by Colin Meloy
“What?” Prue interjected.
The fox studied Prue intently before answering, “Yep, seems like she is. Don’t see much of that anymore.”
“What do you mean, half-breed?” asked Prue, intrigued.
The fox waved away the question. “What do you want, coming in here?” he asked, stepping up from his chair. He tapped the remaining ash from his pipe onto the ground. “We don’t need for trouble.”
“I’m here to see the Mystics,” explained Prue. “I was sent by Owl Rex, from the Avian Principality. The Dowager Governess is back and she has my brother. She’s raised an army in Wildwood, and I don’t know what she means to do, but I know I need my brother back.”
The fox stared at her a moment before saying, “Sounds serious enough. Samuel, let’s take this half-breed to the Mystics. They’ll know what to do.”
Samuel saluted and gave his pitchfork another quick stamp on the ground. The fox was lazily stepping away from the house when the hare cleared his throat. “Um, sir,” murmured the hare quietly. “You’ll want your weapon. Official constabulary business, right?”
The fox looked directly at the hare for a moment, chagrined by his deputy’s impudence, before turning and walking back into the house. In a moment, he returned with a pair of pruning shears stuck in the belt of his pants.
“Okay,” said the fox. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 21
Wildwood Revisited;
A Meeting with a Mystic
They’d heard the groaning long before they arrived at the interrogation chamber, eerily echoing through the low tunnels of the warren. They no longer needed to follow Septimus; they were able to find the location of the Bandit King by the sound of his agonized moans alone. Turning a sharp corner just beyond the abandoned central hall, its giant soot-black cauldron toppled sideways, they stopped short to see the King hanging from his ankles by a thick cable anchored to the ceiling of the tall chamber. A burlap sack had been put over his head, cinched at his neck by a leather cord. Angus ran up to his leader and, with a swift flick of his wrist, flung the sack from Brendan’s head.
“My King!” he shouted as the rest of the bandits ran to his side.
Brendan cracked a blackened eye at the gathered crew. A bit of crusted blood darkened his lower lip, and his hair was matted with sweat.
“Hey, boys,” he said, his voice labored and rough. “Mind getting me down?”
Within moments, they’d pulled him down from his hanging position; Septimus sped up the rope and gnawed it clean through, letting Curtis and the bandits ease Brendan to the rocky ground. A simple tether holding his arms behind his back was quickly undone, and the Bandit King sat on the chamber floor, rubbing his reddened wrists.
“What happened?” Seamus asked finally.
“Oh, they knocked me around a bit,” Brendan replied, regaining his voice. “They were keen on the location of the camp, the mongrel dogs.” He briefly surveyed his rescue party, his eyes falling on Dmitri. “What’s that one doing here?”
Dmitri threw up his paws. “Hey, I’m with you.”
Brendan squinted his good eye at the coyote suspiciously.
“Well, did you?” asked Seamus. “Did you tell ’em anything?”
Brendan shot his gaze over at Seamus, his eyes set in a deep, studied glare. Curtis could see a deep sinew in his neck tense and shiver. He spoke in a slow, deliberate voice. “What do you think?”
Seamus cracked a mischievous smile and held out his hand to the King. “Good to have you back, Brendan.” Brendan returned the smile and accepted the bandit’s outstretched hand; he winced a little as he stood.
“The dogs bruised me up a good bit,” he hissed, hobbling uncertainly on his feet. “But I’m good to keep pace. Where’s that witch? She’s mine, boys.”
“They’re gone, Brendan,” Angus explained. “Just all up and gone. No one’s here.”
Brendan scanned the room, nodding. “Figured as much. They weren’t done with me, I don’t think, before they just left me there, hanging like a possum.”
“Where do you think they’re going?” ventured Curtis. “You think they’re on their way to do the thing? The thing with Mac?”
Brendan stared at Curtis. He walked slowly toward him, his pace hitched by a slight limp, until he was standing within inches of Curtis’s face. He stood easily a foot above Curtis, and his skin was fair and freckled, his forehead tattoo faded by sunburn and sweat. The hollow below his left eye was darkened by a deep purple shiner. Curtis could smell the sourness of his breath as he stood and stared down. “You,” he said. “Outsider. Now that we’re here, now that we’re free . . .” He reached down and tangled his fingers into fists around the lapels of Curtis’s uniform coat. “I can tell you what I really think.” Brendan flexed his arms, and Curtis could feel his boot heels lifting from the cavern floor. The Bandit King leered menacingly as he brought Curtis’s face up to his.
“I ought to tear you limb from limb,” he whispered. “For what you’ve done. You fool kid, you meddling Outsider.”
Curtis began to whimper helplessly. “I didn’t know!” he objected, the fabric of his jacket in Brendan’s fist constricting his throat. “I thought she meant well. I didn’t know.”
“Whoa!” shouted Cormac, coming to Curtis’s side. He placed his hand on Brendan’s arm. “He’s okay. He’s a friend.”
Brendan’s grip relaxed slightly, and Curtis’s feet met the floor again.
Cormac continued, “He risked his life for our escape, Brendan. He’s one of us.” Brendan let go of Curtis’s lapels, firmly smoothing the fabric back into place. His right eye was bloodshot and wide. Cormac held him off, away from Curtis.
“One of us, huh?” Brendan asked the room.
The group of four bandits nodded in unison, their steely faces glinting in the low torchlight.
“Very well,” said Brendan. He staggered backward, his knees buckling under him. Eamon leapt to his side and caught him by the arm, helping him to stay on his feet.
“Brendan!” shouted the bandits, each clamoring to his aid.
The king waved them away. “A momentary weakness, lads,” he said. “Let me just catch my breath.”
The room was silent. Curtis felt a tug at his pant leg and looked down to see it was Septimus. Curtis gestured with his head, and Septimus clawed up the fabric of his worn uniform to sit comfortably on his shoulder, staring at the Bandit King. The four bandits stole quick looks at one another, their faces tarnished with worry.
“We move,” said Brendan, finally. “We go back to camp.” He lifted his head, the blood returning to his face. “I can only hope that my little gambit with the Outsider girl got them far enough away from the scent. There, we gather our forces.”
Visibly gaining strength, Brendan lifted his chin high and let go of Eamon’s shoulder, limping to the center of the room on his own.
“If the witch is doing this thing, this sacrifice of the Outsider child,” he said steadily, “then the whole army must be marching on the Ancients’ Grove now; by my reckoning, the equinox is tomorrow.” He looked over at Curtis. “We’ll stop her. By my oath, we’ll stop her in her tracks. And the only blood that ivy’ll be feeding on will be her own.” A malicious smile spread over his face as he turned back to the bandits. “Don’t know about you lads, but I’m a bit antsy to get out of this stinking pit and back aboveground. Let’s move.”
The bandits chorused their approval. The group moved on toward the exit of the warren.
The hare and the fox traveled very slowly, and it was all Prue could do to keep her pace in check and not speed ahead of them. They had embroiled themselves in a heated argument about what was the best weather in which to grow Anaheim peppers and how to place them so as to maximize their spiciness, and when a finer point needed to be made, one or the other would stop in the path, their little fingers gesticulating in the air. At one instance, they diverged from the path completely, leading Prue on a meander through the under-brush because th
e hare had, earlier that week, discovered a healthy-looking patch of morel mushrooms and was curious to see if it remained untouched.
After what seemed like an eternity of this slow travel, Prue ventured an objection. “Hey, it’s really important that I see these Mystics, and soon. I don’t know how much time I have.”
This interjection was met by a stony silence from her hosts. They shared a disdainful look before the fox replied, “We’re moving just as fast as we can, missus. Need I remind you, you are in the custody of the North Wood Constabulary, and we move at the pace we feel is necessary per the circumstances.” However, after Prue’s complaint, they ceased talking quite so much and regained their earlier speed.
The countryside here was peaceful and calm, a remarkable change from both the wildness of Wildwood and the metropolitan busyness of South Wood. The air was clear and slightly tinged by the smell of burning leaves and peat. There were no towns per se in this rural landscape, just small gatherings of wood-and-stone hovels through which the wide dirt lane would wander; occasionally, a hanging sign above one such cottage would advertise drinks and food. Another had the picture of a winged envelope carved into the wood, suggesting a post office. They passed many fellow travelers as they walked, all of whom seemed to be moving at a similarly leisurely pace and greeted the constables warmly as they passed. After a time, they rounded a bend in the woods and arrived at a small inn, neat puffs of peat smoke drifting from its earthen chimney. Several small tables had been placed outside the front door, and the fox bade Prue to sit.
“The Council Tree isn’t far,” said the fox. “I’ll go ahead and make sure they aren’t in meditation. Besides, you must be famished.”
“I am, in fact,” replied the hare, “so.”
“The girl, Samuel,” castigated the fox. “The girl.”
Prue smiled. “I guess I wouldn’t mind a bite,” she said. “Though when you see them, the Mystics, please let them know this is very, very urgent.”
The fox nodded. “Of course, though I won’t make any promises. The Mystics’ judgment doesn’t often come quickly.” He arched an eyebrow and walked away from the inn, down a path that broke away from the main road.
Prue set her bike up against the wall of the inn and sat at the table across from the hare. A young girl came out with menus and, seeing Prue, blanched. She hesitated at the door before the hare waved her forward. “She ain’t gonna bite,” said Samuel. “Least not on my watch.” The girl blushed and walked forward, handing them the paper placards. “A bottle of water for the girl to start,” said the hare, eyeing the menu. “And I’ll have a glass of your poppy beer.” The girl nodded and walked back into the cottage.
The afternoon ebbed warmly. Prue kept one eye on the path down which the fox had disappeared. The girl came back with a clear decanter of water for Prue; she set a mug of brackish beer in front of Samuel. The hare, who had been studying the menu the entire time, peeked up and ordered, “I’ll have the braised greens and lentils.” He looked over at Prue. “You? It’s on the Constabulary.”
Prue gave a quick glance at the menu before replying, “I’ll have the squash dumplings. And some bread.”
The waitress smiled sheepishly, curtsied, and walked back into the inn.
The hare watched her go. “You make quite a stir, you know, coming in here,” he said, taking a sip from his beer. “We’re not used to this sort of upset, so.”
“I know, I know,” said Prue. “I’m really sorry for that. I really don’t mean to.” She paused before volunteering an observation. “This place is really different from the other places in the Impassa—I mean, the Wood.”
“And thank the earth for that,” said Samuel. “Couldn’t imagine living down there in South Wood—I’ve got a cousin in the Mercantile District, and I get letters sometimes, so. Crazy folk, down there. Glad we’ve got all of Wildwood as a buffer twixt them and us.”
Prue nodded before asking, “And we’re going to the Council Tree? Didn’t the fox say something about that?”
“Mm-hmm,” responded the hare, wiping a thin film of foam from his furry lip. “The Council Tree. Oldest tree in the Wood. They say it was here before anyone, any animal or person. It has roots, I guess, that stretch miles in all directions, like a fungus. It knows the Wood unlike any other living thing here. That’s where the Mystics meet, so. And all issues and petitions of the North Wood have to be put to the tree before any decision is made.”
“The tree . . . talks?” asked Prue, remembering the picture she’d seen on the wall of her room in the Mansion—the figures linked in a circle around the massive tree.
“Talk, not so much,” he said. “That’s why the Mystics are there. They’re the ones who can hear it and can translate its thoughts for the rest of us. Though, the way the Mystics tell it, it’s not only the Council Tree that talks: It’s everything.” He waved an arm above his head. “Every tree, flower, and fern.” He shrugged. “But I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything myself, though I don’t quite find the time to practice as some folk.”
“Practice?” Prue asked.
“Meditation. That’s the key, supposedly. Calming your mind in total silence. Understanding your connection to the natural world, and all that. You do that, and you can hear it. All the talking.” He took another swig from his beer. “But between the big brood in my warren and that damned fox yapping my ear off all day, I hear enough talking as it is. Don’t need my tomatoes yammering to me, so.”
“Really?” Prue asked. “Just meditation?” This “practice” was not unfamiliar to Prue: Prue associated it with sneeze-inducing incense, sweaty yoga mats, and the smell of brewer’s yeast, of all things. “That’s their . . . magic?”
The hare didn’t have a chance to respond before the girl came out with a pair of pewter plates in her hand. She set them down on the table: Prue’s dumplings were topped with chunks of white cheese and looked delicious. She thanked the waitress and, tearing a hunk of bread from a small loaf the waitress had set on the table, began eating. The hare pushed his colander-helmet back and dug into his meal with enthusiasm. The time passed in silence between them as they ate. Prue never got her answer about the Mystics’ practice. She assumed that Samuel had interpreted the question as being rude, so she didn’t bring it up again.
Prue had just finished wiping the remnant sauce from the bottom of her bowl with a hunk of bread when the fox reappeared. “Okay,” he announced. “They can see you.”
The narrow path led away from the main road between two long, neat rows of stately cedar trees—to Prue’s eyes, they seemed almost manicured in their orderly appearance. At the end of the path, the tree rows fell away and the wood opened into a great, grassy meadow surrounded by a wall of towering fir trees. The tall grass of the meadow shifted under the disturbance of a cool breeze, though the entire ecosystem of vegetation in the meadow seemed to heave toward a central point: a gigantic tree of indeterminable variety, exploding from the center of the meadow, its massive, gnarled trunk twisting upward to burst into a joyous eruption of vast arteries of leafy branches, a canopy that spanned nearly the entirety of the meadow’s breadth and towered in the air over the surrounding trees, where its topmost spires grew hazy against the cloudy sky. Prue’s eyes widened at the sight. She immediately recognized it as the same vista rendered in the painting in the Mansion. The awesome size of the tree was made even more incredible when Prue saw the gathering of creatures at the base of the trunk, meandering in the shadows of the tree’s branches like so many ants below a skyscraper. As she grew closer, she saw that the figures were her size, animals and humans, and they were dressed in simple, flaxen gowns. Some stood chatting in the field of grass; others lay in respite on some of the roots that snaked away from the tree. As Prue, the fox, and the hare walked closer, a single figure stepped away from the crowd and approached them.
“Hello there,” said the figure, a wizened human woman, hiking her robe as she walked to keep its hem clear of the wisps of grass. As she
came closer, Prue saw her face was lined with deep wrinkles and her hair was long and gray, falling away from her head like silvery strands of wire. “Welcome to North Wood.” A beatific smile lazed on her tawny face, and she extended a hand in greeting. “I am the Elder Mystic. My name’s Iphigenia.”
Prue took her hand and shook it; it felt worn in her grasp, the inner skin of her hand smooth as tanned leather. “I’m Prue,” she responded.
“I know,” said the Elder Mystic. “I’d heard of your coming. The tree”—here she gestured back to the enormous tree behind her—“has been following you. All along. It has informed us of your travels.” Her hand moved to caress Prue’s cheek. “You’ve suffered, my girl. You’ve endured great hardship. Come.” She wrapped her hand around the crook of Prue’s elbow. “Walk awhile with me.”
Iphigenia waited as Prue set down her bike before leading her away from the two constables, her arm locked in Prue’s. The distinct smell of lavender hovered over the Elder Mystic, and her touch was warm. Prue immediately felt calmed in her presence. A group of children, similarly bedecked in robes, played a frenetic game of tag in the meadow. Prue and the Mystic fell into a distant orbit of the giant tree, and Prue couldn’t help but marvel at its immensity. The flesh of the tree was a great knot of sinews spiraling upward, and its base was easily fifty feet across. A small galaxy of knotholes disrupted the wide grain of the trunk, some of them big enough to swallow a human whole. A tempest of birds circled the high canopy, enriching the sky with their colorful plumage.
Iphigenia marked Prue’s wonderment, saying, “Incredible, yes? You’re not the first Outsider to see the Council Tree, though very few have braved the journey.”
“Incredible, yes? You’re not the first Outsider to see the Council Tree, though very few have braved the journey.”
“So, others have been here? Other Outsiders?” asked Prue.
“Oh yes,” replied the Elder Mystic. “But long, long ago. Before the invasions and before we wove the perimeter trees with the Boundary Magic—the very spell that you are so able to disregard.” She smiled warmly.
