by Colin Meloy
Prue could only nod sympathetically. She was still gutted by the events. “How did you escape?” she asked. “I thought for sure you’d all be taken.”
“Likewise. I thought they had you—when they opened the hamper,” he said before motioning his head to the fireplace. “And in the fuss I managed to swoop into the chimney.” He dropped his beak and stared at the ground. “But what’s the use? Our Crown Prince, imprisoned!” He then turned his imploring eyes, all sad and tearful, to meet Prue’s: “Was it cowardly of me? Shouldn’t I have given my life, or at least my freedom, in defense of my Prince?”
“No, no, no,” soothed Prue. She reached out a hand and brushed a smudge of soot from the sparrow’s head. “He wouldn’t have wanted that. You did what was best.” She sat down on the edge of the bookcase and laid her chin in her palms. The braying whistle of a siren sounded in the distance.
The sparrow shuddered. “I never thought I’d see the day,” he said quietly. “All our work, our careful diplomacy to create this fragile alliance. Dashed.” The siren, now joined by another, grew louder. Prue stood and walked toward the window, where a flashing red light was playing against the pane. Kneeling down and carefully peeling back the curtain, Prue could see, several doors down the street, a gang of jackbooted SWORD officers escorting a small flock of birds out of a building and into an armored van. “What’s going on?” said Prue.
The sparrow, not getting up, guessed at her horror. “I expect they’re rounding up the lot. All birds, South Wood folk and members of the Principality alike.” He repeated solemnly, “Never thought I’d see the day.”
More sirens sounded; more clanking paddy wagons trundled down the cobblestones of Rue Thurmond. Farther down the street, Prue watched as a small group of egrets, their bright white feathers painted crimson in the siren’s glow, were led out to a waiting truck. Before they arrived at the armored doors, however, one broke away from the group and, its long spindly legs beating the paving stones, unfurled its great wings and took to the sky. No sooner had it done so than a SWORD officer pulled a rifle from over his shoulder, took aim, and fired. Prue clapped her hand over her mouth to stop a shriek. The egret plummeted to the cobbles in a limp jumble of white feathers. A few cursory words were exchanged between the officers and the truck was off, rumbling down the street. The body of the egret lay where it fell, motionless. After a few moments, a stray SWORD officer who had emerged from one of the other buildings casually kicked the egret’s body out of the middle of the street and into the gutter.
Prue gritted her teeth and slammed her fist down on the windowsill. “Murderers!” she hissed. She looked back at the sparrow, expecting to see him moved by the sound of the gunshot, but instead saw him sitting where she had left him, his head inclined even farther into his breast.
“We have to do something!” shouted Prue, marching back over to where the sparrow sat. “This is an injustice! How can anyone stand for this?”
“Fear,” the sparrow responded quietly. “Fear rules the day. The powerful, for fear of losing that power, have become blinded. Everyone is an enemy. Someone has to bear the brunt.”
Prue groaned angrily and began pacing the room. “Well, one thing’s for sure, I’m not just going to sit here and wait till they run out of ideas and come back here to arrest us. THAT’S crazy.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he murmured.
Prue stopped her pacing. “North. Go North.” She shot a look over at the sparrow. “That’s what Owl said. Just before the police came in. He said if all else fails, I could go to North Wood and see those . . . magicians.”
“Mystics,” corrected the sparrow, looking up.
“Yeah,” said Prue, now wagging her index finger in thought. “I’d be safe there. And they might know where my brother is.”
“Maybe you’d be safe there; the North Wood folk do value their isolation.”
Prue shrugged. “It’s worth a shot, though, isn’t it?”
The sparrow had by now perked up considerably. “Maybe. Maybe. But how on earth would you get there?”
Frowning, Prue absently scratched her cheek. “That’s the thing. I have no idea.”
“You could fly,” said the sparrow.
“Yeah, that’s no problem at all,” Prue scoffed.
“I mean,” said the sparrow, standing on his claws and shaking out his wings, “you could be flown.”
“Flown?” Prue was beginning to see an answer.
“You must weigh nothing,” said the sparrow, studying her body. “To a golden eagle, anyway. If we could only get you to the Principality, there are plenty of birds who could carry you.”
Even in the darkness of this dire situation, Prue couldn’t help but be quietly thrilled at the proposition. “Okay,” she said. “That sounds pretty good. So how do I get there?”
“We’d have to sneak you to the border somehow,” said the sparrow, his energy having returned. “It’s too far to walk, and the streets are crawling with secret police—no, we’d have to find a vehicle, something we could conceal you in—it’s the only way.”
Prue snapped her fingers, interrupting the bird’s thought. “Got it,” she said.
In another part of the Wood, deep underground, another finger snap had just finished echoing off the walls of a cavernous warren. Curtis stared blankly at Alexandra. Mac cooed quietly in the cradle in the center of the room. Far off, the blare of a brass band colored this quiet, tense moment with a comical soundtrack.
Curtis swallowed deeply, loudly.
Alexandra, her arms now folded, tapped a ringed finger against a pewter bracelet clasped around her bicep. The noise made a hollow ting that reverberated through the chamber.
Ting.
“Well, I . . . ,” started Curtis.
Ting.
He shifted uncomfortably in his boots. The stiffness of the uniform suddenly became hyperapparent, the rough wool fabric chafing against his shoulders. His right toe dug a little too closely into the leather of his boot. The heat in the room swelled, and little beads of perspiration broke out at his hairline. “I think that . . . ,” he began.
Ting.
“Are you with me, Curtis?” asked Alexandra, finally. “Or are you against me? It’s one or the other.”
Curtis tittered uncomfortably. “I realize that, Alexandra, I just—”
He was interrupted: “Easy decision, Curtis.”
Curtis silently waited for another ting to unsettle the quiet of the room, but when it did not come (Alexandra’s finger remained poised in the air above the bracelet) he gave his reply.
“No.”
“What was that?”
Curtis straightened his spine and looked directly into Alexandra’s eyes. “I said no.”
“No, what?” asked the Governess, her eyebrows carving a sinister angle on her brow. “You won’t return home? You will join me?”
“No, I won’t join you. I will not.” The saliva that had been robbed from his mouth in his initial terror was now beginning to return, and speaking was growing easier and easier. “No way.” He gestured to the baby in the cradle behind him. “This is wrong, Alexandra. I don’t care who did what to you, but I can’t just sit here and let you take this baby and, well, sacrifice him just so you can get your measly revenge. No, no, no. Maybe you can use something else; a squirrel or a pig or something—maybe that ivy won’t really know the difference—whatever. All I know is that I’m done here, thanks very much, so I’ll just get my things and leave, if you don’t mind.”
The Governess remained strangely silent during this speech, and Curtis attempted to fill the awkward stillness with more talk. “You can have the uniform back, the saber too. I’m sure there’s another coyote or someone who it will fit, and I know you’re in need of equipment, so don’t even think about it—this will definitely stay with you. Though I don’t know where my clothes are that I wore in here; maybe someone could find them for me?”
The Governess remained silent, studying Curtis
as he fidgeted with his uniform.
“Or whatever. I don’t need need my other clothes. One thing, though,” Curtis said, “is that I’m going to take the baby. I’m going to have to take Mac with me. I owe this to Prue.”
This was where Alexandra broke her silence. “I can’t let you do that, Curtis.”
Curtis sighed. “Please?”
“Guards!” shouted Alexandra, turning slightly to call down the corridor behind her. Within moments, the sound of shuffling feet announced the arrival of a group of uniformed coyote grunts. Appearing at the opening to the chamber, they were initially surprised to see Curtis. “Madam?” asked one, confused.
“Seize him,” was Alexandra’s command. “He’s a turncoat.”
Immediately Curtis was beset by coyotes, his arms pinned behind him, manacles snapped in place around his wrists. He gave no resistance. One of the coyotes yanked the sword from Curtis’s scabbard, raising the blade to his face with a menacing sneer. Alexandra watched the proceedings calmly, her eyes never wavering from her captive’s.
“Don’t do this, Curtis,” said Alexandra, her face now belying a sadness beneath her stony countenance. “I’m offering you a new life, a new direction. A world of riches awaits you, and you would throw it away to save this thing? This babbling thing? You’d have a seat at the table, Curtis. You’d be second in command. And, perhaps one day, an heir to the throne.” She paused before saying, “A son to me.”
The coyotes at Curtis’s side smelled of matted fur and stale wine. They huffed threateningly in his ear, their muzzles snapping. The manacles bit into the flesh of his wrists.
Curtis stiffened his resolve. “Alexandra, I’m asking you to stop this; let me and the baby go. I . . . uh . . . command you.”
Alexandra stifled a laugh. “Command?” she said icily. “You command me? Oh, Curtis, don’t get ahead of yourself. Has the blackberry wine given you delusions of grandeur? You’re not quite in a position to be commanding anyone, I’m afraid.” The half smile disappeared from her face and she moved closer, her cheek rubbing Curtis’s cheek, her lips at his ear. Her breath smelled unworldly, like a sweet poison, rare and deadly. “Last chance,” was all she whispered.
“No,” repeated Curtis in a firm voice.
Scarcely had the response left his lips when Alexandra snapped back and clapped her hands. “Take him away,” she shouted, now breaking eye contact with Curtis. “To the cages!” Her finger traced the brocade of his uniform collar to rest on the medal, the bramble and trillium, at his chest; with a flick of her wrist, she tore the badge from the cloth and threw it to the ground.
“Aye, madam!” barked the coyotes, and Curtis was roughly dragged from the room. He was afforded a quick backward glance: the tall, thin silhouette of the Governess, backlit by the torches of the room, darkened the entry to the room, a witness to his rough removal. The ghostly light behind her flickered from the flapping of a host of crows’ wings, and she solemnly began to turn back to the room, to the baby in the cradle—and Curtis’s jailers took a dogleg corridor and the haunting scene was gone.
He struggled to keep up with the coyotes’ pace. The corridor they followed snaked through the earth, wandering in every direction to accommodate the occasional gnarled tree root and boulder. The air grew cooler and denser as they moved farther from the central compound of the warren, and the tunnel slowly began sloping downward.
“Listen to me,” Curtis said after a moment. “You don’t have to follow her. Do you know what she’s doing? She’s kidnapped a baby—a baby boy—and she’s going to kill him. An innocent baby! Does that seem right to you?”
No response.
“I mean, what if one of your, your”—he struggled to find the word—“whelps was kidnapped by some person or animal or whatever. And they were going to sacrifice him? Would you stand for that?” Not receiving an answer, he proffered one himself: “NO! No, you wouldn’t. It’s not right!”
The tunnel was filled with the noise of the coyotes’ labored panting; in the half-lit distance, something vaguely arachnid scurried across the tunnel floor, disappearing into a large hole in the wall.
“What was that?” shrilled Curtis.
“Who knows what lives down here,” responded one of the coyotes.
Another took up the game. “Never been this far into the warren, myself. Heard stories, though—they say there’re things down here ain’t never seen the light o’ day. Things that are dyin’ for a lump of good meat to sink their teeth into.”
“Good human meat,” intoned another coyote.
“Feed a rat to the rats,” said one. “That’s how we deal with turncoats around here.”
“Listen, just let me go,” said Curtis. “No one has to know—I’ll just go on my way and . . .” The words froze in his mouth as the coyotes turned a sharp corner and the tunnel opened up into a large room and Curtis saw the cages.
“Oh,” he said flatly. “Oh man.”
It appeared as if the room had formed naturally: The floor was knobbed with rubble and rock and the walls sloped down from the towering ceiling in an irregular fashion—but this was by far the least remarkable thing about the room. The thing that instantly demanded Curtis’s attention was the massive twist of roots that hung from the ceiling—what a tree must be above this system of limbs!—and the ominous array of rickety wooden cages that hung from the thick tendrils. The viney maple boughs that made up the cages’ bars joined in a crown at the top; they looked like birdcages in a giant’s aviary. Thick hempen cables attached the cages to the root system above, and they issued whining creaks as they twisted around on their lines. Inside, Curtis could make out a few figures—the cages looked to be big enough to imprison several unfortunate souls apiece—while many remained empty. He didn’t have time to count them, but they looked to number in the dozens.
“Warden!” shouted one of his captors, and a bloated and graying coyote appeared from behind a jagged rock below the dangling cages. A cord around his neck carried an impressive assemblage of keys of all different sizes and shapes. As he shuffled toward them, he blandly mumbled a recitation:
“Abandon hope, ye prisoner, abandon hope. The cages’ bars, impenetrable. The cages’ locks, unbreakable. The distance to the ground, unjumpable. Abandon hope. Abandon hope.” He sniffled between sentences, barely looking up from the ground. Curtis, horrified, noted that the ground appeared to be littered with the bleached and broken bones of former captives, dropped to their deaths.
“Yes, yes, we know,” one of the coyotes holding Curtis’s arm said impatiently. “Enough with the ominous speeches. We got a traitor here. Cage ’im high.”
As the warden approached, a voice could be heard from one of the cages above. “What? Is that another biped? I thought this was a coyote-only brig.”
Curtis looked up at the source of the complaint and saw a coyote muzzle sticking out between the wooden bars of one of the cages nearer to them.
“Quiet!” hollered the warden suddenly, breaking from his monotone.
A distinctly human-sounding voice rose up from one of the cages farther up. “You jackals’ll pay for this! I swear!” Curtis couldn’t make out the speaker through the snarl of the branching roots.
“See?!” shouted the coyote prisoner. “Do you hear that? I’m a soldier and I’m thrown in here with bandit scum! I thought this was an exclusively military prison!”
“QUIET!” the warden shouted again, now louder. “Or I’ll cuff the lot of ya.”
The bandit, now enlivened, began chanting, “Free Wildwood! FREE WILDWOOD!” A few other prisoners, apparently bandits as well, stood up in their cages and took up the call, screaming and shaking the bars of their enclosures.
The warden sighed and walked over to Curtis. “Lively bunch,” he said under the din. “Sure you’ll enjoy the company.”
While Curtis was still being held, the warden walked over to the wall and fetched what looked to be the longest, ricketiest ladder Curtis had ever seen. Carefully balancin
g it upright, the warden walked the ladder over to the center of the room, weaving its topmost rungs through the tree roots. Arriving at a vacant cage, he hooked the top against the bars and steadied the bottom on a large rock on the cavern’s floor.
“Up we go,” said the warden. He climbed first; arriving at the cage, he undid the lock and climbed back down. At a nod from the warden, Curtis’s wrists were uncuffed and he was shoved rudely toward the ladder. The ladder swayed and bowed beneath his weight as he climbed. When he finally arrived at the cage, he swooned slightly at the height: He was easily sixty feet above the chamber floor, and the ground was strewn with boulders, stones, and toothy stalagmites; the fall did not look inviting. Once he had been pushed into the cage, the warden returned to the top of the ladder and fixed the door closed with a large iron padlock. Before returning to the ground, he looked directly at Curtis and said, “Don’t even think about escaping.”
“Wasn’t going to,” said Curtis.
The warden seemed temporarily caught off guard by the answer. “Oh,” he said. “Good.” And with that, he disappeared down the ladder. Curtis let out a sigh of despair as the top rung lifted away from the bars, and the wooden cage swung freely, the anchor cable above creaking and groaning under the weight of its new resident.
The gas lamps, positioned as they were on every corner, cast pallid cones of light on the cobbled intersections of the streets; shadows ruled the in-between spaces. It was within these shadows that Prue found concealment as she and the sparrow made their way through the neighborhood. Prue stayed hidden behind an obliging rain barrel or mailbox while the sparrow (whose name was Enver, Prue had come to find out) stealthily flew ahead, scouting the area from the roof eaves and weathervanes of the majestic houses that dotted the landscape. When the sparrow warbled an all-clear, Prue would leave her hiding place and rush to the next available cover. The pace was slow, but they made steady progress up the street. Their momentum was only ever stalled when the inevitable SWORD van would come wailing down the street, its flashing siren tinting the houses in garish red, and Prue and Enver would have to hold their positions until the sparrow was satisfied that their movement would not be detected.
