by Colin Meloy
“Men!” he hollered to the line. “We’ll have to cut our way through.”
The army dove into the brambles headlong, their swords, scythes, and hacksaws a blinding flash of iron against the green of the bushes—but to no avail. The farther they were able to cut themselves into the dense thicket of briars, the more the bushes seemed to fall upon them, catching their uniforms and clothing in their sharp, clawlike thorns. Brendan finally pulled away, returning to the grove of trees. He’d hiked the sleeves of his tunic up to his elbows, and his forearms were laced with red scratches; a few leaves clung to his beard.
“Blast it all!” he swore. “I should’ve known this—it’s been years since I’d been to the Grove. This must’ve seeded and grown in that time.”
“Iphigenia,” said Prue, remembering Iris, the young acolyte, and the braiding tuft of grass. “We should get Iphigenia.”
Brendan looked at her askance. “What is she gonna do? Meditate them away?”
“Trust me,” Prue said. “Just let me go get Iphigenia.”
Brendan set his hands on his knees and briefly held his head down—sweat was pouring from his brow and glistening against the strange tattoo on his forehead. “Okay, Outsider,” he said, adding, “But move quick. We’re running out of time.”
Prue engaged the kickstand on her bike and set off down the trail at a swift sprint. The line of soldiers extended back to the switchbacks leading down to the creek bed, and they all stared as she whipped by them. She cut the last few switchbacks in two short leaps and bolted over the small bridge to arrive at the cluster of caravan wagons that were laboring their way up the narrow path.
“Iphigenia!” she shouted, arriving at the first wagon.
A small door behind the driver’s seat opened and the Elder Mystic’s head peered out over the shoulder of the driver, a robed badger. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Why have we stopped?”
Prue paused to catch her breath from the sprint. “They need you . . . ,” she sputtered. “At the—at the top of the ridge.”
“What’s happened?” asked Iphigenia.
“Blackberry brambles,” explained Prue. “We can’t go any farther. I thought maybe you could, you know, ask them to move.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” asked Iphigenia when she arrived at the top of the ridge. “We are quickly running out of time. The sun is reaching its zenith.”
“Apologies, madam,” said Brendan, “but we’ve hit a snag. This bramble of berries is impassable—and to make our way around it would waylay us for far too long. The girl has suggested that you might be of some assistance in the matter.”
Iphigenia harrumphed and stamped her foot beneath her flaxen robe. She stomped forward to take in the wall of brambles.
“This bramble has been here for many, many years—why did we not take a different path?” she asked.
Brendan reddened. “I was not aware that the bushes were here,” he said, attempting a gentle diplomacy with the aged woman. “At least not in this density. I would’ve surely chosen a different path, but this is the only one afforded to us now, considering the time.”
“Would you have your own camp, your bandit hideout, moved, torn apart and scattered, at the insistence of the . . . what . . . perhaps the trees?” asked Iphigenia unsympathetically, her hand waving toward the canopy of branches above them.
“I don’t even know how to answer that question,” responded Brendan.
Iphigenia glared at the King for a moment before capitulating. “Very well,” she said. “I will ask the blackberries if they will move.”
“What?” he asked, agog. “I’m not sure I heard you right. Did you say you were going to ask the brambles to move?”
“You heard right, Bandit King,” was Iphigenia’s response as she hiked up her robe and prepared to sit cross-legged on the forest floor. “I can only ask. I make no promises. If they deny this request, there’s little I can do.” She squinted sidelong at the tangle of vines before them. “Blackberries tend to be rather stubborn.”
Brendan was speechless. He looked over at Sterling the fox and stared, searching for an explanation. Sterling lifted his shoulders in a shrug. Iphigenia, the dirty hem of her sackcloth robe gathered about her crossed ankles, sat on the ground and began to meditate. Curtis shot a questioning glance at Prue.
“Watch,” Prue said quietly, confidently.
A calm breeze fluttered through the alder grove, scattering the mosaic of fallen leaves around the bent knees of the Elder Mystic. A brief sun break cast rays of golden light through the alder boughs, and Prue squinted to feel the warmth of the sun against her cheek. Iphigenia breathed deeply and loudly, the rhythm of her breaths providing an odd soundtrack to the late morning. Brendan, having suffered the quiet meditation session for a few minutes and borne witness to no results, made an angry curse below his breath and started to stalk off.
A gasp arose from the crowd of soldiers on the ridge.
The blackberries had begun to move.
They moved slowly at first—a few snags in the tangle of thorny vines separated, as if an unseen force was moving its way through the bramble—before picking up speed, and the bush disentangled itself from itself like the tentacles of some vast octopod. Where the vines were anchored to the earth by a rooted stalk, the capillary tendrils snaked to the ground and the bush widened, opening like a great, thistly flower. Before too long, the motion of this long horizon of brush came to a gentle stop, and a great thoroughfare had been laid through the deep grove of briars.
Iphigenia’s loud breathing softened and ceased. She opened her eyes and, looking at the bramble, nodded a wordless thanks. She then stood up, with some difficulty, tottered over to Prue, and grasped her elbow for support. Brendan, standing at the edge of the tree grove, blanched.
“Now, Bandit King,” said the Elder Mystic reproachfully, “if we can avoid such displacements in the future, I—and the forest—would greatly appreciate it.”
The army walked quietly through the Grove, surrounded by the bone-white stone of the toppled columns and colonnades, this ancient city bearing silent witness to their every movement. Alexandra rode in the middle of the coyote host, the ocean of uniformed canine bodies spilling out into the clearing around her. The baby was asleep now, nestled against her chest, calmed into slumber by the gentle rocking of the horse’s stride. The ivy made a deep bed of green here, suffocating nearly every other living thing in the vicinity; only the marble and stone ruins that jutted from its clutches seemed to defy the plant’s supremacy in the Grove. Here was a wide slab of white, block-hewn stone—perhaps the foundation for a market square; there were the teetering remains of a columned archway, a central auditorium. On a squat ridge above the clearing stood the remnants of a long colonnade.
What a waste, thought Alexandra. So much knowledge, lost to the ages.
A soldier disrupted her reverie. He was a young coyote, barely older than a pup, and his gold-ornamented uniform hung loosely at his shoulders. “The Plinth, ma’am,” he informed her. “Just ahead—above that little hill, in the ruined basilica. I’ve been instructed to tell you so.”
“Thank you, Private,” said the Governess, searching the horizon. “You’ve done well.”
Here they were. The moment was close at hand. The sun was approaching its highest point. Soon it would be the noon hour. She could sense the ivy seething below the horse’s hooves. The dark green leaves and their little snaky fingers seemed to lick at her ankles.
“Patience, my darlings,” she whispered. “Patience.”
The scout returned breathless. “The Grove,” he finally spouted. “Just ahead! The coyotes have beaten us there—but just barely.”
Brendan received the news silently. The army of bandits, Mystics, and farmers stood in wait. Behind them, the blackberry bramble had tangled itself back into its previous impassable shape when the last of the soldiers had made their way through; now the entire army had amassed in the shade of a vast collection of ancie
nt fir and cedar trees. Between two of the tallest and thickest trees of this glade lay the first evidence that this had once been a tamed country: a single fluted column—not unlike the ones Prue envisioned littering the landscape of Rome and Athens—had toppled here, creating a bizarre contrast to the wildness of its surroundings. It was in the shadow of one of the column’s shattered sections that Brendan gathered his captains together: Cormac, Sterling the fox, and Prue.
“Why am I here?” was Prue’s first question.
“You’ll be our messenger,” explained Brendan. “A very important function.”
“Okay,” said Prue, leery. She was a little uncomfortable with the designation. People’s lives were at stake here.
Brendan spoke quietly. “The Plinth is in the old basilica, in the center of the Grove. The basilica’s made up of three separate levels—think three giant steps cut into the hillside. The Governess’s army will be marching into the lowest level—it was some sort of gathering square. The third tier, nearest us, is the clearing where the Plinth is. We’ll meet the coyote army at the middle tier. That’s where we’ll have our fight. That way, if we get pushed back, we can still defend the Plinth.”
He looked each of the captains in the eye before continuing. “We split into three units,” he explained. “Two flanking units and a spearhead. Cormac, you’ll carve northward. Sterling, south. I’ll lead the central unit from above, coming in from the west, across the third tier. You’ll be positioned on either side of the middle tier, north and south. Move on my command. Hopefully, we’ll be able to split their forces in half between the first and middle tier—where the Plinth is. In the end, though, we have one goal, and one goal only: keep the Governess from reaching the Plinth.” He turned to Prue. “We’ll be split apart—and communication will be of the utmost importance. This is where you come in, Prue. You’ll need to relay information between the units. Is this clear?”
Prue nodded, desperately tamping down the fear that was beginning to rise from the depths of her belly. She wondered if her tennis shoes were up to the task. She’d wished she’d worn her cross-trainers, the bright pink ones her parents had bought her for her birthday. She’d abjectly refused to wear them, they were so ugly. That consideration seemed awfully petty now.
Brendan heaved a momentous sigh. “We’ve got about six hundred fighters. Against their one thousand. This won’t be pretty. But if we can just keep that Plinth protected and stop the Governess from completing this ritual, any lives lost will not be in vain.” The sun broke through its veil of clouds, and Brendan glared defiantly at its cast light.
“Now,” he said.
With a sudden jump, he’d leapt to the top of the fallen piece of column and gave a low whistle to the awaiting crowd of soldiers.
“Men,” he began. “Women. Animals, all.”
The army of farmers and bandits murmured in acquiescence as they gathered around the speaker.
“Once, in these quiet groves,” Brendan began in a resonant voice, “a great civilization thrived. A city of momentous proportion graced these grounds, full of life and thought. Today, it is no more. But its ruins stand as a stark reminder to those of us who have survived whatever ravages befell it—a reminder that nobody is safe from the machinations of those who, at any cost, wish to destroy the advances of brotherhood and civility.”
He paused, surveying the crowd.
“Brother and sisters,” he continued, “humans and animals. Today, we forget whatever grievances we may have with one another in an effort to combat a greater evil, an evil that threatens to undo us all. Today, we are not the Wildwood bandits. Today, we are not the unassuming farmers of North Wood. Today, we march together. Today, we are all brothers and sisters. Today, let us together be the Wildwood Irregulars, six hundred strong, and let the mighty Wood strike fear into the hearts of anyone who dares stand in our way.”
The crowd exploded into a cheer.
Prue walked back to Curtis, who was waiting along with the rest of the soldiers for their orders.
“What’s happening?” he asked. “Why’d you get to go over there?”
“I’m the messenger,” she said. “I’m supposed to run communications between the units.”
“Ah,” said Curtis, knowingly, “communications-ops.”
Brendan, having jumped down from the fallen column, began disseminating orders to the gathered soldiers. He split the large crowd of soldiers into three sections; Curtis was placed in Sterling’s unit. While the soldiers were receiving their marching orders, Curtis walked over to Prue.
“So this might be it,” he said dolefully, holding out his hand.
Prue shook it. “Yep.”
The host around them began to take shape under the direction of their captains: What had been a single, milling crowd became three taut blocks of eager soldiers, their ragtag display of weaponry brandished at the ready. The two outside blocks peeled away from the central one and began to make their way to either side of the Grove ahead. Curtis watched his troop on the move and quickly turned back to Prue.
“If I don’t see you again,” he said, “maybe you’ll just let my parents know that I did this for a good reason; that, at the very end, I was truly, truly happy? I mean, I really found someplace where I felt I belonged. Will you tell them that?”
Prue felt tears rise in her eyes. “Oh, Curtis,” she said, “you can tell them that yourself.”
“It’s been nice knowing you, Prue McKeel. For real.” His eyes began to water, and he ran his uniform sleeve across his nose.
Prue leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. His show of emotion made it easier, somehow, for her to forget her own fear. “Likewise, Curtis,” she said.
He sniffled back a tear. “Bye, Prue,” he said, and jogged away to join his troop.
Prue stood watching the column of soldiers disappear into the thick of the forest. When they’d gone, she turned and saw Iphigenia emerge from one of the caravan wagons and wave her over.
“Stay with me, dear,” she said, “until you are needed.”
Prue climbed aboard the carriage, sitting down next to the Elder Mystic on the driver’s bench. She was attempting a half smile when the dam broke on her emotions and she began sobbing. Warm tears poured down her cheek; she could taste their saltiness on her lips. Iphigenia, surprised, began rubbing her back.
“There, there,” she said, consolingly. “Why the tears?”
“I don’t know,” babbled Prue through her sobs. “This is just all so overwhelming. Just to get my brother back. I mean, me just being here. I feel like everyone I come in contact with, I’m ruining their lives.”
“You needn’t wear it all on your shoulders. Bigger events are in play, my dear,” Iphigenia said, “far bigger than you. Your brother’s disappearance was merely the catalyst to a long chain of events that has been waiting to tumble since the first seedling sprouted in this forest. You had as much control over your own involvement in these events as a leaf does in the time of its falling. We must only follow, we must only follow.”
Prue sniffed and carefully wiped a few tears from her cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie. “But if I hadn’t come here—or—or,” stammered Prue, “if my parents had never made their deal with Alexandra and I was never born—we wouldn’t be here! All these sweet people and animals wouldn’t be putting their lives at risk.”
“There’s as much benefit to wishing the world away as there is in demanding a bud to bloom,” responded Iphigenia as she patted Prue’s hand gently. “It’s better to live presently. By living thus, perhaps we can learn to understand the nature of this fragile coexistence we share with the world around us.”
Prue straightened in her seat and tried to gain control of her feelings. The Mystic’s words, while being comforting in their way, seemed to open up a greater mystery. “Where will you be in all this?” she asked.
“I will stay behind,” explained Iphigenia, “My order decrees this. I will sit in meditation until the battle has ceased. The
victor will be clear; the forest will inform me of this. If the Governess prevails, and the ivy is let loose, then I will simply become a part of the forest. To me, this is not a horrible fate. It is an inevitability.”
Prue squinted at the Mystic, puzzling at the peaceful resignation in her face. If she were to spend more time with the old woman, she was going to have to get used to the Mystic’s sometimes startling frankness.
In the wide glade, Brendan waited for the two flanking units to depart. He spent the time sizing up his troop; satisfied that enough time had passed, he jogged over to where Prue sat.
“It’s time,” he said. “I’ll need you by my side.”
Prue nodded and hopped down from the carriage, swallowing her remaining tears. She gave a final look to Iphigenia, smiling, before turning to walk toward the waiting soldiers.
Something made the Dowager Governess pause as she slowly walked her horse through the ankle-deep banks of ivy that blanketed this ancient ruin. A thought, like a mild warm breeze on a cold day that dissipates as soon as it’s arrived, fell over her. A suspicion. A hitch of unease.
But why, she thought, in this moment of my victory, this moment of fruition?
It had been so easy.
There had been no resistance.
And yet, she’d felt something. Something deep in her bones. Something whispered among the trees, perhaps, a quiet murmur from plant to plant. As if the forest was intending to rise up against her.
She laughed the thought away. Even the North Wood Mystics, in all their power, could not bring the forest, this lawless cosmos of greenery, to their side.
The baby was waking. She looked down at him and cooed. He smiled in response, wiping the sleep from his eyes with two balled fists. He blinked at the brightness of the sun, the sun that had nearly climbed to its highest point in the sky.
