by Colin Meloy
The surrounding bandits murmured approval with a chorus of “Aye, aye.”
Seamus, the bandit directly above Curtis—the expectorator himself—turned and spoke to the other prisoners. “What,” he said, “like ‘The Wildwood Maiden’?”
Cormac groaned. “God, no—not the treacly, maudlin stuff. Something to take our minds off o’ things.”
Eamon shouted his suggestion: “How ’bout the one about the lawyer—the lawyer and Jock Roderick?”
The request was popular; the other bandits chimed in with their approval.
Seamus nodded his agreement and then, shifting in his cage, straightened his chest and began singing, his voice sweet and tuneful:
Sawyer the Lawyer was plying his trade
Clacking and stacking the money he made
Robbing the poor and deceiving the meek
Leaving ’em naught but the tears on their cheek.
Jock Roderick, the Brave Bandit of Hanratty Cross.
As Sawyer was trav’ling the Long Road in May
A client to see for to free from his pay
Who should arrive at the top of the heath?
Young Jock, with his pistols and a blade in his teeth.
Jock Roderick, the Brave Bandit of Hanratty Cross.
Says Sawyer, “I’ll give you a piece of the deal
I’ve a widow in South Wood who’s lost an appeal.
Sure, there’s money to make of us both millionaires!”
But Jock with his pistols just fixes a stare.
Jock Roderick, the Brave Bandit of Hanratty Cross.
“You’re a savvy young man,” says Sawyer, “quite right.
But I’m suing a blind man for not having sight.
We’ll split up the settlement, right down the middle!”
But Jock, he don’t move, he don’t flinch in his saddle.
Jock Roderick, the Brave Bandit of Hanratty Cross.
“But let’s not be tidy, whatever’s your druther,
I’m suing an orphan for having no mother.
We’ll share all the proceeds! Whatever the figure!”
But Jock, he just sits there, a-twitch at the trigger.
Jock Roderick, the Brave Bandit of Hanratty Cross.
Says Sawyer, “O tell me what would thee entice
Ev’ry man has a weakness, we each have our price.
Name that one thing and I swear to make good.”
Says Jock, “You marched naked down into South Wood.”
Jock Roderick, the Brave Bandit of Hanratty Cross.
So Jock’s robbed the lawyer his gold and his store
He’s taken the horses and deeds and what’s more
He’s marched him all naked for South Wood to stare
How a lawyer’s a lawyer whatever he wears.
Jock Roderick, the Brave Bandit of Hanratty Cross.
The cavern erupted into laughter and applause at this last verse, and the cages shook beneath the weight of the guffawing bandits. Curtis cracked a smile despite himself. The coyote, Dmitri, shouted acidly from his cage, “Beautiful song, guys, real beautiful.”
CHAPTER 15
The Delivery
The pounding of the hammer ceased, the last nail driven into the wood of the crate, and Prue was alone in the darkness, listening intently to the sounds outside. She’d said her good-byes to Enver with a promise to reunite on the other side of the border; she’d thanked Richard again and had sat calmly while he prepared to encase her in the packing crate. Suddenly, there was a loud thunk, the sound of wood hitting metal, and she felt herself tipped sidelong, the world moving underneath her—she guessed the box had been lifted onto a dolly and she was being moved toward the—bang! The back of the van. The crown of her head had hit the top of the box, and she stifled a cry. She heard Richard whisper a “Sorry!” though the wood before saying, “See you on the other side!” A metallic slam. Footsteps. The wheeze of the van engine igniting, and a grinding rattle as the van was thrown into gear and began moving.
Prue shifted her weight in the box, trying to ignore the pressure she was already feeling in the joints of her bent knees. She shared the space with a small clutch of wooden shavings and paper scraps, remnant packing material from the crate’s previous contents. The box smelled faintly of wax.
The van hit a pothole and the box gave a great shake and she fell sideways against the wall of the crate. This time she yelled out loud, “OUCH!” her knee slamming into the floor. She braced herself against the walls of the box and shifted back upright, prepared for any further convulsions.
She felt the shocks of the van lighten as the surface changed from rough gravel to smooth paving stones. The engine shuddered into a higher gear, and the mail van picked up speed. Prue could hear the whistle of wind blowing alongside the vehicle. A quarter of an hour passed this way and Prue eased into the journey, her breath settling into a calm rhythm. The white noise of the van’s engine was only ever eclipsed by the occasional whine of a distant siren—it was clear that the SWORD’s house-by-house avian roundup was continuing apace.
Time passed. The realization that she had not slept more than a few hours in two days dawned on her; she was suddenly aware that she was fighting to keep her eyelids open. Surrendering to the impulse, she fell into an immediate slumber—the anxiousness of her present predicament seemed to melt away like candle wax.
Until the van jerked to a halt.
Her eyelids flew open. Her heartbeat accelerated, a racing horse released from the starting gate. The sound of footsteps, murmured voices. The noises came closer to the back of the van and suddenly, with a clang, the doors of the van could be heard being thrown open, the voices now muffled only by the thin veneer of wood that separated her from the interior of the van.
“. . . this time of night,” sounded one of the voices. “Regulations, you understand. We’re instructed to be vigilant tonight, what with the crackdown. Border patrol, especially.”
“Of course, Officer.” This was Richard’s voice. It was calm, assured. Its confidence instilled a newfound bravery in Prue. She hitched her breath and waited.
“Now, let’s see,” said the other voice, which Prue assumed to be that of a border guard. The van gave a shrug as she felt the officer’s weight climbing into the cargo hold. “Envelopes, packages,” intoned the officer, his footsteps sounding against the metal floor. “Mmm-hmm, all seems to be in order.”
Suddenly, there was a loud, hollow crack against the side of the box. The officer had kicked the crate! Prue threw her hand to her mouth.
“What’s in this one, Postmaster?” asked the officer.
The assurance had dropped from Richard’s voice. “Toilet paper,” he said, stumbling over the first consonants. “Towels and, um, ladies’ undergarments.”
What? screamed Prue’s mind.
“What?” said the officer.
“Undergarments, y-yes,” stuttered Richard. “And toilet paper. Some socks, yes, some socks are in there. And, wouldn’t you believe it, old . . . old dryer lint.”
Prue put her face in her hands.
“Old dryer lint?” asked the officer incredulously. “What kind of package is that?”
“A very, um, strange one,” said Richard. “I guess.”
The game was up. Prue knew it. She was already trying to imagine how well she would handle prison life. Would they let her have a TV? Would the food be any good?
“Open it,” commanded the officer.
“What was that?” asked Richard.
“You heard me, Postmaster. Open it. Open the box. I want to see this . . . this dryer lint.”
Richard grumbled something under his breath and walked along the side of the van, presumably to fetch a crowbar. While he did this, the officer drummed his fingers impatiently on the top of the crate. Through the wood, it sounded like peals of thunder. Finally, Richard returned, and the van shifted again as Prue felt him climb into the hold.
“Now, which one was it?” asked Richard. Prue he
ard the hollow thok of something being tapped against wood, but this sounded from the far end of the van. “Was it this one?”
“NO,” said the officer impatiently. “The one I am currently standing next to, thanks very much.”
“Ah yes,” said Richard, his voice trembling slightly. “That one. Thing is, I’ve a customer who’s expecting that package, and I can’t imagine that they’d be too happy if—”
He was interrupted by the border guard. “Open it, Postmaster. I promise I won’t sully their dryer lint too much.” He was beginning to take on the tone of a cat toying with its prey. “There better not be anything illicit in that package, or you’ll be wishing there really were towels and toilet paper and ladies’ undergarments in there—quite the currency, I’m given to understand, in prison.”
Richard laughed uncomfortably
Prue prepared herself for the big reveal.
“What about the one next to it?” asked Richard suddenly. “Perhaps you’d like better what was inside.” He spoke in a suggestive tone.
“Listen, old man, I’m getting tired of your—” said the officer, before stopping abruptly. “Wait. What does that say?”
“I believe you can read it,” said Richard.
“It’s not . . . can it be?” asked the officer. There seemed to be a tremble of excitement in his stern voice.
“Allow me,” said Richard, his confidence returning. A creaking wheeze was followed by a loud crack, suggesting the crate just adjacent to Prue’s had been pried open, and Prue heard the officer catch his breath.
“All yours,” said Richard. “But I really must be on my way. I do have quite a bit of mail to deliver.”
“Quite right,” said the officer, his tone professional and short. “Quite right. Sorry to have bothered you.” Prue heard the sound of a terse hand clap, and a bevy of footsteps approached the van. “Jenkins! Sorgum! Please see to it that this box here is delivered safely to my quarters.” These instructions were followed by the sound of a box being dragged across the metal floor of the van.
“Very well,” said the officer. “Thanks for your time. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Richard. The shocks on the van groaned slightly as the two men left the cargo hold and bang, the doors were closed behind them. Someone—Prue imagined it to be Richard—gave a quick series of knuckle raps on the door, and she smiled widely.
The van roared back into life and, with a clatter of the transmission, heaved down the road and over the border into the Avian Principality.
After a time, the van took a sharp turn and drove for a stretch up a rough section of road before slowing to a stop. The doors were noisily thrown open, and Prue was greeted by the sound of a crowbar prying the top off the crate. In a moment, the lid had been tossed aside and Prue cautiously looked up to see Richard smiling down at her, the valleys of his wrinkled face illuminated by the hazy light of the van’s dim overhead lamp.
“Dryer lint? Undergarments?” These words emerged from Prue’s mouth like water breaking through a dam, though she immediately began laughing as soon as she’d said them.
“Oh, Prue,” he said, his smile giving way to an embarrassed frown, “I don’t know what came over me! All the preparation, and I’d given no thought to what I’d say was in the box. Undergarments, indeed! Thank the heavens that I still had that case of poppy beer from the North—quite a commodity, and banned in South Wood, no less. No soldier worth his salt would pass over a treasure like that!”
Prue leapt up and threw her arms around Richard’s neck. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” she shouted.
Richard returned the embrace briefly before saying, “Come on, you’ve still got a long ways to go.” He helped her climb from the box, and, brushing a few petals of packing material from her jeans, she walked toward the door of the van. They had stopped in a kind of natural cul-de-sac, enclosed in a dense shroud of blackberry and western hazel bushes. The light was a deep blue-gray as the first glimmers of dawn filtered through the trees. Birdsong was everywhere here; the sound practically showered from the treetops. A flutter of wings heralded the arrival of Enver as he landed on a nearby branch.
“Enver!” cried Prue. “We made it!”
The sparrow nodded. “And not a moment too soon. They’ve closed the border to all travelers.” Enver looked up to the sky, the dewy air of morning ruffling his feathers. “He should be here any moment.”
“Who’d that be?” asked Richard.
“The General,” said Enver, and, as if the words were an incantation, a giant bird dove into the clearing, its wing beats disturbing the foliage like a small hurricane. It was a golden eagle, and Prue recognized him to be the same one she’d seen when they had first been on their way to South Wood. He landed on a low-hanging hemlock branch, dramatically setting the whole tree to shaking.
“Sir,” said Enver, bowing his head slightly.
The General steadied himself on his perch and glared down at Prue. “Is this the human girl? The Outsider?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Enver, nodding to Prue.
“Hello, sir,” said Prue. “We met before, I think. I saw you—”
The General interrupted her. “Yes, I remember.” He shifted his great talons on the branch and the leaves rustled wildly. “You were with the Prince when he was arrested?”
Prue nodded sadly. “Yes, sir.”
The General watched her, silent. The light was still dim and the air hazy; the eagle’s tawny plumage was a stark contrast to the wall of green that surrounded him. He scratched the underside of his wing with his beak, briefly, before turning back to Prue. His yellow eyes bore into Prue’s.
“He was really brave, sir,” she offered quietly. “I don’t know what else to say; I owe him my life, I guess. They came for me, not him. And he protected me. I don’t know why, but he did.”
The eagle finally broke his steady gaze. He stared off into the distance, his face seemingly devoid of emotion. Finally, he spoke. “I’ve sworn allegiance, as a general of the Avian army, to the throne of the Crown Prince. My orders come directly from our monarch. And now he’s gone; imprisoned. In the absence of his authority, I can only infer what the Crown Prince would command.” Here, he looked back at Prue, a steely reserve settling over his feathered brow. “If he has protected you, then I must protect you. If he has risked his life for you, I am duty bound to do likewise.”
Enver warbled in agreement. The General unfurled his massive wings, the wingspan stretching easily as wide as Prue was tall, and leapt from his perch to land gracefully on the ground before Prue’s feet.
“If it is your wish to fly to North Wood, then I would be honored to be your carriage,” said the General, and he bowed his head low.
Prue, at a loss for words, made an awkward curtsy. Turning to Richard, she extended her hand in thanks. He took it and shook it firmly, his face set in a grave frown. “Another good-bye between us, Port-Land Prue,” he said. “Let’s hope it’s the last.”
She smiled. “Thanks again, Richard. I won’t forget it.” She turned to Enver. “And you,” she said, reaching out her hand to run a finger along his smooth black head. “The best attendant a Crown Prince could hope for. I’m sure he’d be really proud of you, if he was here.”
Enver cooed and sidestepped shyly on his roost.
Prue heaved a deep breath and turned to the General, his head still bowed low. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.” The eagle shifted his talons and turned so Prue could climb onto his back, her fingers running through the down of his feathers to find a grip at the crook of his shoulder. She could feel the taut sinew of his muscle shift and shudder as he flexed his wings in preparation for flight.
“Hold on,” he said.
Prue pressed her body against the General’s back, her cheek nestled against his soft feathering, and the eagle took a few nimble steps before shoving off from the ground. And they were flying.
Curtis had been immersed in some strange cir
cumstances since he’d made that fateful decision to follow Prue into the Impassable Wilderness, but surely nothing was as bizarre as this, sitting in a giant birdcage dangling from a root-ball in an underground warren, trying to remember the words to “Mustang Sally.”
Mustang Sally
You probably should slow the mustang down
Mustang Sally
You probably should slow the mustang down
One of these . . . something . . . mornings
Hmmm guess you something something something something eyes.
“Something eyes?” asked Seamus, incredulous. “Whatever does that mean?”
“No, no, no,” said Curtis, scratching his head. “I forget the words. Something about eyes, though. Sleeping eyes? Oh boy, I’m really sorry, guys. I thought I knew it better.” The song had been one of his parents’ favorites and was a perennial family road trip sing-along classic. He was now mining the dregs of his pop song repertoire in an effort to match the bandits’ last offering, a tuneful song about a gypsy kidnapping a lord’s daughter. They’d been at it for hours now, trading song for song, and time was flying by. The cavern rang with the voices of the prisoners.
“But I’m a little confused,” said Angus. “So she’s a horse, this Sally? And yet there’s another mustang she has to slow down?”
Before Curtis had a chance to correct this misreading, another bandit joined in. “Angus, ya fool, it’s clearly a love song from a man to a horse. The man loves the horse, this Mustang Sally.” This caused the entire prison block to erupt in laughter.
“Aye, Curtis,” shouted another, between gales of laughter. “You Outsiders have some fairly odd ways about ya!”
Curtis tried to stem the laughter, shouting, “Guys, it’s a car! A kind of car!” But the bandits would have none of it. Rather than fight it, Curtis started laughing right along with them. One of the bandits, Cormac, managed to speak through the din. “Another, Curtis! Give us another Outsider song!” But before Curtis had a chance to insist that it was, in fact, the bandits’ turn, there came a loud banging noise from below.
