by Colin Meloy
The King spat on the wooden planks and said, “No matter how many of my people you kill and imprison, you’ll never find us. You don’t know these woods as we do.”
“All in due time, Brendan,” she replied. “All in due time. Your ‘people’ will be sorry they didn’t come out and join me, when the day is at hand. And it won’t matter what little cesspit they may be hiding in presently.”
Brendan was losing his temper. “Draw your sword, Governess,” he said calmly. “We’ll settle this now.”
“Not so simple,” was Alexandra’s stoic reply. She put two fingers to her lips and let out a loud, bright whistle. Suddenly, the far side of the bridge behind her filled with coyote soldiers, each training a rifle directly at Brendan and Prue.
Brendan gaped. Prue squeezed his waist tight and buried her face into the damp cloth of his shirt.
Alexandra took this moment to finally draw her sword from her sheath. “Drop your weapon,” she commanded, the tip of her sword pointing steadily at Brendan’s face. The sound of metal clattering on wood followed as Brendan’s saber fell from his fingers, and the pack of coyotes behind them, still breathless from the pursuit, came clambering up and dragged the two riders from their horse.
“Take the King to the cages!” shouted the Governess. The coyotes barked in approval. “But bring the girl to me.”
Alexandra gave one final look at Prue; she then sheathed her sword and drew the reins on her horse, guiding him at a trot away from the bridge and back into the forest.
CHAPTER 17
Guests of the Dowager
Curtis woke to the sound of gnawing. It came from above his head, and he cracked one eye open to try to identify its source. A few of the torches in the cavern had been relit and Curtis could see, dimly, the hanging shapes of his neighboring cages.
Looking up, he saw Septimus, the rat, busily chewing on the cable connecting his cage to the root system. He’d taken a sizable chunk out of it; barely half remained. Curtis shot a quick look down to the ground below the cage—a distance of some sixty feet led to a cavern floor piled with jagged rocks and strewn with fractured bone—before scrambling to his feet.
“Septimus!” he hissed. “What are you doing?”
The rat jumped, surprised, and momentarily stopped in his labors. “Oh!” he said. “Good morning, Curtis!”
Curtis, agitated, repeated his question. “Septimus, why are you chewing on my rope?”
Septimus looked over at the rope, as if unaware of the activity. “Gosh, Curtis,” he said, “I don’t know. I just do that from time to time—feels good on my teeth.”
Curtis was furious. “Septimus, there’s like a huge fall to the ground here, and if you break that rope, I’m dead!” He jabbed a finger downward, pointing to the bones that littered the ground. “Look at those bones!”
Septimus looked down. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“Now . . . buzz off!” Curtis shouted.
“I think they throw those bones around down there just to make it look scarier,” said the rat calmly.
“Septimus!” yelled Curtis.
“Got it,” said the rat. “Loud and clear.” He shot up the rope, scampered across a root tendril, and leapt onto the top of another cage, setting it to swaying. The bandit in the cage he’d jumped to, Eamon, was awake and was quick to shoo the rat from his rope. “Don’t even think about it, rat,” he said.
Septimus huffed grumpily and disappeared into the dark crevices of the root-ball.
One of the bandits, Curtis couldn’t make out who, grumbled something in half sleep. Another snored. Pushing himself up into a seated position, Curtis kicked his legs across the floor of his hanging cell. His lower back was killing him; if it weren’t for the fact that he’d been so incredibly exhausted, he wondered if he’d have slept at all. He stretched his arms over his head, feeling a crrrrack in the midsection of his spine as he did so.
Suddenly, a commotion from the hallway disrupted the relative calm of the morning; a coyote soldier came rushing into the cavern, waking the warden, who sat slumbering against the wall, with a kick of his paw. A few words were hastily exchanged and the warden, getting stiffly to his hind paws, followed the soldier out of the room. Shouting could be heard from the tunnel and then, to Curtis’s great surprise, a small troop of coyote soldiers was led into the cavern, a rope-bound man in their custody. Curtis immediately recognized him from the battle the previous day.
“Brendan!” Eamon shouted, anguished. “My King!”
Brendan stared stoically up at the cages. His red beard and mop of crimson curls were matted and wet with sweat—it looked as if he’d been through some arduous labor before arriving here.
The other bandits were roused and took to the bars of their cages, staring down in disbelief as the warden gave his rote speech to the new prisoner: “The distance to the ground, unjumpable. Abandon hope. Abandon hope.” Brendan looked on into space, his face betraying no emotion.
“YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS!” screamed Angus, desperately shaking his cage.
Eamon and Seamus had picked up their tin bowls and were dragging them across the wood of the bars, making an unholy din.
Cormac merely sat cross-legged on the floor of his cell, quietly murmuring to himself as he watched the proceedings. “We’ve lost,” Curtis thought he heard him whisper.
The warden attempted to quiet the prisoners by shouting them down, but it was no use; the bandits kept up their deafening protest. Pulling the ladder from where it rested against the wall, the warden grumpily hooked it to the bars of an unoccupied cage, and the Bandit King was released from his bonds and forced at sword-point up the ladder and into the dangling cell. His fellow bandits fell into a shocked, reverent silence as the key was turned in the lock and the entire scene was over as soon as it had begun: The ladder was returned, a few shouted epithets were thrown at the prisoners, and the warden and the soldiers walked from the room.
It was quiet for a time in the cavern. The rope above Brendan’s cage wheezed under the weight of the new occupant. Brendan sat in the middle, still blankly staring straight ahead.
Finally, Seamus hazarded a word. “King!” he said softly. “Our King! How did you . . . ?”
Brendan, not breaking his stare, simply said, “The war ain’t over, boys.”
“But what about the—did they find the—” stammered Angus.
“The camp is still hidden,” replied Brendan. “They’ll not be finding it. Everyone is safe.”
Cormac, still sitting in shock, said, “We’re lost.”
This simple declaration caused Brendan to erupt from his sitting position. Both hands gripping the bars of the cage, he shouted to Cormac, “Don’t for a moment think that. This war is a long shot from being over. We’ve still got blood in us yet!”
The cavern fell silent. No one said a word.
Prue’s head was spinning. She realized, as she was marched through the woods by the coyotes, that she’d not actually stood on her own since the crash landing, and she was noticing that there was a distinct, needling pain in her ankle as well as her chest. The abrasions on her skin were scabbed over and lined with bright red welts. She’d never felt like such a mess. Her thoughts just before the arrow had downed the eagle were replaying endlessly in her head. Now they seemed like a prophecy come true: My task is hopeless. My brother will not be found. She desperately fought the images that were crowding into her mind’s eye, macabre pictures of what might happen to a baby in a wild forest, unfed, a captive to a flock of violent crows. Perhaps the worst had passed. Perhaps he was at peace.
The coyotes, under instruction of their commander, were thankfully lenient, and she was allowed to move at a slower pace, hobbling along on her one good ankle. After they’d traveled for a time, they arrived at a wide cave opening dug into a large hillock, nearly covered by overhanging ferns, and they instructed her to walk inside. A tunnel led down into the earth, root tendrils hanging overhead. The air was cool and damp and smelled like dog
. Finally they came to a large, cavernous opening where a few coyote soldiers milled about. A cauldron boiled in the center. She was led through an open door in the wall and entered what looked to be some sort of rustic throne room.
In the throne sat the Dowager Governess. “Come,” she said, waving a finger. “Come closer.”
The few coyotes that had flanked her fell away and left the room, and Prue carefully limped forward until she was within feet of the throne.
The Governess looked at her fondly. A warm smile had spread across her face. “But I’m forgetting myself,” she said. “We haven’t been properly introduced. My name’s Alexandra. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”
“The Dowager Governess,” croaked Prue. “Yes, I have.” She found it difficult to get the words out; her voice sounded alien to her, all raspy and weak.
Alexandra nodded, smiling. “Would you like a seat?”
Prue was relieved when a coyote attendant came forward, bearing a stool fashioned out of rough-hewn tree boughs and tanned deer hide. She gratefully sat.
“I’m hoping only good things,” continued Alexandra.
“What?”
She clarified: “I’m hoping you’ve heard only good things about me.”
Prue thought for a moment. “I don’t know. A bit of both, I guess.”
Alexandra rolled her eyes. “Such is the nature of fame.”
Prue shrugged. She was exhausted. In normal circumstances, she could imagine being terribly intimidated by the beautiful woman in the throne, but now she was just too tired.
“And your name?” prompted the Governess.
“Prue,” said Prue. “Prue McKeel.”
“Very nice to make your acquaintance,” said Alexandra. “I trust my soldiers have treated you gently?”
Prue ignored this question. “Where’s Brendan?” she asked.
Alexandra laughed quietly, running her finger along the armrest of the throne. “He’s gone somewhere where he’ll never be able to hurt people again. You know, don’t you, the man is quite honestly a menace to society.”
“What’s he done?” asked Prue, dubious.
“Terrible things,” explained Alexandra. She paused, eyeing Prue quizzically, before continuing: “I know he might seem the charming rake, this so-called Bandit King, but I can assure you he is a very dangerous individual. You were lucky we found you when we did; there’s no telling what may have befallen you had you stayed in his clutches.”
“I was fine,” said Prue.
“He’s a murderer, my dear,” said the Governess, suddenly serious. “A murderer and a thief. He’s a blight on inter-Wood commerce and a plague to common goodness. An enemy of man and woman, human and animal alike. He’s caused more harm and pain in this country than any civilized person would countenance. Now that he’s behind bars, we’re all the safer for it.”
Prue chewed on this information thoughtfully; perhaps the Governess was right. She’d barely spent an hour in his company—she knew better than to jump to conclusions about people she’d met in this strange country. Her misplaced trust in the Governor-Regent had taught her that much.
“I’m just here for my brother,” said Prue finally. “I don’t want to get involved.”
Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “Your brother is here in Wildwood?”
Prue took a deep breath. The speech was beginning to feel pretty mechanical. “He was abducted. By crows. They brought him here. And I came looking for him.”
The Governess shook her head ruefully. “The crows, you say. I can tell you that the crows happen to be my next priority: bringing them in line. They’ve done some horrible, horrible things, those crows, since they broke away from their Principality.”
Prue’s face brightened slightly. “You’ve seen them? The crows?”
“Oh, we’ve seen them. Out in the woods. Like those nefarious bandits, the crows are an element in Wildwood we are trying to . . . how shall I say . . . mitigate. Like an illness. Or a particularly irritating insect. You follow?”
“I guess so,” said Prue. Her ankle burned from the weight it’d been forced to bear on the walk into the warren. A dripping noise could be heard distantly; the sound of chattering soldiers. “But my brother. Have you seen him?”
Alexandra thought for a moment before replying, “I’m very sorry to say that we haven’t. It would’ve been a notable discovery, a baby Outsider boy in Wildwood. We’ve expanded quite a bit, our humble army, and we’ve seen much of this wild country—but there is much more to cover. I imagine we’ll be running into those crows once we get closer to the Avian Principality. Perhaps we’ll—”
Prue interrupted her. “But you are near the Principality. Your soldiers are all over the border; the General said so. And we were barely into Wildwood before one of your coyotes shot us down, me and the eagle.” She was beginning to lose her train of thought. The image of her baby brother, pale and silent on a bed of moss and branches, continued to haunt her. “And now that eagle is dead. Why? Why did you have to shoot him?”
“An unfortunate casualty. Call it collateral damage.”
“I call it coldhearted.”
The Governess cleared her throat. “The rules of engagement, dear. Wildwood is a no-fly zone for military birds. It may have been sold to you as a simple ride, gratis, from a kind old buzzard, but I can assure you, more suspect intentions were at hand. Fly-bys, midnight raids, eagles and owls picking up defenseless coyote pups and dropping them to their deaths—that is the MO of the Avians. I believe it’s called cleansing in your land.”
Prue stared at the Governess. She then shook her head, her eyes cast down at her sneakers, now soiled brown with mud and dirt. “I can’t believe it,” she said under her breath.
The Governess watched Prue intently. “How old are you, dear?” she asked.
“Twelve,” said Prue, looking up.
“Twelve,” repeated Alexandra, pondering the fact. “So young.” She shifted in her throne, sitting upright. “If I may be frank: I find it incredibly admirable that you would come in here, to what must be such a strange world to you, in order to find and protect your baby brother. Very admirable for such a young lady. Your courage is uncommon. I would hate very much to be the party responsible for your brother’s kidnapping! You would prove an indefatigable foe, no doubt.” Her wandering fingers found a steady grip on the ends of the throne’s armrests. “However, a young girl as bright as you must understand the danger of becoming involved in affairs that are beyond your realm of experience. Things are rarely as simple as they appear—at first glance, a clan of bandits can seem fairly sympathetic, that whole ‘steal from the rich to give to the poor’ platitude; a colony of birds blithely ‘defending’ their border. I ask you to see the flip side of that coin: a group of bloodthirsty amoral murderers and a society bent on expanding their borders in a savage, greed-driven landgrab. Which is it?”
Prue suddenly realized this was not a rhetorical question. The Governess was waiting for her to answer.
“I . . . ,” she stumbled. “I don’t know.” Her mind churned over the events of the last few days, swimming in a haze of exhaustion, sleep deprivation, and fear. She imagined her mother and father, beside themselves with grief and worry, bereft not just of one child, but both. Her bruised rib radiated a dull pain through her chest. She looked down at her hands, at the network of lacerations that graffitied her skin, at the little dried spots of blood hardened in the crevices of her knuckles.
Alexandra moved in for the pounce.
“Dear, go home,” she intoned. She said this calmly yet forcefully, her voice betraying no emotion. “Go home to your parents. To your friends. To your bed. Go home.”
Prue stared, a tear welling in her eye. “But . . . ,” she protested. “My brother.”
Alexandra, her face softening, placed her hand to her chest. “I swear to you,” she said, “on the grave of my only son. As a woman and a mother.” Alexandra’s eyes, too, appeared to be filling with tears. “I will find your br
other. And when I do, I will charge my soldiers to return him, immediately, to your home and your family.”
Prue sniffled at a tear. Her nose was beginning to run.
“You will?” she trembled.
“Pssst! Curtis!” The voice came from above the cage. It was Septimus.
“I said: I don’t want you chewing on my rope! That’s final.” The midmorning tedium had cast a pall over the cages. The prisoners were silent, no doubt contemplating the hopelessness of their circumstance.
“No, no!” whispered Septimus conspiratorially. “Your friend—she’s here!”
Curtis looked up. “Who?”
Septimus, exasperated, shot a wary look down at the warden, who was noisily napping on the cavern floor. “The sister of that baby! She’s here!”
“Prue!?” shouted Curtis, before catching himself and whispering, “You mean Prue?”
The warden shifted in his sleep. He was curled around a stalagmite, his face buried in a pile of old rags. “Yes!” whispered Septimus. “I saw her—in the throne room!”
“What was she doing? Was she captured?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it is, it must be serious. The Governess is giving her a good talking-to.”
“She came in with me,” came a voice from below them. It was Brendan. He spoke flatly, not attempting to hide his voice from the warden. “We found her just past the Old Woods. She’d been shot down riding an eagle; she had coyotes on her tail. We didn’t realize that until we’d gotten back to camp, but by that time the dogs were practically on us. I tried to get her away, but we were stopped on the Gap Bridge.”
Septimus and Curtis both stared down at the speaker.
“You’re Curtis, ain’t you?” continued Brendan, peering up through the bars of his cage. Curtis nodded. “The girl’s looking for you,” the King said. “She was worried about you. Said you guys got split up.”
