by Colin Meloy
“I want you to be my second in command, Curtis. I want you to be by my side when we march on the South. I want you to sit next to my throne when it is laid on the smoldering rubble of the Mansion. And together we could rebuild this land, this beautiful wild country.” Here she paused, her eyes drifting slowly away from the activity to fix on some distant, elusive point. “We could rule together, you and I.”
Curtis was speechless. Finally, setting down his mug of wine, he found his voice. “Wow, Alexandra. I mean, I don’t know what to say. I might have to think about it. It’s kind of a big thing to just ditch out on my parents and my sisters and my school like that. I mean, don’t get me wrong: This is amazing. Everybody’s been really kind to me, and I have to say, today was pretty epic. I didn’t really think I had it in me, either.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Just give me a moment, is all.”
“Take however much time you need, Curtis,” said Alexandra, her voice softening. “We have all the time in the world.”
One of the coyotes who had witnessed Curtis’s impromptu firing of the cannon came wobbling over to the dais, gesturing to Curtis. “Curtishh! Shir!” he slurred, after sloppily saluting both Curtis and Alexandra. “I’m telling the sh-sh-shtory of your cannon sh-shot. Those mongrels don’t believe me! You gotta back me up here!”
Alexandra smiled and nodded to Curtis, mouthing, Go. Laughing, Curtis accepted the soldier’s paw to help him up from the moss. The coyote slung his arm over Curtis’s shoulder, and they walked off together over to a group of soldiers who were gathered by the wine barrel. Alexandra watched him intently as he wandered away, her finger scratching absently at the wood of the throne.
CHAPTER 12
An Owl in Irons; Curtis’s Conundrum
Really?” asked Prue in disbelief. “His teeth?” A sparrow flew over the shoulder of her chair and, picking up the poker in its claws, began stirring the glowing embers of the fire.
Owl Rex nodded.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Never underestimate the power of grief, Prue,” said the owl.
“So suddenly Alexei was back to life? Just like that?”
“Yes,” answered Owl. “His death had been kept secret from the people of South Wood, explained away as a period of convalescence as the young prince recovered from injuries sustained in the accident. Much fanfare greeted his return to public life. Alexandra, for her part, did everything in her power to conceal the fact that he was an automaton—she even went so far as to exile the two toy makers responsible for his creation to the Outside. Even the boy Alexei was unaware that he was mechanical. As for the period of his death, he merely thought he had been unconscious from the fall. He was naturally in despair over the unexplained demise of his father, but the grief eventually passed and he took on the governorship with enthusiasm and aplomb. Until one day, while he was working in the Mansion’s garden (a particular passion of his), he chanced to knock open a plate in his chest that exposed the inner workings of his, well, chassis. Bowled over by this revelation, he confronted his mother, who revealed the truth behind his death. He was horrified. He retired to his rooms in the Mansion and, opening the door in his chest, removed an indispensable piece—a little brass cog—from the clockwork of his body and destroyed it. The machine seized up, and the boy was again rendered lifeless.
“Her enterprise was laid bare. The Governess was dragged before a high court and, in a protracted trial, all was revealed. She was sentenced to exile in Wildwood for criminal use of black magic. The prosecution even suggested that she’d been responsible for the death of her husband, Grigor. It was expected that she would not survive her banishment; she would be torn apart by coyotes or killed by roving bandits.” Owl locked eyes with Prue and raised a feathery eyebrow. “It appears that neither of those fates befell her.”
Prue nodded in agreement.
Looking back to the fire, Owl continued, “In the vacuum that followed the Governess’s deposition, Lars Svik, then a young peon in administrative affairs, was propped up by the military as the rightful heir to the governorship. Many opposed him. However, rather than risk a civil war, the progressives abdicated, and Svik and his cronies assumed the office of Governor-Regent.”
A wind was steadily picking up outside, and a branch whipped against the windowpane of one of the room’s windows. Owl Rex started at the sound before turning back to Prue and saying, “Since then, fifteen years on, the political climate of South Wood has steadily changed. Dissenters are no longer suffered. Vocal opponents to Lars’s ham-handed rule have been demoted, imprisoned, or, in some cases, have simply disappeared. Their blatant disrespect toward the sovereignty of the independent countries of the Wood is clear. Their intolerance of others, plain. Which brings me to why I’ve called you here. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve become a bit of a windbag in my dotage, but I urge you to listen closely to what I say now.”
Prue leaned in, listening intently. The owl began speaking in a hushed, conspiratorial tone.
“There are people in South Wood who can help you. There are people who are trustworthy, who are trying to change the rule of law from the inside out. But they are the minority. As for the Governor and his aides, they are not to be trusted. If it is in their interest, Prue, and you are a problem to them, they will make that problem go away. Is that clear?”
Dazed by the insistence of the owl’s question, Prue looked on.
“I said: Is that clear?”
“Yes,” said Prue quickly. “Totally clear.”
“And after speaking with them today,” continued Owl, “I fear that your presence here has the potential of becoming problematic.”
Prue’s mind flashed to the mastiff sentry she’d locked in her bathroom.
Owl Rex leaned back into his chair and stared into the fire’s trembling flames, their light reflected in the shine of his eyes. “I can’t tell you how hard it is for me to witness all this; the slow and certain despoiling of everything that Grigor had built. I fear it has broken my heart.” He held the tip of his wing to his chest and heaved a great sigh. He looked back at Prue with a sidelong glance. “I hope I haven’t frightened you too much—and you strike me as a very bright girl. I have no doubt that you will be able to navigate these issues with courage and wisdom. I just felt it imperative that you understand what kind of people you are dealing with.”
“What should I do?” asked Prue, feeling desperate. “I don’t know who else to turn to.”
The owl was silent for a moment. The ticking of the mantel clock filled the quiet room. “I suppose,” began Owl, “if all else failed, you could visit the Mystics.”
“The Mystics?”
“Of North Wood,” explained the owl. “They have little dealing with the South—they are a reclusive people. But they may have an insight into your problem. They are responsible for the Periphery Bind—the protective spell woven into the trees on the edge of the Wood that protects and separates us from the Outside—that thing that you managed to disregard when you just walked in here.” Here, the owl smirked a little at Prue.
“Sorry,” whispered Prue sheepishly.
He went on, “The North Wood Mystics share a connection with the woods that no one else has. The great Council Tree, whose roots reach us even here in the South, registers every footstep in the Wood. It is around this tree that the Mystics meet; it is how they derive their power. It’s a long shot, but if you’ve no other choice, they may have clues to the whereabouts of your brother. And perhaps your friend as well.” He shook his head gently. “But it’s a long journey; one that is rife with danger. And you are not necessarily guaranteed to receive a gracious welcome—the Mystics are protective of their seclusion. However, even if you were able to convince them to help you, they do not have a military to speak of—it’s inconceivable that they would have the ability or manpower to forcibly recover your brother or your friend.” The owl’s chest rose in a deep sigh. “You are truly at an impasse, Prue. I wish I could be of more ass
istance.”
A sudden frantic explosion of squawking violently disrupted the calm of the room, and the air was alive with the flapping of wings. The two attendant sparrows swooped around the sides of their chairs and made a hasty landing on the lip of the mantel in front of Prue and Owl Rex, a small flurry of lost feathers floating to the ground in their wake.
“Sir!” shouted one. “Sir! You must hide yourself! You must—”
“What he’s trying to say, sir,” sputtered the other, “is that they are—the street is—we don’t think we’ll be able—”
The other interjected, “It is vital that you hide yourself because—”
This last sentence was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of the front door of the house being kicked open.
“THE SWORD!” shouted one of the sparrows. “THEY’RE HERE!”
Prue shot a panicked look at Owl Rex. “The what?” she asked.
“The Mansion’s secret police,” Owl said, desperately searching the room. “The South Wood Office of Rehabilitation and Detention. They’ve acted faster than I suspected. Quickly! We must hide you.”
Owl Rex lifted his wings and carried himself out of his chair. Prue leapt up and followed him as he flew in a quick, frantic arc around the room. He stopped at a large wicker hamper by one of the bookcases and, knocking the lid open with his talons, urged Prue to climb inside. The racket from the entryway was now spilling over into the dining room—a staccato of boot heels against floorboards and the overturning of chairs polluted the air, while the sparrows desperately tried to waylay the intruders with squawked objections. Prue dove into the hamper and nestled into a pile of musty old newspapers, while Owl Rex threw the lid closed and she was in darkness, her hand at her chest in an effort to stay her agitated heartbeat.
Just as the lid snapped shut and Owl Rex had flown to a safe distance from the hamper, the double doors at the end of the room were savagely kicked open and the room was filled with the sound of hammering jackboots.
“Where is she, owl?” shouted one of the voices. Prue sucked her breath into her chest, her heart a caged hummingbird within her ribs.
“I’m afraid I have no idea to whom you are referring,” responded Owl Rex civilly.
The man laughed. “Just like you birds, playing stupid.”
A sparrow interjected: “This is an outrage! No one speaks to the Crown Prince this way!”
Owl Rex waved away the sparrow’s objection. “If you’re referring to the Outsider girl, Prue, she was here earlier, yes, but left some time ago. I haven’t the slightest idea where she’s gone.”
There was a short silence before the man spoke again. “Is that so?” Prue could discern the sound of the SWORD officers milling about the room. A few footsteps approached the hamper before stopping, and Prue could hear the sound of a book being opened, pages flipped.
When the owl gave no answer, the man at the bookcase cleared his throat and said in a loud, authoritative tone, “Owl Rex, Crown Prince of the Avian Principality, we are putting you under arrest for the violation of the Wildwood Protocols, Section Three, the harboring of an illegal, and for conspiring to overthrow the government of South Wood. Are the charges clear to you?”
Prue choked a gasp in her throat, her eyes wide. The silence that followed prompted her to push the lid of the hamper open a crack to get a view of the room. Owl Rex was standing in front of a small group of men who were dressed in identical black rain slickers and policemen’s caps. Two of them, while Prue looked on, drew small pistols from their coats and pointed them at the owl.
“Your law is a sham,” said the owl defiantly, “and a gross distortion of the founding principles of South Wood.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, owl,” came the voice of the man standing at the bookcase by the hamper. He threw something heavy—Prue guessed it to be a book—onto the top of the hamper, forcing the lid to slam closed. She stifled a shriek of surprise, a squeal that was thankfully masked by the quick creak of the closing lid. “But go ahead: Spit your invectives. Proclaim injustice! Shout it to the rooftops! You’re only going to make things worse for yourself. Now: You can come easy or you come fighting.”
A hush fell over the room. “Very well, I submit,” came the owl’s voice. Pushing the hamper lid slightly open again, Prue saw Owl Rex extend his wings to his would-be captors, as if in pious supplication.
“Lock him up, boys,” said the man, and one of the other officers stepped over and fastened a pair of large iron manacles around the owl’s wing tips. Another pair locked his two talons together by a short link of chain. Owl Rex’s head sank against his chest.
“What about the girl?” asked one of the officers.
“Search the building,” said the man. “She can’t have gotten far.”
Prue breathlessly retreated back to the bottom of the hamper and listened to the sound of Owl Rex being dragged from the room, the chain of his shackles scraping along the wooden floor.
Curtis watched his fellow soldiers dive headlong into their celebrations. His prior experience with the Governess’s blackberry concoction was still branded on his brain, and rather than actually imbibe the stuff, he went to great effort to merely mime drinking. The rest of the troop was evidently eschewing this strategy. A barrel of wine rolled into the hall would scarcely have been tapped before another appeared through one of the tunnels that led into the main room of the warren. Several soldiers, their uniforms unbuttoned to the waist, exposing the gray matted fur of their spindly rib-carved chests, lolled in mangled lumps below the barrel spigots, greedily lapping up every drop that fell. Curtis did his best to remain an active participant in the celebrations. His feet grew tired from treading around the room to every group that beckoned to him, asking him to retell the story of the battle—the firing of the cannon, the loosing of the tree trunk on the bandits’ howitzer. He found himself, after the seventh or eighth telling, allowing the other coyotes to finish his sentences and punch up the climaxes of the stories. Eventually, his voice grown hoarse, he found an upended keg in the corner of the room and sat, smiling politely at every soldier who stumbled over to him, each bearing a new, full mug of wine, until his feet were surrounded by a small army of untouched drinks.
A lieutenant, his uniform’s sash tied raffishly around his forehead, had climbed to the top of a short tower of emptied wine crates and was waving his saber as if it were a conductor’s baton. He cleared his throat and began singing a melody, which the rest of the room took up with a swaggering, throaty familiarity:
I was born a hangman’s cub
Whelped and weaned on maggoty grub
Torn right from my dead pa’s whiskers
So listen close, my brothers and sisters.
Hey! Hey! Catch that rat!
Tie him up and boil ’im in his fat.
Loose one finger if he is feckless
Wear it as a noose or wear it as a necklace.
Way down yonder in the brambly bog
I saw my girly with another dog.
Took ’er by the ear to the old town well
And that’s where my girl-y does dwell.
Hey! Hey! Catch that rat!
Tie him up and boil ’im in his fat!
Curtis politely tapped his finger on his pant leg and even made a halfhearted attempt to join in on the chorus when it came back around, making his neighbors cackle and lift their mugs to him.
“The boy’s getting a hang of the dog shanty!” howled one.
“There’s a good jackal!” shouted another.
A coyote who had plopped himself down next to Curtis and his array of untouched wine mugs ribbed him clumsily, nearly sending them both falling backward.
Curtis laughed shyly and pushed himself up. “Excuse me, guys,” he said. “Might go get a little air.” The activity in the room was beginning to get a little too clamorous for his taste. He tiptoed around the rows of mugs and the chains of arm-linked coyotes singing in full throat, toward one of the many tunnel entrances leadi
ng from the room. A few torches attached to the wall of the tunnel lit the way, the knobby ground below his feet alive with the winking shadows cast by the partyers. As he followed the curve of the tunnel, the song continued behind him, fading:
Liar! Liar!
Furze and briar!
Bind his feet and hang ’im with a wire!
A shiver running up his spine, Curtis was glad to hear the noise of the manic crowd bleed away as he descended farther into the tunnel. He wasn’t sure where he was going—he was simply following this sudden instinct to find somewhere he could sit by himself and reflect on all that had transpired during the last two days.
Several side tunnels, through which Curtis could see the torch-illumined walls of antechambers and storerooms, broke away from this main corridor, and he took extra care to mentally mark his every turn so as to be able to return to the Governess’s hall. The noise from the party was a distant echo now, the ashy smoke from the central fire a mere hint in the musty air. The plant roots dangling from the earthen roof of the tunnel caressed his head as he went like long, downy fingers. Curtis was overcome by a warm closeness here, the feeling of being cocooned in this labyrinthine warren, and he wondered if this was a place where he could stay. The aching anxiety with which he faced every school day, the quiet loneliness of the playground and the overwhelming authority of his teachers, disappointed coaches, and fretful parents—all seemed to recede like the singing of the coyote soldiers behind him. He had never been so embraced by a group of people in his life; he had always found himself on the outside, desperately striving for the approval of his peers. Alexandra’s suggestion of their relationship—she would be a new mother to him! How many kids were afforded that opportunity?—was thrilling to Curtis, and the idea of their dominion in this strange new world seemed intoxicating.
