coyote, gesturing to the dummy. The slightest tone of resentment colored his voice.
The uniform slung over its shoulders looked newer than the tattered apparel of the coyote soldiers he had seen the day before: The coat was dark blue and held closed by bright brass buttons. The shoulders were crested with epaulets, and the hems of the sleeves ended in bright red cuffs, delicately brocaded with golden cording. The chest of the jacket was festooned with important-looking medals and badges. A wide black leather belt had been draped over one of the dummy’s stick-arms, and on it hung a scabbard encrusted with small river stones; a sword hilt, glinting gold and topped in a river-pebble pommel, jutted out from one end. A pair of dark tapered pants with silver piping clung to the dummy’s legs.
Curtis stared at the sight. “For me?” he asked. His surprise had sent a jolt up through his body, and his stomach turned. The coyote nodded and began pulling the uniform from the dummy. Once he had removed it, he shook it at the shoulders, the medals jingling, and waited patiently for Curtis to stand.
The room felt unsteady as he stood, and he had to brace himself on the arm of the throne. The soft throb of a headache pushed at the insides of his skull. It occurred to him that this might be a consequence of the beverage the Governess had served him the night before. His tongue felt like it had been beveled with a rasp. However, the feeling soon became secondary as the reality of the situation dawned on him.
“Why does she want me to wear it?” he asked, eyeing the uniform. Back home, he had a poster detailing the anatomy of a British hussar’s uniform from the Crimean War above his bed. The prospect of wearing what was being offered to him was nothing short of thrilling.
“You’ll have to ask her,” responded the coyote impatiently. “I’m just doing as I was told.”
Curtis was suspicious. “I don’t suppose I’ll have to fight anyone, will I?” he asked, envisioning a Thunderdome-style melee with some brute from the warren. It seemed to him that this sort of thing was constantly happening in movies and comic books. “I can’t do that. I’m a pacifist,” he said. A younger and meeker friend of his, Timothy Emerson, had once used that excuse to explain why he hadn’t fought back when a few of the older kids from the grade above pushed him off the monkey bars during recess. It had seemed impressive at the time.
The coyote said nothing. He shook the outfit again and cleared his throat.
“That is a pretty sweet sword,” admitted Curtis, admiring the sheathed sword on the belt. “Can I see it?”
The coyote laid the coat down on the dais and pulled the sword from its scabbard, presenting it to Curtis hilt-first with professional aplomb. Curtis took hold of it and swung it into the air—it was heavier than he’d imagined it to be. The blade was roughly the length of his forearm and was made of highly polished silver steel. The lights of the chamber’s smoldering torches reflected in the metal as he carved a figure eight in the air with the blade. Though alien, the weight of the sword in his hand released a torrent in his imagination—at that instant, he was no longer Curtis Mehlberg, son of Lydia and David, resident of Portland, Oregon, comic-book fanboy, persecuted loner; he was Taran Wanderer, he was Harry Flashman. He massaged the grip of the hilt in his palm and narrowed his eyes at the coyote. “Okay,” he said, “help me get that uniform on.”
CHAPTER 8
To Catch an Attaché
The relative quiet of the driveway was broken as soon as a pair of liveried attendants threw open the French doors and ushered Prue and Richard into the foyer of the Mansion. They both immediately froze. The foyer was a cauldron of frenzied activity. An ocean of figures, animal and human, occupied the large main room of the building, some milling about, involved in heated conversation, others speeding across the granite floor in an array of directions. What sounded like a million voices echoed throughout the chamber, and Prue’s head spun trying to pick them apart. The figures, clothed primarily in dress blacks and ties, each carried sheaves of paper under their arms and were each flanked by other, similarly dressed figures trying desperately to keep up with the pack. The only obstacle to this perpetual blur of movement was a brilliant white central staircase that wound up from the polished checkerboard floor. A warthog in a three-piece green corduroy suit was holding court from the middle landing of the staircase; a small retinue of observers huddled around him as he spoke, his cloven thumbs tucked into the armholes of his waistcoat. A pair of black-tailed deer, the ties on their oxford shirts matching their tails, argued vehemently by the marble bust of an important-looking man; a squirrel stood on the edge of the bust’s plinth, nodding.
Occasionally the collective attention of the room would be swayed to follow one single character, a graying man in bifocals, as he sped across the room, a daunting pile of papers and manila file folders precariously embraced to his chest. When this man appeared, entering the room from one pair of doors and exiting at the opposite end through another, many of the figures in the room would drop whatever they had been doing and would desperately entreat him for attention. Invariably, the man ignored all advances, and, after he had disappeared behind another pair of doors, the room would return to its former chaotic buzz of activity. Richard finally spoke. “I think that’s the guy you need to see—the Governor’s attaché.” Prue looked up at him and saw that he was just as shell-shocked as she was. She took a deep breath and extended her hand to him.
“I think I’m good from here,” she said. “You’ve got mail to deliver.”
Richard looked relieved. He took her hand and shook it. “It was very nice meeting you, Port-Land Prue. I hope our paths cross again. I wish you the best of luck.”
Turning to leave, he hesitated at the door and turned around. “If you ever need anything, I’m at the post office—just southwest of the Mansion here. That is, if I’m not on the road.” He smiled warmly.
“Thanks, Richard,” said Prue. “Thank you for everything.”
After Richard had left, Prue stood for a time and watched the busy current of life in the room as it ebbed and flowed. She nodded to an aged black bear as he hobbled past her to the outside door; she smiled politely at a woman wearing cat’s-eye glasses who nearly ran into her, her focus was so intent on a pile of papers in her hands. Finally, Prue heard the telltale sound of the room’s attention diverted again to a far set of double doors as they were thrown open and the bespectacled attaché emerged and began his foray into the cluttered antechamber.
Prue stepped forward, raised her hand, and began to speak, but was immediately silenced as the room erupted with every imaginable sound of the animal kingdom: yelled entreaties from the humans, deafening roars from the bears, and shrill birdsong from the jays, swallows, and nuthatches that furiously winged around the room. Undaunted, the attaché dove headlong into the crowd and began making his way to the opposite end of the room. Prue looked on in despair as he was immediately swallowed by the crus
h of humans and animals, all vying desperately for his attention. As the crowd passed within a few feet of where she was standing, she feebly raised her hand again and said, “Sir!” but it had come out so meekly that it was indistinguishable from the hubbub.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” said a voice by her side.
She looked over and saw no one.
“Down here,” the voice said.
Prue looked down and saw a field mouse, calmly chewing on a split filbert. He appeared to be on his lunch break. He was sitting against the base of one of the room’s columns, and a kerchief laid out in front of him displayed a tidy selection of foods: a chunk of carrot, a tiny wedge of cheese, and a thimble of beer. He washed down a mouthful of the filbert with a swig of beer, cleared his throat, and said, “Are you on the list?”
“List?” asked Prue, nonplussed. “What list?”
The mouse rolled his beady black eyes. “I expect you’re here to see the Governor-Regent. And anyone who wants an audience with Governor Svik needs to be registered with the Governor’s office. Once you’re registered with the Governor’s office, your name is put on a waiting list. When your name is at the top of the list, you will be contacted by the attaché and an audience with the Governor will be scheduled.” The mouse said all this while inspecting the wedge of cheese in one of his spindly-fingered hands. Evidently satisfied, he popped the whole thing into his mouth.
“But . . . ,” began Prue, dismayed. “How long does that take?”
“Well,” answered the mouse, sounding the words around the massive chunk of cheese in his mouth, “the registrar’s office is in the south building, just down the road. That’s where you register for an audience. I believe their office hours are noon to three, Wednesdays and Fridays.”
“W-Wednesdays and Fridays?” stammered Prue. By her best reckoning, today was Sunday.
“Mm-hmm,” responded the mouse casually. “Get there early, there’s always a line. And then once you’re on the list, it’s usually a five- to ten-business-day turnaround before you’re contacted to schedule an appointment—usually about three to four weeks out at the earliest, depending on the season.”
Prue was devastated. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes. “But my brother! My brother was abducted and I have to find him! He’s out in the woods somewhere—there’s no way he’ll survive that long!”
The mouse shrugged, unmoved by her story. “We’ve all got problems, miss.” He tossed the remaining carrot chunk into his mouth, washed it down with the rest of the beer, and began cleaning up his diminutive picnic.
Prue swallowed hard. She looked out into the room at the loitering hordes of humans and animals. The attaché had exited the chamber again, and the creatures had resumed their prior activities as they waited for him to return.
“What about them?” she asked the mouse. He was wiping the corners of his mouth with the kerchief.
“Them?” he asked.
“Yeah—if there’s a waiting list and the governor’s office contacts you to schedule an appointment, why are they all trying to get the attention of the secretary?”
The mouse stuffed the kerchief into his vest pocket and wiped his hands together. “Well, it’s an imperfect system. Sometimes it works if you just yell loud enough to be noticed. Who knows?” He shrugged, gave a little salute, and walked off into the foyer.
Prue waited for a moment and studied the crowd in the room thoughtfully. She wondered where the best vantage point might be; where she might get the harried secretary’s attention the easiest. While she didn’t mind crowds—the anonymity they granted gave her a kind of weird confidence—this one was awfully intimidating. Finally gathering her courage, she walked over to the spot where the stairway began and stood, her hand resting on the ivory banister. A middle-aged man and a badger who were standing next to her engaged in a hushed discussion glanced over when she arrived and nodded, then did a double take. Prue smiled and waved faintly.
The man who had been talking to the badger turned to Prue and said, “Excuse me, miss. My friend and I were just talking—and we were wondering if you weren’t from the Outside.” He had a long, gray-flecked beard and, from his outfit, appeared to be a naval officer of some sort.
“Yes,” responded Prue. “Yes, I am.”
“Incredible,” said the officer. “And you have an audience with the Governor-Regent?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Prue. “I don’t have an appointment or anything. But I really need to see him, and so I figured maybe they’d just slip me in somewhere.”
The officer frowned and shook his head. “Good luck. I’ve had an appointment scheduled for weeks now, and I still haven’t been able to get in to see the Governor. My ship is in dockside with an impatient crew, and all I need is these blasted papers stamped and I’m on my way.” He angrily shook a sheaf of paper in his hand. “I tell you . . .” Here the officer looked around the room conspiratorially. “This country still hasn’t recovered from the coup, all those years ago. These fools don’t know how to run a government, not by a long sight.” He straightened and ironed the front of his jacket with a palm and looked at Prue. “Is this how things are run on the Outside? Do you have to deal with this madness?”
Prue thought for a moment. Her only struggle with bureaucracy was when she’d been on the waiting list for a particularly popular book at the library. “I guess so,” said Prue. “But I don’t really know. I’m only twelve.”
The officer had barely time to respond with a dissatisfied “Hrrrm” before the double doors at the other end of the foyer were thrown open and the attaché blazed into the room, a long line of assistants and hangers-on trailing in his wake. The room again descended into cacophony, with all the various parties who had been waiting in the room jumping into action, fighting to get to the attaché before he disappeared again. The officer and the badger next to Prue sprang away from the staircase and began shouting their pleas to the frazzled secretary. Prue, caught off guard, gained her bearings and dove into the fray, pushing aside a red-tailed fox who was hopping up and down, trying to see above the scrum of people. “Sorry!” she cried as she was practically picked up off her feet and whisked along the marble floor by the rush of the pack. “Mr. Secretary!” she shouted, waving an arm above her head. Most of the creatures in the crowd were much larger than Prue, and it was all she could do to keep her eye on the center of the storm, where the embattled attaché could be seen with his pile of papers, doing his best to ignore the pleading cries of the mob that beset him. A brightly colored halo of birds circled his head, squawking for attention. “Mr. Secretary!” she repeated, a little louder. She could feel the sharp jab of elbows in her ribs as others joined in and competed for ground.
“Mr. Secretary!” she hollered as loudly as she could muster. “I need to talk to the Governor! My brother was kidnapped! Mr. Secret—oof!” Her plea was cut short when a squat flailing beaver, shoved back from the center, head-butted her directly in the stomach and all the air blew out of her lungs. She and the beaver went flying headlong out of the throng and spilled in a tumbling mass to the floor. Prue swore, pushing herself to her feet. She stared determinedly at the attaché and his teeming horde, who had by now reached the double doors. She suddenly remembered the emergency air horn she’d put in her bag. She quickly whipped the bag over her shoulder and, ripping the flap open, pulled out the can.
“MR. SECRETARY!!!” she screamed one last time before she squeezed the handle of the horn.
The room filled with sound. Ear-shaking, hair-rattling sound. The burst lasted a few seconds.
Everyone froze.
Someone’s pen clattered to the floor.
A black bear in a gabardine waistcoat panicked and ran out the front door.
The entire crowd, silenced by the immense volume of the horn, turned slowly to look at its source. Prue stood alone in the middle of the foyer floor, momentarily stunned by the horn’s power. She cleared her throat. “Um,” she intoned q
uietly, “Mr. Secretary. I . . . um . . . need to speak with the Governor.” The swarm surrounding the attaché stood transfixed, and Prue found it eerily unsettling to have the attention of the entire room. Finally, the mass of people began to move as a figure forced its way through the bodies. It was the attaché. His brow deeply furrowed, he was looking down his nose through his bifocals at Prue as he hobbled clear of the crowd. Pausing, he studied her intently, alternately over and through his glasses.
“Are you . . . ,” he began. “Are you . . . an Outsider?”
“Yes, sir,” responded Prue. She slipped the air horn back into her bag.
“I mean—I mean—” stammered the attaché. “From the Outside?”
“Yes, sir,” said Prue. “And the reason I’ve come is because—”
She was interrupted by the attaché. “How did you get here?”
Prue smiled uncomfortably, suddenly struck shy by her rapt audience. “I walked, sir,” she replied.
“You walked?” asked the attaché, in disbelief. “But—but—you can’t do that!”
Prue, at a loss for words, stood silently.
The attaché, evidently deeply flustered, shook his head and rubbed his brow with his free hand. “I mean—I mean—it’s absolutely impossible! Or it should be absolutely impossible, unless—unless—” He stopped and stared at Prue and then, changing his mind, he shook his head and continued, “There must be a rift somewhere or a break in the Bind. A lesion in the spell. Those confounded Northerners. Backwoods idiots!” He snapped his brittle fingers, and an assistant scurried to his side. Speaking out of the side of his mouth, the attaché began dictating his directions: “Get me a form 45 slash C—they should have them down in accounting—and let the Secretary of the Exterior know that I’ll be needing it signed immediately. Better yet: Contact the Office of North Wood Relations and let him know that—”
Prue, regaining her footing, interjected, “Sir, I have a serious problem.”
