by Colin Meloy
The encroaching trees loomed over the road, casting cool shadows across the smooth dirt. She’d long left the pastoral fields and tree groves of North Wood; a wooden gate had marked the border between the quiet farmland and the untamed country of Wildwood. A pair of constables, a human and a badger, had thrown the gate open for her—she hadn’t even stopped to thank them. And now she was in the depths of Wildwood, and the roadside brush and bramble seemed to reach out to her like a million leafy arms. The wind whipped at her face and whispered through the heavy cotton of her hoodie, sending shivers through her body with each breath of wind.
“Faster!” she urged her legs. “Faster!” she willed the bike, the wheels, the chain.
Her eyes remained locked on the farthest point of the Long Road, and she snaked her bike handily around its many twists and turns. She knew time was running out.
Suddenly, a squirrel darted out in the road in front of her and Prue screamed, jamming on the brakes. The squirrel had stopped directly in front of her and was eyeing this strange metal contraption that was flying toward him. The brakes yelped and her rear tire began to skid, sending the Radio Flyer wagon into a contorting fishtail. The squirrel, instantly recognizing that he was about to be run over, yipped and leapt out of the way, just as Prue’s bike skidded sideways and she was thrown from the seat. She hit the ground with a pained “oof,” her hands bearing the brunt of the fall. The bike clattered to the ground behind her. The squirrel shot into the trees without a backward glance.
“Watch it!” Prue yelled after him. She picked herself up and, wiping the grit from her palms, ran back to her bike. Inspecting it, she was relieved to find that it had suffered little damage other than a few scrapes on the frame. She picked it up, climbed back aboard, and pedaled off, pushing hard to regain her previous speed.
I can’t afford another wreck like that, she thought. If this bike gives out on me, I’m screwed.
Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel her lungs working like bellows to keep up with her every heaved breath. Finally, her eyes caught sight of two distant tall shapes on the horizon, where the road straightened out and the landscape seemed to buckle and fall away into a massive ravine: the ornate columns that marked the near side of the Gap Bridge.
“Come on, Curtis!” shouted Septimus. “They’re about to make the turn into the woods!”
“I’m coming!” Curtis called, though his steps felt slower—as if he was compelled to dally. The ring of keys in his pocket—what a miracle that had been!—rang quietly with his every step, each single clink reminding him of his home, of his bed. In his mind, he heard his father’s wheezing laugh, cracking up at some lame sitcom joke from the TV. He smelled his mother’s cooking—something he’d never considered to be anything extraordinary, but now, in this environment, it took on a kind of God’s-own-ambrosia aspect. Even the boxed mac and cheese she’d serve up for a quick lunch on a summer afternoon seemed like a gourmet meal. He could hear his older sister, the sound of her dancing footsteps pounding through the ceiling below her room as she cranked her stereo and cast herself as whatever pop star she was currently obsessing over. It was all waiting for him. I could just go, he thought. Right now. I could just go.
He gazed again behind him, to the bend in the road that was beginning to obscure the place he’d recognized as being the spot where he’d first encountered the Long Road, when he’d been strapped to the back of the coyote and the forest had gone racing by on their way to the warren. Had it only been a few days before? It felt like an eternity. And now here he was, involved in this foolhardy scheme to try and wrest this baby boy from the hands of a crazed woman—and likely die in the trying. Did it matter so much? At what point had he arrived at this juncture? When had the retrieving of this kid—someone he wasn’t even related to—become something worth losing his life over? Prue hadn’t even stuck around. She’d left, gone back to her safe and happy home. She was enjoying her parents’ cooking now, undoubtedly, catching up on her schoolwork, seeing friends, watching television. For all he knew, her life had returned to normal. And perhaps, eventually, the McKeel family would just learn to forget, and the grief of losing a child would dissipate. Why should he sacrifice himself as well?
“Psst!” hissed Septimus from ahead. “Curtis, what are you doing?”
Curtis realized he’d stopped in the middle of the Long Road, his hands in his pockets, his fingers rubbing the cool metal of his house keys. “Septimus,” he began, “I don’t know how to say this, but . . .” He paused. Septimus cocked an eyebrow and waited for him to finish.
“I think I . . .”
A sound came from behind him, cutting his speech short. It was a distinctly metallic sound, disrupting the serene quiet of the woods. It grew louder and louder, a clanking noise that seemed to be lumbering toward him. Curtis froze and listened.
It was the sound of a bicycle.
CHAPTER 24
Partners Again
PRUE!”
It had sounded initially like the hoot of an owl. Prue’s focus was so intent on her front wheel and the navigating of a particularly rough section of the Road that she’d ignored the sound as being just another note in the unending symphony that was the forest’s many noises. But it came again, louder, closer:
“PRUUUUUUE!”
It was, undoubtedly, someone calling her name. She looked up and saw, standing in the middle of the road, a short figure wearing a dirty brigadier’s uniform. The figure had the hair and spectacles of Curtis, but her reasoning refused to allow her to believe it. As she came closer, however, the fact was indisputable. Curtis was not home in St. Johns. Curtis was not safe with his parents. Curtis had not left Wildwood. Curtis was standing right in front of her. And she was about to run him over.
“CURTIS!” she hollered as her fingers mangled her bicycle brakes and the back tire skidded and swerved against the dirt of the road. The wagon kicked up violently from behind and slammed back down on the ground with a tremendous WHAANG. Curtis leapt out of the way, diving headlong into the brush by the side of the road. Coming to a sliding stop, she jammed the kickstand down with her heel and vaulted from the seat, running to where Curtis had landed.
“Curtis!” she cried. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it!” Curtis was pulling himself from a small shroud of raspberries, the stickers clinging tenaciously to his uniform. She threw out her hand and he accepted it. Together, they stood on the side of the road staring at each other in amazement.
They both began speaking at the same time. “I thought you . . . !” “How did you . . . ?” Unable to get a word in, they let out a unified holler of joy and fell into a long, happy hug.
Emerging from the embrace, Prue was the first to speak. “I thought you’d gone home! That woman, Alexandra, said so.”
Curtis shook his head. “No, I was in the warren when you were there. I was locked up!”
Prue cursed, her face pinched in anger. “That evil, evil lady. I can’t believe that! All the lies she’s told—”
“But you!” interjected Curtis. “They said you had gone home.”
“I did,” explained Prue. “But I turned around and came right back. Oh, Curtis, so much has happened since I saw you last—I can’t even begin to explain.”
Curtis slapped his palm against his chest in excitement. “Me too! You wouldn’t believe it.”
“But I don’t have much time,” said Prue, remembering her charge. “I’m riding ahead of the North Wood army—I have to get help.”
“The North Wood army?” asked Curtis. “What’s that?”
“Not really an army,” Prue corrected herself. “More like a few hundred farmers and their pitchforks. I’m riding ahead to try and get help from the Wildwood bandits—I figure with their help, we stand a chance.”
Curtis smiled.
“What?” asked Prue quizzically. “What are you smiling about?”
“You found ’em,” he said.
“What?”
“The
bandits. You found ’em. You happen to be looking at a Wildwood bandit, signed and sworn,” said Curtis proudly, his arms at his hips.
“You?” she asked. “You’re a bandit now?” She threw her hand to her forehead.
“Yep,” continued Curtis. “The whole bandit band is right behind . . .” He swiveled as he spoke, but was stopped short to see that the road behind him was empty. “They were just there.” He looked back at Prue, smiling apologetically. “Hang on,” he said, holding a finger in the air. “I’ll be right back.” He turned and began jogging down the Long Road, the gold fringe of his epaulets swinging. When he’d arrived at a bend in the road, he stood on the forest’s edge and yelled something into the trees. After a moment, a figure appeared. They spoke briefly, and the figure disappeared back into the trees. Curtis turned to Prue and waved his hand in a circle, rolling his eyes. Suddenly, the dark green underbrush gave way and dozens of armed men and women, dressed in an array of ragtag uniforms, stepped from the shadows onto the clearing of the road. A man Prue recognized to be Brendan walked to the front of the crowd, and with Curtis walking alongside, they all approached Prue as she stood, speechless, by her bike.
“Prue, this is Brendan, the Bandit King,” said Curtis when the band of bandits came close. “I believe you two have met.”
“We have!” shouted Prue, making a slight, embarrassed bow. “Oh, Brendan. I’m so happy to see you’re okay.”
Brendan smiled. “How are your ribs, Outsider?” he asked.
“Fine, thanks,” she said, blushing. “Much better.”
Prue scanned the crowd of gathered bandits; their number was fewer than she’d anticipated. Apparently, her face said as much, because Brendan spoke up in explanation, his face suddenly sullen. “Our numbers have been decimated. We are not the hale band you encountered when you last fell into our midst. But no matter: You have found us on the march to confront the Dowager Governess once and for all. We plan on giving her the hiding of a lifetime—even if we die in the trying.” The crowd behind the King murmured in resolved approval.
“But listen, Brendan,” said Curtis, his voice quaking in his excitement, “Prue has an army too!”
“What?” Brendan stared at Prue.
Prue took a deep breath. “Since I saw you last, I went to North Wood and spoke to the Mystics there. They’ve agreed to help, to fight the Governess. They’ve called their militia together. The whole country of North Wood is mustering to the defense of the Wood. They’re on their way now—they can’t be far behind me. I rode ahead to find you, the bandits, in the hope that you would join us.”
A collective furor erupted from the gathered bandits. “Allies!” one shouted. “Our number grows!”
Another reprimanded the first: “Those bumpkins? Are you kidding me?”
“No bandit has fought alongside a civilian—that’s unthinkable!”
Brendan turned and, waving his arms in the air, attempted to quiet the unruly bunch. “Shut up, all of you!” he commanded. When the band had quieted, he turned back to Prue. “What kind of army are you talking about?” he asked.
“Four hundred,” said Prue, “give or take. Human and animal. Armed with farm implements, mostly.”
“Oh boy,” remarked one bandit from the middle of the crowd. He was immediately shushed by his neighbors.
Brendan chewed on the information. “Not ideal, but the measure of a fighter is in his skill, not his weapon,” he said, stroking the coarse hair of his red beard. “An old bandit adage goes, ‘A bell is a cup until it is struck.’” He turned to the amassed bandit crowd and called for their attention. “We will fight alongside the farmers,” he said, and the crowd exploded into objection.
“We steal from them, we don’t fight with them!”
“My granddad would be spinnin’ in his grave to know that a daughter of his would be fighting alongside a North Wooder!”
“Quiet!” shouted Brendan. “I’ll take no objections! I didn’t call for a vote on the matter; this is final!” Once the bandits had ceased their clamor, he continued, “The creed and code of the bandit clearly states ‘to hold all plants, animals, and humans as equals.’ Never in the history of our band have these words rung more true.” His voice grew steely and hard, as he pointed a tattooed finger in the direction of the woods. “This threat we face is shared by every living thing in this Wood. By allying with North Wood in this fight, we not only uphold our code, our oath, but we make it stronger. Stronger by living it.” He flared his nostrils and eyed the crowd. “Is that clear?”
He was met by silence.
“I said, is that clear?” he repeated, his voice ringing out through the narrow clearing of the road.
“Aye,” said a bandit. A few more fell in as well: “Aye, King.” Finally, the entire crowd chorused their approval, and Brendan nodded. He turned to Prue.
“Okay, girl,” he said. “Take me to this army of yours.”
Prue had pedaled her bike to the northernmost plank of the bridge and, resting its frame against the railing, had hopped off and was currently pacing the distance between the two columns. Occasionally, she would look sidelong at the farthest point of the road, hoping that soon a few shapes would appear out of the hazy distance—perhaps the ears of a rabbit or the arched roof of a caravan that would be a harbinger to the arriving army, but so far, the road remained empty.
The entire bandit band occupied the span of the bridge. They’d arrived sprightly and full of vigor, but the time that had elapsed between their arrival and the current moment had drained their energies. They meandered the boards of the bridge aimlessly, and Prue was hyperconscious of their eyes as they looked to her for direction. Curtis mirrored her steps as she paced; they would meet at each halfway point and share a look. The darkness of the deep ravine spilled out below them.
Brendan leaned against the railing, a weed protruding from his lips. He chewed on it thoughtfully as he stood.
Finally, he spoke. “Prue,” he said. “We can’t afford much more time.”
Prue stopped in her pacing. She glanced back down the Long Road. It remained, as ever, empty. “I don’t know,” she said, fretfully. “I didn’t think they’d be that far behind me.”
“And you know for certain this army was being gathered?” asked Brendan.
“I swear,” said Prue. “I was there when the instructions were given. The Elder Mystic—she told me to go, to find you. And she said to meet here, on this bridge. Oh, dang it all!” She stomped her foot, hearing the sole of her shoe echo against the wooden plank.
Brendan looked away, over at the milling band of bandits. Several of them had their weapons out—pistols, rifles, and cutlasses—and were engaged in a kind of time-killing inspection. “We’ve got to move,” he said, “if we’re to stop this woman. The time is fast approaching.”
“Sir,” one of the bandits called, squinting into the distance, “them North Wooders, here they come.”
Both Brendan and Prue jerked their heads in the direction the bandit had been staring; sure enough, far off, around a bend, the first few figures were appearing. They walked in a loose formation, and what first seemed to be scattered groups of marchers soon grew until the wide expanse of the Long Road was filled from side to side with an ocean of creatures. They were rabbits and humans, foxes and bears—each wearing the dirty and worn costume of farm laborer: coveralls, overalls, button-down gingham shirts, and plaid flannels. In their hands and paws they carried every known farm implement under the sun, and they walked with a kind of gritty determination Prue had not anticipated. The crowd was broken here and there by the presence of ox- and donkey-drawn carriages, their bright paint jobs a striking contrast against a background of the forest’s million shades of green. Prue recognized Sterling the fox at the head of the marching crowd. She smiled widely when she saw him.
“You made it,” she said, relieved, as the crowd came closer.
Sterling extended his palm in greeting. “It took some doing, yes,” he said. “But here w
e are.”
She turned to Curtis. “Sterling, this is my good friend Curtis. He’s, well, he’s a bandit.”
Curtis made a low bow. “How do you do,” he said.
Sterling looked at him suspiciously. “Are you their leader?” he asked, his eyes falling over the gathered band of milling bandits.
“Oh no, no,” said Curtis, stepping away. “That’d be Brendan. The Bandit King.”
Brendan walked forward, his hands resting on the pommel of his saber. His chin was held high, his crown of salal vines tangled dramatically in his curly red hair. “Hello, fox,” said Brendan.
Sterling puffed up his chest at the arrival of the bandit. His eyes widened. “Hello, Brendan,” he said, his tone frigid and firm. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing your wretched face again.”
Alarmed, Prue looked at Curtis. Curtis shrugged.
Brendan smiled. “Funny circumstances, to be sure. But it’s all water under the bridge at this point, right, foxy?”
“I’m of the mind to arrest you, right here and now,” said Sterling. “For all you’ve done.”
Prue stepped forward. “Arrest him? Are you crazy? We’re allies, remember?” The fox glared at Prue. “You didn’t say anything about this psychopath being involved.” He pointed a jagged claw at the Bandit King, his teeth bared. “This man is responsible for more shipments of produce lost than any single bandit in the Wood. He’s a wanted man in all four of the countries. I personally have put my share of a season’s harvest up as reward for his capture, dead or alive.” He looked back at Brendan. “Last time we met, you were lucky to get away with your life—I intend to be more thorough this time.”
