by Colin Meloy
The attaché, looking away from his assistant, laughed nervously at Prue. “Mademoiselle, you are a serious problem.”
Prue continued, undaunted, “Sir, my brother, Mac, was taken yesterday by crows. I saw them take him into the woods. Into Wildwood.” The congregation in the foyer listened spellbound. “And I’d really just like to get him back.” She could feel tears of desperation welling up in her eyes. “And I promise, I cross my heart, that if I can just get him home, I’ll never ever come here again.” She weakly traced an X across her chest with her finger. “Promise.”
The room remained stalled in silence as the attaché stared in disbelief. Finally, the assistant at the attaché’s side leaned in and whispered something in his ear. The attaché nodded silently, never taking his eyes off Prue. “Very well,” said the secretary, after what seemed to Prue an eternity. “Since you are in a unique position, we’ll see if we can fit you in. Follow me.”
The crowd surrounding the attaché fell away, and he led Prue up the alabaster staircase.
Though there were no clocks hung in the Governess’s cavernous hall, Curtis could tell that the morning was nearly gone by the time he had finished sashaying around the room in his new garb, thrusting and parrying his saber in the sort of grand and dramatic fashion of the swashbuckling dragoons he had seen in movies and read about in books. The decorations on his chest jingled deliciously with his every move, and the sword made a terrific whish every time he swung it through the air. The coyote attendant, apparently accustomed to attending to eccentric masters, waited patiently by the throne, moving only to flinch at one of Curtis’s wild ripostes.
“Very nice, sir,” said the attendant after Curtis’s energy had flagged. “You are a gifted swordsman. For a pacifist.”
Curtis stood in the center of the room and kicked his feet in the dirt. “Well, I would never, you know, fight anyone.” He was panting slightly from the exertion. “But . . . ,” he continued. “You think so?”
“Oh, certainly,” said the coyote.
“It kind of wears you down, doesn’t it?” Curtis asked. He managed a final thrust before he let the sword fall to his side. He massaged his arm with his free hand.
“You’ll get used to it, sir,” said the coyote.
Curtis eyed the coyote suspiciously. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Maksim, sir,” said the coyote.
“Maksim, huh?” said Curtis, turning the sword in his grip. “You guys sure have funny names.”
Maksim merely raised an eyebrow.
“So what do you do around here, Maksim?” asked Curtis.
“I am the Governess’s aide-de-camp. I have been assigned to oversee your orientation.”
“My orientation.”
“Yes,” the coyote replied. “The Governess would seem to have auspicious plans for you.”
Curtis, trying to divine the meaning of the word auspicious (was it like suspicious?), chewed on this information for a moment before replying, “Where is the Governess?”
“In the field, sir,” said Maksim. “Awaiting your company.”
“The field?” asked Curtis. “What’s the field?”
Maksim ignored the question. “I was instructed to wake you, fit you, and send you to her as soon as you were ready.” He paused. “Are you ready?”
Curtis cleared his throat and nodded. “I suppose so,” he said, and then, in a voice as adult as he could conjure, “Lead the way, Maksim.” He slid his sword into the sheath at his belt.
Exiting the room, Curtis noticed the warren was strangely devoid of the previous day’s hubbub: Absent was the throng of coyotes that had huddled around the central cauldron and whose military drills had tattooed the dirt floor. A few soldiers milled about, patching crumbling walls and hauling firewood, but compared to the day before, the warren felt practically uninhabited. Curtis felt the clawed fingers of Maksim adjust the shoulders of his uniform, which had slid off to one side.
“You’ll grow into it,” said Maksim finally, apparently unsatisfied with the fit. He then began leading Curtis through one of the many tunnels leading from the main room. “This way.”
Back above ground, Curtis winced at the brightness of the air. The low early morning clouds had burned away and the light was crisp in the grove, and the brilliance washed a second wave of nausea down his spine from brain to belly. Maksim led the way through the open glade and into the thick of the trees that surrounded the clearing. A small group of soldiers at the tree line, laboring over a stake that refused to be hammered into the ground, abruptly stopped their activity when Maksim and Curtis approached, and snapped to attention, their hands locked in salute. As they got closer, Curtis realized that the soldiers were saluting him, not Maksim. Curtis awkwardly saluted back as they passed, and the coyotes returned to their work.
“What was that about?” whispered Curtis when they were out of earshot of the soldiers.
“Showing proper respect to rank. You’re an officer, after all,” said Maksim. He stopped and pointed to one of the brooches that were pinned to Curtis’s chest. It was simple: a taut weave of blackberry brambles topped by the broad petal of a trillium flower, cast in a dark bronze. Curtis pushed at it curiously with his finger, adjusting its place on his jacket. “An officer,” he repeated quietly. Maksim continued walking into the woods.
“Whoa. Wait a second,” said Curtis. “An off-officer? What did I do to deserve that?”
“You’ll have to ask the madam.”
“I’m not sure if you’re, you know, familiar with the human species or not,” Curtis said, “but I am not technically an adult. I’ll be twelve this November. I don’t know what that is in coyote years, but in human years it’s a kid. A boy. A child!” He was walking briskly to keep up with Maksim. Curtis waited for a reply, and when there was none, he continued, “So what does this mean? Do I have to do anything? I told you guys, I’m a pacifist. I can’t really use this sword. Whatever swordsmanship I was showing off back there was totally, totally accidental. Just some stuff I cribbed from, like, Kurosawa movies.”
“I expect all will be made clear when we see the Governess,” responded Maksim, batting branches from his path, not attempting to hide the irritation in his voice.
Curtis glanced back, trying to find the entrance to the warren amid the woods’ thick bracken. He was astonished to see how all signs of the coyote encampment completely disappeared into the forest as they traveled farther away.
“Like, will I have to command . . . something?” asked Curtis.
“I have no idea,” Maksim said. “I’m a little surprised myself.”
They walked in silence for a moment. The wood grew darker, the canopy oppressive.
“How did you become an . . . aid of camp?” asked Curtis.
“Aide-de-camp? I was appointed.”
“What did you do to deserve that?”
“I suppose I distinguished myself,” responded Maksim, “in battle.”
“Oh boy,” said Curtis, his worry growing.
“Though I was not born a fighter. In truth, I owe my life and my destiny to the Dowager Governess. I was born to a poor pack in the bush; my father had been killed in a mudslide and my mother slaved to raise my five siblings and myself. We were starving when the Governess found us. She brought us to the camp; she fed us and taught us to build and to fight.” Maksim told his story without a shade of sentimentality. “And so: I would gladly lay my life down for the Governess. She elevated our entire species from our lot as scavengers and scroungers; she brought us coyotes to a place of honor among the beasts of the wood. And we’ll enjoy a seat at the table when Wildwood is ours.”
“Yeah,” said Curtis. “Listen, Maksim. I can totally see how that works for you and I appreciate your commitment, but, you see, I don’t know if I’m quite there yet, you know, officer material. I’ve only been here for a day and I’m still kind of figuring everything out.”
A voice, a woman’s voice, sounded from above them. “And that’
s why we’re here, dear Curtis.”
Curtis looked up and saw Alexandra, the Dowager Governess, astride a jet-black horse, emerge from over a hillock between two massive cedars. She extended a willowy hand. “Come,” she said to him, “I’ll show you the world.”
CHAPTER 9
A Lesser Svik; To the Front!
Step this way, Miss . . . ?” prompted the attaché when they had
reached the far end of the landing and were standing in front
of a massive oaken door. He was looking through the smeared glass of his bifocals at his clipboard; he’d written down the details of her circumstances on a single-sheet dossier.
“McKeel,” said Prue distractedly. She peered around the edge of the door as it was prized open by one of the attaché’s aides. A wide hallway was revealed, lined with dark wooden wainscoting topped by panels of dusky green damask. The door pulled wide, Prue could see that the hallway terminated at the far end at another large door, which was hinging open and closed like a giant clam. With every out-breath, it emitted men in black suits carrying sheaves of paper and file folders, its in-breath receiving more of the same.
“Don’t mind the activity, Miss McKeel,” said the attaché. “While it resembles chaos, I can assure you, the government is running as smoothly and efficiently as ever.” He smiled widely at her, revealing two crooked rows of long, mustardy teeth. He took a deep breath, frowned, and ushered her into the hallway.
“Excuse me. Pardon me. Sir, if you’ll allow us . . . ,” the attaché called out with every step as they dodged the coming-and-going current of government agents. Prue felt the hallway bending in her vision as she navigated her way toward the far door, the whirl of bodies pushing in and out of her periphery like a plague of insects. “Just a little farther—excuse me, sir!—and here we are,” said the attaché as they arrived at the door. “I won’t be a moment.” When the door breathed open again, the secretary slipped through the opening and disappeared. The door remained closed for a few quiet moments before it was thrown open and the attaché beckoned for Prue to enter.
The room was stately; hunters chased stags in a pastoral frieze along the top of the wall, illuminated by a giant crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The chamber seemed, however, to be in serious disuse. Large framed paintings, evidently intended to be hung, were leaning against the wall in a haphazard fashion, and the ornate rug that covered the wooden floor was worn with abuse and neglect. In the center of the rug, the floor bore the weight of a huge wooden desk, piled so high with stacks of paper that the person sitting at it was completely obscured by the mess. In fact, you wouldn’t even know there was someone sitting at it if it weren’t for the huddle of black-suited men standing around, competing for the attention of the person behind the piles of paper. When the attaché arrived at the front of the desk, the black-suited men all snapped to attention.
“Sir,” said the secretary, “meet Prue McKeel. Of St. Johns, the Outside.”
The pale, balding crown of a head appeared over the mountain of paper. The man to whom it belonged followed close behind, wearing a pair of huge tortoiseshell glasses and a wide mustache on a jowly face. His skin was wet with perspiration, and his lips quivered as he spoke.
“How do you do?”
Prue was taken aback by the man’s disheveled appearance. This was the Governor-Regent? His suit was wrinkled, and little blossoms of sweat bloomed from the armpits of his jacket. His tie, a plain burgundy, was loosely knotted and hung askew above a shirt unbuttoned to just below his Adam’s apple. Apparently noting Prue’s surprise, the Governor made an attempt to tidy himself by adjusting the knot of his tie and smearing a few strands of oily hair over his bald patch. “My name’s Lars. Lars Svik. The Governor-Regent of South Wood.” Finding an opening between two of the towering stacks of paper, Lars put out his hand, and Prue stepped forward to shake it.
“How do you do, sir,” was her reply. “I’m Prue.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Governor-Regent, looking back down at his desk at the sheet of paper that the attaché had given him. He pushed his glasses back from the tip of his nose and began studying the paper. “Prue McKeel, human girl,” he read aloud in a humming monotone. “Of Port-Land, the Outside. Parentage unknown. Discovered by postmaster in Wildwood, Area 12A, Long Road. In apparent distress. Complaining of lost brother, Mac, and abducted friend, Curtis Mehlberg. Suspects: crows, coyotes respectably. Respectably?” He looked up at Prue quizzically.
“Respectively, sir,” corrected an attendant at his side, a thin man with a neat, close-cropped beard and a pince-nez. “Crows in the case of the brother, coyotes in the case of the friend.”
“Ah yes,” said Lars, looking back down at the paper. “Of course. Thank you for that clarification, Roger.”
“Think nothing of it, sir.” Roger smiled.
Lars continued reading from the dossier: “Suspects: crows, coyotes respectively. Seeks aid of government of South Wood in recovering said abductees. Has made passing reference to the Dowager Governess in initial—” Lars stopped suddenly and stared at the paper. He pushed his glasses back and reread the sentence, mouthing the words silently. When he was finished, he looked up at Prue and gawked.
“The Dowager Governess?” he asked. “Are you sure you heard that?”
Before Prue had a chance to answer, Roger, the thin man, interrupted. “Entirely hearsay, sir. Before listening to the insinuations of an Outsider girl, I would remind you that there is no substantial evidence whatsoever that would lead us to believe that the Governess has survived.”
Prue glared at the man. “I can only tell you what I heard, sir,” she said. “And I specifically heard those coyotes say that.”
Roger challenged, “And what makes you so sure they were coyotes, Miss McKeel? They could’ve been dogs or . . . anything! In the haze of the forest, a mild-mannered mole could be mistaken for a—”
“They were coyotes, sir, I’m sure of it. And they were wearing uniforms and carried swords and rifles and things,” snapped Prue.
Roger paused and studied Prue. “I’m given to understand that you had a rough crossing at the border. You had a bit of a, how shall I say, confab with the bird sentries.”
Prue paused, attempting to guess the aide’s intentions. “Yes,” she said, “I guess.”
“What was the nature of your dealings?”
“They, um, wanted to know what I was doing. They said they were looking out for coyotes.”
Roger turned to Lars. “You see, sir? It’s just as likely she’s been put up to this by the birds. She’s a pawn. A paid shill for their agenda.” He looked back at Prue. “And rather clever, I must admit. Just in time for their Avian Eminence’s great arrival.”
Prue was speechless. The aide had an incredible ability to manipulate the circumstances. “That’s not true,” she muttered.
“My dear,” soothed Roger, his tone icy, “you must be very agitated. You are likely suffering from some sort of culture shock being here in the Wood. I would recommend a hot bath and a warm compress on your forehead. Our world is very different from your own. Which reminds me”—here he turned to the Governor-Regent—“the Outsider girl’s presence here is unprecedented. Under subsection 132C in the Boundary Law Code, it clearly states that Outsiders are not legally allowed to cross over from the Outside without proper permit in the event that the boundary magic, the Periphery Bind, is somehow compromised, which I can only assume—”
Prue interrupted angrily, “I know I’m not supposed to be here. And I’ll be perfectly happy to leave and never bother you again, but I can’t do that without bringing my brother and my friend Curtis with me.”
The Governor-Regent still appeared stunned. A few fresh beads of sweat had collected on his massive forehead, threatening to fall. He massaged his carrotlike fingers together nervously. “You’re certain you heard them refer to the Dowager Governess? Those very words?” he asked.
Prue replied, “Yes, sir. Certain.”
&
nbsp; Lars gritted his teeth and pounded his desk with a clenched fist. “I knew it!” he said. “I knew exile was too lenient. We should’ve foreseen this!”
Roger spoke in low, firm tones. “Sir, these are unsubstantiated rumors from a delusional little girl.”
Lars ignored him. “And to think she’s managed to bring the coyotes to her side. Unthinkable!” His eyes widened. “Does this mean that what the birds are saying is true? Could it be?” His voice trailed off as he became lost in thought, his eyes staring unblinking into the distance.
Roger’s face grew beet red. “P-poppycock!” he shouted, before collecting himself. “If you’ll excuse the expression.” He brought his thin fingers to his mustache, smoothed his whiskers, and then dropped his hand to the Governor’s shoulder in a consoling caress. “Sir, calm yourself. There is absolutely no reason to get upset over this. If the Governess were alive, we’d have heard long before now. There is absolutely no possible way a woman such as herself could survive in the wild for that long. These coyote soldiers the girl has seen are apparitions, illusions—the product of a traumatized mind.” Before Prue could object, he held out a hand. “But,” he continued, “if it would put the Governor at ease, might I suggest we send a small platoon, a few dozen men, into this area of Wildwood and see what sort of information they can glean from the natives. It’s an unorthodox approach and I am hesitant to recommend it, but if it would satisfy the girl’s supplication and dispel any fears you might have, Mr. Svik, I think it would be the best course of action. Think of your condition, sir.”
Lars grunted in agreement and began calmly, deliberately measuring his in- and out-breaths in a meditative way, his eyes fluttering closed.
“And Curtis?” asked Prue. “You’d look for Curtis?”
Roger smiled. “Of course.”
“And what about my brother? My brother Mac?”
“Right, the other Outsider you’ve lost in your adventures,” Roger replied. “Abducted by crows, you say?”
