by Colin Meloy
“And how did I do that? I didn’t mean to, believe me,” said Prue.
“Of course you don’t mean to,” said Iphigenia. “It’s nothing you’ve done. Rather, it’s something that you are.”
Prue began to understand. “The constables, they called me a half-breed. Something about being of ‘Woods Magic.’ What does that mean?”
“It means that you belong here,” said Iphigenia matter-of-factly. “That you are part of the Wood. For whatever reason, the germ of your being is tied to this place.”
Prue nodded. It was peculiar that no one else in the Wood had recognized her as being a half-breed, and yet everyone she’d met in North Wood saw it immediately. “My parents made a deal with a woman from here—from Wildwood. She made it so they could have me.” Her stomach knotted at the thought. “In some ways, I guess, she made me be.”
Iphigenia gripped Prue’s arm and looked at her. The Mystic’s frame was bent with age and her eyes met Prue at the same height. “Alexandra, yes. Very sad, that family. Great tragedy. But such is the case: She has imbued you with Woods Magic. You are a child of the Wood. For better or worse.”
“So you must know about my brother, Mac,” said Prue. “I need to save him.”
The Mystic frowned and looked at the ground as they walked. “Alas,” she said, “I’m not sure I can be of help.”
Prue felt her heart sink. “Why?” she asked. “I’ve come all this way; you’re the only hope left to me.”
“My dear Prue, we are the inheritors of a wonderful world, a beautiful world, full of life and mystery, goodness and pain. But likewise are we the children of an indifferent universe. We break our own hearts imposing our moral order on what is, by nature, a wide web of chaos. It is a hopeless task.”
Prue didn’t quite follow.
Iphigenia smiled. “These are difficult issues for a young girl to grasp. Needless to say, I must respect the order of the universe and the paths that each of us, as individuals burdened with free will, has chosen to follow. For your parents, that path was to have a child, at all costs. They were granted their wish. They must now face the consequences of their actions. I would upset the balance of nature if I were to intercede. This, I cannot do.”
Prue was speechless. “There’s nothing you can do?”
The Mystic shrugged. “Nothing is absolute, my dear. Perhaps I will put it to the Council and we will gather in meditation. We will ask the tree.”
Prue stopped their walk and turned to the old woman, holding her hands. “Oh please, please. Anything you can do. I just need help, that’s all.”
Iphigenia nodded thoughtfully. “Come,” she said, finally. “We won’t gather in Council for another few minutes. I’ll need all my energy about me for a sit of this kind. Let’s continue our walk. These knees need some movement. Tell me of the Outside; I’ve not heard in many years.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” said Prue.
“Begin with your parents; describe them to me,” said the Mystic.
So Prue did.
When the escape party arrived at the door to the warren, they collectively sucked in a massive breath, delirious to be in the air of the aboveground world once again.
“All the sweeter,” said Seamus, “after bein’ in that hellhole. Praise be the trees and the air of the woods!”
Cormac turned to Dmitri. “This is where we part ways, friend,” he said. “I expect you’ll be heading back to your pack.”
Dmitri frowned. “What’s left of it, I suppose,” he said. “But I can’t wait to see my litter—those pups’ll be grown by now!” He extended his forepaw in thanks, and the bandits and Curtis shook it in turn.
“Bye, Dmitri,” said Curtis as the coyote grasped his hand.
“Ah, Curtis,” said Dmitri, “if ever you’re in need of a fresh-scavenged meal, you know where to find me. My warren’s west of the Long Road, by the headwaters of Rocking Chair Creek, in the Old Woods. Look for the broken stone. Call out for me, I’ll come find you.”
Curtis grinned and thanked him.
“Don’t get too wealthy, Dmitri,” said Seamus playfully, “or our paths will cross again. We bandits quickly return to our true nature.”
“And likewise: Don’t let your babies wander too far in the night,” replied Dmitri, “or they’ll be dinner.”
Brendan laughed. “Get goin’, dog, get home to your pups.”
Dmitri nodded and, dropping to his four paws, began trotting into the underbrush. Before he’d disappeared, however, Curtis saw him stop and glance down at the tattered uniform that still clung to his frame. With a quick jerk of his muzzle and a shake of his hindquarters, he’d thrown it off, and it fell to the ground in a dirty lump. He gave a quick, joyous howl and vanished into the trees.
Curtis felt a hand grip his shoulder; it was Brendan. “And I suppose you’ll be heading home now. Huh, Outsider?”
He thought for a moment before replying. The events of the previous days unspooled in his mind. He found the whole recollection a little dizzying. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I want to come with you.”
Brendan looked him squarely in the eye. “You know what you’re getting yourself into? This is a lot bigger than you, kid.”
“I came here to find Mac. I came this close”—here he held up his thumb and forefinger, nearly touching—“to finding him. Prue’s gone home—she’s given up, for all I know. I have one last chance. I can’t go home now. No way.”
“Very well,” Brendan said. “Follow us. But don’t never say I didn’t warn you. You may forfeit your life here, boyo.”
Curtis nodded gravely. “I know,” he said. He peered at Septimus the rat perched on his shoulder. “What about you, rat?” asked Curtis.
“I’m with you, kid,” replied Septimus. “There’s nothing left for me in that warren. No coyotes means no food to scavenge.” He smiled toothily. “I go where the food is.”
Ahead, Angus was already scanning the ground cover; the low-lying ferns and clover that carpeted the forest floor here was trampled flat in great swaths.
“An army,” he said, “has passed here. The whole blasted army must’ve massed here for the march. Look.” He pointed to a wide path that had been beaten into the forest, leading south. “Must’ve been hundreds of them.”
A discarded bayonet, rusty from misuse, jutted from a stand of ferns. Brendan picked it up and studied its steely edge. “Yep, boys, this is it. Let’s move back to camp. Whatever that Dowager plans on doing, she’s gonna have to fight her way through us to do it. Let’s go.”
He tossed the bayonet into the trees, and the band of freed prisoners made their way toward their home.
Prue sat calmly in the meadow, watching the robed figures gather. No call was issued, no signal given, but the Mystics, each engrossed in their own contemplative activity, began slowly arriving of their own volition at their stations. They eventually made a giant circle around the base of the great tree, each figure separated from their neighbor by a distance of roughly fifteen feet. Suddenly, and without a word, the robed Mystics all sat down on the ground, crossing their legs beneath them as they did so. Prue could see Iphigenia, sitting between a similarly robed rabbit and deer, stiffen her back and straighten her neck, her eyes closed in deep concentration. The entire circle breathed in unison, and Prue could hear their collective breaths, sweeping beneath the low roar of the wind’s blowing.
The meditation had begun.
The pace was fast; the bandits moved quietly and stealthily through the trees. After a time, they came to the Long Road. Checking to see that no sentry had been posted, they began running southward, beckoning Curtis to keep pace. They arrived at the Gap Bridge and crossed, none of them besides Curtis giving so much as a glance to the deep and fathomless darkness of the ravine it spanned. When they came to the other side, they swiftly left the openness of the road and dove headlong into the treed canopy of the forest.
Septimus rode on Curtis’s shoulder, ducking the odd lo
w-hanging tree branch that threatened to knock him from his perch. “What do you think the plan is?” he whispered into Curtis’s ear.
Curtis could barely catch his breath to speak, the bandits traveled so fleetly. They followed paths that were undetectable to his eyes, traced against the forest floor like invisible ink. “I don’t know,” he hissed back at Septimus. “We’re gathering an army, I think.”
Septimus whistled between his teeth. “I don’t know about that, kid,” he said. “Sounds dangerous. I happen to know that that woman’s army is pretty massive. They’ve been gaining recruits hand over fist. And how do I know this? I eat their garbage. And they make a lot of garbage.”
“Okay,” said Curtis, focusing intently on the distant figure of Angus, crashing through the brush.
“What I mean to say is this: It’s hopeless. I don’t know how many bandits there are, but I doubt it’s enough. It ain’t gonna be pretty.”
“Thanks, Septimus,” said Curtis. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Listen, if you’re gonna ride on my shoulder, you can at least keep those kind of thoughts to yourself.”
Septimus huffed. “Okay,” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The bandits’ momentum came to a stop when they arrived at a small clearing. Brendan stood in the center, searching the treetops. “Strange,” he was saying as Curtis caught up. “No lookout. Where’s the cussing lookout?”
Curtis followed Brendan’s sightline. He saw nothing but strata upon strata of green oak tree leaves and the branches that supported them. Silence filled the glade, disrupted only by the slight rustle of the fern fronds around the bandits’ boots.
“Let’s go,” commanded Brendan, visibly concerned. His step was slightly lopsided from his limping, but he still was able to move as swiftly as any of his bandit cohorts. After a short distance, the group followed Brendan around the slope of a hillock that masked the mouth of a shallow ravine. Soon the gully became a small, brook-bottomed valley. Through the underbrush ahead, Curtis saw that the ground leveled into an enormous natural cul-de-sac. As the bracken cleared, an entire camp of canvas tents, rugged lean-tos, and smoldering campfires came into view, populated by a small contingent of milling figures. As soon as the escapee party arrived at the clearing, the camp flew into a commotion: A group of children who had been busy at a game of marbles came running over, men carrying a load of firewood dropped their cargo and hollered for joy. Women began to appear from within the little domiciles, clearly overjoyed to see Brendan and the bandits approach. Embraces were shared, stiff handshakes were exchanged. Sloppy, lovelorn kisses between reunited husbands and wives were enjoyed. Only Brendan stood away from the group, eyeing the camp.
“Where is everyone?” he said at last. “Why are we so few?”
A young man in a frayed white button-up shirt and suspenders stepped forward. His face showed a deep sorrow. “Sorry, King. We done our best in your absence.”
“What’s happened?” demanded Brendan.
The man spoke again: “Yesterday evenin’. The sentries picked up dog soldiers on the perimeter. We sent out a troop. Only Devon returned.”
Devon, his arm set in a splint, came forward. He walked with some difficulty, his thin frame supported by an improvised tree-bough crutch. The rapturous atmosphere of the bandits’ reunion had fallen away, and a pall descended over the camp. Devon nodded. “My King,” he said.
Brendan stared, glassy-eyed.
“My King,” continued Devon, “the far sentry saw ’em, a few dogs just shy of the Periphery. So we went out to give ’em a little taste. Turned the corner by the fern glade, down the old creek bed, and ran into the whole army.” Devon sniffled a little here, visibly troubled by the memory of the incident. “We fought best we could, but we weren’t no match for them. They was hundreds of ’em, sir, hundreds. All comin’ from all directions. Never seen so many in my life. We couldn’t get away—they had us surrounded. Brin, Loudon, and Maire. All dead. So’s Hal. We lost thirty-five in total. They stalked me down and let me live. Gave me this”—here he pointed to a jagged claw mark that made a series of three parallel red streaks across his cheek. “Said I should let my kin know to stay clear.” The young man’s voice was freighted with grief. “I’m so sorry, King. I know I let ye down.”
Brendan stood, his jaw set firmly in concentration. “Have we lost so many?”
An older man, his brown beard flecked with ribbons of gray, stood apart, his hands on his hips. “Aye, King,” he said. “Between losing those men and all we’d lost in the battle over the ridge, we’re in no fit shape to go anywheres. Barely’ve got enough to keep the camp guarded.”
Remembering himself, Brendan walked up to the wounded man, Devon, and gripped the back of his neck with his hand. He gently pressed his forehead into Devon’s, his eyes wet with tears. “They won’t have died in vain,” he said slowly, quietly. “We’ll avenge their deaths. All of them.”
A woman stepped from the small crowd at the foot of the clearing. Her coal-black hair was closely cropped, and her earlobes were garlanded with large metal hoops. A saber hilt jutted from a wide wrap of silk around her waist, and she rested her ringed hands on the pommel as she spoke. “And how do you expect to do that, Brendan? With what army? We’ve not enough bandits to rob a country squire’s coach-and-four, let alone take on the whole of the Dowager’s coyote army.” A few of the milling bandits nodded in agreement. “No,” she continued, “we stay put. We wait this out. We’ve seen as troubled times as this in the great history of our band; we can make it through this.”
Brendan stepped away from Devon and faced the crowd of bandits. “There’s nothin’ to wait out. This is it.” He accentuated this statement with a pound of his fist against his open palm. His voice was steely, direct. “The Dowager’s set to raze this whole place. The whole blasted Wood. She’s feeding the blood of a human Outsider child to the ivy. The ivy, lads. And once she’s done that, she means to command the vines to consume the whole Wood, North and South. And Wildwood. Gone. Just a big patch of ivy, when she’s done.”
A collective murmur of fear erupted from the gathered bandits. “What?” cried one. “How do you know this?”
Brendan limped to Curtis’s side. He put his hand on the shoulder that wasn’t occupied by Septimus. “This one,” he said stonily. “This Outsider.”
For the first time since their arrival at the camp, the bandits recognized Curtis. A tempered uproar of objection began to rumble among them. Brendan hushed them, saying, “He fought for the Dowager, yes. Indeed—he was a confidant of the witch! But when he was told of her plan, he broke away. And was imprisoned.”
Angus spoke from the crowd. “We met him in that slop bucket of a prison. He aided in our escape. He’s a friend.”
“His friend is the sister of this child,” said Brendan. “This baby the Dowager plans to sacrifice. If it were not for him, we would not have this information.”
Someone called from the crowd, “But if she controls the ivy . . . she’ll kill us all!”
Another: “And pull down every tree, drown every plant!”
“And that’s what she means to do,” said Brendan. “She’s a madwoman, this Dowager Governess. She means to lay waste to the whole wood, and she’ll take us all down with her.” His voice grew calm, and he limped forward and away from Curtis, closer to the bandits. “So we’ve got two options. One”—he held up a single finger—“we stay. And at the dawn of the equinox, tomorrow mornin’, we are swallowed up whole by the ivy. Every one of us, dead. Man, woman, and child.” He stared down the rapt crowd, making quick, deliberate eye contact with each bandit.
“Or two,” he continued, holding up a second finger. A tattooed snake wound its way around the central knuckle. “We fight. We give them everything we’ve got.”
“And we die,” said the earringed woman, her face suddenly resolved and still.
Brendan nodded. “Yes, Annie. We die. But we die in the fight. And that’s a sight better than wa
iting for the ivy to come and do the job.”
Quiet settled over the camp. A log of cordwood buckled and popped in one of the fire pits. The sun disappeared behind a haze of cloud. The patter of raindrops descended on the high branches of the surrounding trees.
Brendan’s tired, desperate eyes traveled over the faces of his compatriots, searching for their answer. Finally, one came.
“We fight,” said Annie solemnly. The gathered bandits looked to her and back at Brendan. After a moment, each in turn nodded and intoned those words as well.
“We fight.”
CHAPTER 22
A Bandit Made
A premature dusk settled over the grassy meadow as the sun ducked behind an encroaching cloud. The telltale sound of distant raindrops foretold the coming rainfall; the Mystics, in their wide circle, did not move. They’d been sitting in silence for hours now, Prue guessed, and there seemed to be no indication they’d be leaving soon. The rain began to fall, pelting the grass in torrents. Prue sat for a time, trying to match the Mystics’ resilience, but in the end gave up and ran to the cover of a nearby oak tree. Wringing water from her hair, she sat against the tree’s rough bark and continued to wait.
And wait.
The rainstorm was momentary—it passed within half an hour, and the meadow was barraged by an explosion of sun as the rain clouds melted away, leaving the dew-dappled grass in a glistening sheen that looked almost diamond-studded. The late afternoon gave way to early evening; Prue walked back out from underneath the oak and returned to her seat, still watching the unchanging circle of Mystics intently.
It was clear that the robed children she’d seen earlier were acolytes of some sort. They had partaken in the sit briefly, lasting an impressive hour or so until the youngest among them became too fidgety and respectfully stood up and ran off to some other distraction. After a time, all of the acolytes had shrugged off the meditation and were back to the prior activities: playing tag and ring-around-the-rosy; studying bugs in the tall grass; daydreaming. One of the acolytes, a young girl, peeled away from her group, having kept an eye on Prue the entire time. Overcoming her shyness, she approached Prue and sat down a cautious five feet away.
