by Colin Meloy
Slowly, imperceptibly, the dense vegetation shifted, and a circle of human figures emerged from the woods. She was surrounded.
“Don’t . . . move . . . a muscle,” commanded one of the figures.
Prue froze. These men and women wore an eclectic array of clothing: brigadier uniforms, khaki scrubs, fine silken waistcoats—but in disrepair. The elbows of their coats were frayed, their undershirts stained with dirt, and everything looked to be fairly ill fitting. More significantly, they were armed to the teeth: antique pistols and rifles, swords and bowie knives. And they were pointing them at her.
“Where did you come from?” asked one of the men.
Prue slowly lifted her arm and pointed to the sky.
Her assailants were aghast. “What, you flew?” one asked, in disbelief.
Prue nodded. Her head was spinning, and she was beginning to feel faint. A searing pain was growing in her chest.
A voice came from behind the crowd. “What is going on here?” shouted the voice, gruff and authoritative. Pushing a few of the figures aside, a man appeared in the clearing. He had a deep red beard and wore a dirty officer’s coat. A sash over his shoulder carried a sizable saber at his hip, and his forehead was tattooed with a design Prue couldn’t immediately decipher. He towered over Prue, his curly red hair gaining him another six inches, easily, and glowered down at her. “Who are you, and where did you come from?”
“I’m—I’m Prue,” she faltered. “And I was flying . . . on the eagle back there . . . and we were . . . we were shot down.” Sputtering those last few words, she suddenly collapsed in a heap on the ground.
When she came to, Prue was moving. A kaleidoscope of sunlight and tree leaves wheeled above her. She was lying down and yet, strangely, hovering over the ground, traveling horizontally at a fairly fast speed. She lifted her head slightly and saw how this was possible: She’d been laid in a makeshift stretcher—two tree boughs with some ropes threaded between—and was being carried through the woods by the strange people she’d just encountered.
“The General!” she shouted, pushing herself up by her elbows. “The eagle! Where is he?”
The woman’s voice came from behind her. “He didn’t make it.”
Prue tried to crane her body around to see the woman who’d spoken. “He’s . . . dead?” she asked falteringly. The woman nodded, and Prue’s stomach plummeted. A jolt of pain shot up her neck from her chest, and she fell back against the twine beneath her. She grabbed at her ribs. “Ouch!” she cried.
“Looks like you took a pretty bad fall,” said the woman, her breath heaving fast as she and the other stretcher-bearer ran through the woods at a near sprint.
The man at the front of the stretcher yelled over his shoulder. “Don’t move. We have to get you to safety. Never seen a coyote marksman that far from the warren. There may be others.”
Prue looked to one side and saw that the stretcher was accompanied by the rest of the people who had found her. They ran nimbly through the undergrowth, barely disturbing the bushes and bracken as they went.
“Who—who are you?” Prue asked. Her mouth was dry; it was difficult to speak.
“Bandits, kid,” responded one of the runners. “Wildwood bandits. You’re lucky we found you.”
“Oh,” said Prue. The world swam above her and a fog suddenly overtook her vision and she lost consciousness again.
Bap.
“Hey!”
Bap.
Prue, her eyes still closed, was suddenly alerted to a smacking noise, as if someone’s back was being slapped.
Bap.
There it went again! she thought. It suddenly dawned on her that she felt a sensation accompanying each slapping sound—the feeling of someone hitting her cheek, gently, with an open palm. She opened her eyes, slowly, and started. Directly above her was the man she’d seen in the clearing, the red-bearded one with the forehead tattoo. His breath smelled very sour; his hand was poised for another slap.
“There you go,” he said, satisfied. “Wasn’t sure if you were going to die or not.”
Prue was shocked. “No, I’m not going to die!” she said defiantly. “I was just . . . sleeping, I guess.”
“Good,” said the man. “Besides, you’d be a mite bit embarrassed if you died of a bruised rib and a sprained ankle, that’s for sure.”
“A bruised rib?” she asked. “How did you . . .”
“Ah, those South Wooders would love to sell us bandits as know-nothings, but we sure ken our bruises and breaks.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “But you don’t look like you’re from South Wood. And you’re no North Wooder neither. You’re an Outsider, ain’t ya?”
Prue nodded.
The bandit sat back, and Prue had an opportunity to take in her surroundings. She appeared to be in a lodge of some sort, rudely constructed of unfinished logs and brambly branches. The ceiling was made up of leafy fir boughs, and a simple handwoven rug covered a large section of the earthen floor. Shifting slightly, Prue realized that she was lying on a kind of rustic canvas mattress in the corner of the hut.
“Very peculiar,” said the bandit, chewing thoughtfully on a dried cinnamon stick. “I never met an Outsider before in my life and then, in the span of two days, I see two.”
Prue’s eyes went wide. “Two? You’ve—you’ve seen another?”
“Yes, in a skirmish with the coyotes,” said the bandit. “Only yesterday. A young lad, probably the same age as yourself. Fought alongside the Governess—and a good fighter, too! Rather crafty.” The bandit suddenly came to a realization. “You ain’t . . . you ain’t in the employ of the Dowager, is ye? She’s not made some dark alliance with the Outside, has she?” His hand instinctively went to the saber at his hip.
“NO!” shouted Prue, pain spiking at her chest. “I swear! I’ve never met her; only heard some terrible things.”
The bandit lifted his arm from his side. “As you should. Evil woman, that Dowager Governess.”
“But this other Outsider you saw,” asked Prue. “What did he look like? Did he have curly black hair? And . . . and glasses?”
The bandit nodded.
Prue was flummoxed. “I can’t believe it!” she said. “He’s okay! And he was actually fighting! With the Governess! It can’t be true!”
“’Tis true,” the bandit replied. “Knocked out our finest howitzer, too. Turned the tide of the battle single-handedly, he did. Lost a lot of men that day.” The bandit shook his head dolefully. “But here I’m shooting my mouth off—haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Brendan. Folks call me the Bandit King.”
Prue blushed. “King!” she said, embarrassed. She had no idea she’d been addressing royalty. “Very good to meet you, Your Highness. My name’s Prue.”
Brendan batted the air. “Oh, don’t start with the Highness stuff. It’s mostly a title I use to scare people. Tends to work fairly well, too.”
“So,” began Prue, “if you’re bandits, then why didn’t you try to rob me? Isn’t that what bandits do?”
Brendan tilted his head back and laughed. “Oh, aye, that’s the truth. But robbing little girls who fall out of the sky ain’t necessarily our forte. We go for rich folk, delivery drivers and the like—folks plying the Long Road between North and South Wood. We like to think we’re liberators. Liberatin’ money from folks who take it all for granted.”
Prue smiled politely, though the bandit’s reasoning struck her as funny. She chose to change the subject. “This other Outsider, his name’s Curtis, I have to find him! We came in together, and we got split up when the coyotes found us, but that was before I saw Richard and made it to the Mansion, but then I—”
“Whoa, whoa there,” chided Brendan. “Slow up, you’ll bust that rib going on like that. First things first: Why are you here in the first place?”
“My brother,” said Prue calmly. “My brother was abducted by crows. And brought here. Somewhere in Wildwood.”
“Whew!” whistled Brendan. “You lost two O
utsiders? Bad luck there.”
Prue shook her head sadly. “I know,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I was on my way to North Wood, you know, when we got shot down. Now I’ll never make it.”
The Bandit King nodded. “It’s a long ways,” he said. “To North Wood. And it’s unforgiving territory, too. The coyotes are crawling over these parts.”
Prue looked at the King imploringly and said, “Can you help me? Please? I’m just so terrified that something horrible has happened. And now Curtis has joined in with the coyotes? I’m just so confused!” Despite herself, she began to cry.
Brendan frowned. “I don’t know what to tell you, Prue. We’ve got our hands full here, what with this war on. I can’t be helping little girls find their brothers.”
A knock came at the hut’s doorframe.
“Sir!” shouted the bandit at the door. “Coyotes! On the perimeter!”
Brendan leapt up. “What?” he shouted, alarmed. “How far out?”
“Second sentry line!” was the response.
The King whispered a curse under his breath. “There’s no way they could find us—they’ve never been this far out. Unless . . .” He stopped and looked down at Prue.
“You’re coming with me!” he shouted, kneeling down and throwing Prue over his shoulder as if she were an empty duffel bag. She shrieked at the pain of her bruised rib colliding with his shoulder blade. He ran from the lodge, into a clearing surrounded by rustic huts and lean-tos. The camp, built into the shallow of a deep, wide draw, was alive with activity: Men and women milled about the periphery at various labors, children played with little wooden toys near a central fire pit.
“Aisling!” he shouted. “Saddle up the brown mare, Henbane, and bring her to me!”
“What are you doing?!” called Prue.
“Getting you out of here,” responded Brendan. “They’ve got your scent. They’re after you. And you’re about to lead the whole coyote army down on us.”
Henbane was a lithe chestnut mare, and she whinnied excitedly when Brendan vaulted astride her and threw Prue on her flank behind him. Prue winced, the horse’s quick movement painfully jarring her delicate ribs. Brendan grabbed a fistful of Henbane’s mane in one hand and pointed to the camp with the other.
“Get the children inside!” shouted Brendan to the throng of bandits. “And arm up. We’ve got coyotes on the perimeter!” The horse reared, and Prue desperately threw her arms around him, pulling herself in close to his back. Brendan briefly surveyed the actions of the bandits, all scurrying to follow his instruction, before kicking the horse into a gallop. They sped down the ravine, away from the camp.
Prue watched the camp disappear behind her as they arrived at the mouth of the draw and took a sudden right turn onto flat ground. The huts and lodges seemed to melt away into the green of the foliage, undetectable. Brendan shouted a loud “HYAH!” to the mare, and they vaulted through the underbrush, dodging brambles and leaping fallen tree trunks. After a moment, the bandit pulled back on Henbane’s mane, and, coming to a shimmying stop, he looked up into the overhanging tree branches. “Where are they?” he shouted.
A voice came from above. Prue squinted to see a bandit, hidden in the boughs. “Farther south, sir! One hundred yards. By the split oak!”
Brendan gave no reply but spurred the horse instantly back to a gallop, and they drove through the woods as fast as the mare could carry them.
“Are you just going to turn me over to them?!” shouted Prue over the crashing of the horse through the bracken. How was it that she was single-handedly bringing all this danger on top of everyone she met? She felt like the world’s most effective bad luck charm.
“That’d do me no good!” he shouted back. “They’d still be on the perimeter, sniffing around! I can outrun them, but I need them to follow me.” He whistled and shied the horse to avoid a giant mossy berm. “And you’re my bait, Outsider!”
Suddenly, they broke through a wall of blackberry brambles and landed directly in the middle of a squad of coyote soldiers, easily fifty in number, knocking over several who stood in their way.
“The girl!” barked one of the coyotes.
“The King!” shouted another.
Brendan, with an expert twist of his wrist, turned the mare eastward and kicked her flank. “HYAH!” he shouted, and the horse burst into speed. Prue gripped Brendan’s waist tightly, her body jolting against Henbane’s bare back. They tore through the underbrush, the bushes and boughs whipping at their skin.
The coyotes, in a desperate, baying lather, tore after them. A pursuit troop broke away from the main group, sprinting on all fours, their uniforms ripped away by the sheer power of their strides. Reduced to their base animal instincts, they joyously barked and snapped as they gave frantic chase.
Henbane was heaving, her muscles churning with every leap. But she knew the terrain; Brendan barely had to direct her as she deftly flew through the forest.
“Faster! Faster, Henbane! On!” Brendan cried hoarsely.
The dogs gained ground. A few managed to catch them and sprinted alongside, snapping at Henbane’s ankles. Seeing this, Brendan yanked at the fistful of horse’s mane in his grip and they angled sideways, into a grove of salmonberry stalks. Just beyond, a shallow ravine opened up and a brook cut a noisy path downward. With a swift spur of his heels, Brendan commanded the horse into a long leap, and they made the other side in a fleet second. The dogs that had been so intent on taking the horse down by her ankles dropped with a whining scream into the rushing water.
Prue cast a cautious look back and saw that, while they lost a few pursuers to the ravine, the majority had made the jump and were gaining on them.
“They’re still on us!” she shouted.
Brendan urged the horse faster, and they zigzagged through the forest, the horse’s hooves pounding the soft earth.
“Almost there,” Prue could hear Brendan whisper.
Suddenly, the brush cleared and a short, steep slope led down to a massive road cut into the side of the hill. Henbane scrambled briefly for footing before stumbling down onto the gravelly surface.
“The Long Road!” Prue shouted.
The coyotes behind them leapt the incline and landed squarely in the middle of the road, their hackles bristling, their teeth angrily bared.
Brendan gave them a brief look and shouted, “Come on then, dogs!” and they were off again, sprinting down the road. Their speed on this level surface was even greater than in the forest, and Prue could feel Henbane begin to really stretch into the run. She could also feel Brendan temper his spurring; he wanted the coyotes to keep up, drawing them farther away from the hidden camp.
Prue looked ahead over the rider’s shoulder and saw, fast approaching, two ornate columns on either side of the road and the weathered wooden planks of a bridge just beyond. As they drew closer, Prue could see that the earth fell away at a dramatic angle below the bridge, creating the rocky walls of a deep canyon. She gave a shriek as Henbane’s hooves hit the bridge and she could look down into the ravine; the depth looked to be bottomless.
All of a sudden, Brendan pulled back at the mane and the horse came skidding to a stop midway across the bridge. “Oh boy,” he rasped below his breath.
Prue looked up and saw on the far side of the bridge a tall, striking woman, dressed in a kind of buckskin gown, astride a coal-black horse. A long, thin sword was sheathed at her side, and her copper-red hair hung in a pair of braids to her waist. She smiled when she saw them and walked her horse onto the bridge.
“Well, hello, Brendan,” she said icily. “Fancy seeing you two days in a row!”
Brendan said nothing.
“That’s . . . that’s the Governess?” whispered Prue.
He nodded gravely. Reaching to his side, he slowly, deliberately pulled his saber from its scabbard and pointed it at the woman. “Let me pass,” he said.
Their coyote pursuers arrived behind them and stopped at the first plank of the
bridge, pacing and pawing at the dirt, their snarling lips quivering.
The Governess laughed. “You know I can’t let you do that, Brendan,” she said. She rode slowly closer and craned her neck to see who was riding behind him. “Who’s your partner, Bandit King?”
Prue stuck her head out from behind Brendan’s back and stared at the woman. The Governess’s eyes shot open wide. A flicker of recognition drifted across her brow. “An Outsider!” she exclaimed. “You’ve got yourself an Outsider!”
“And where’s yours, witch?” Brendan scoffed. “Last I saw you, you had one in your thrall.”
“Gone, sadly,” she said. “He went home, back to the Outside. Wasn’t suited for Wildwood, apparently.”
A wash of relief fell over Prue—had Curtis made it home? Had one of her rescue missions been solved? At that moment she felt a tinge of envy for Curtis; she imagined him safe at home, his parents lovingly tousling his curly hair.
The Governess urged her horse forward; she drew closer to them. Brendan did likewise and the two horses faced each other, mere feet apart, at the middle span of the bridge. The coyotes growled and yapped behind them. The Governess kept a steady eye on Prue; it was unnerving.
“Little girl,” she said. “Sweet little girl: You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into. This is nothing for a child to witness. You should be home with your parents!”
“Quiet!” shouted the Bandit King. “Stop your toying!”
Alexandra glared back at him, a wry smile cracking across her lips. “And what will you do, O King of the Bandits?”
Brendan snarled and raised his saber. “I’ll run you through, is what I’ll do. So help me gods.”
“And what would that possibly solve?” she asked, unbowed. “My soldiers would tear you to pieces before the sword was withdrawn. Your people, your scrappy followers, deprived of their fearless leader. Who will protect them?”
