by Colin Meloy
The guards stared, speechless.
The boy with the sling prompted, “Well? You gonna open up?”
The guard on the right tried to snap himself from his confusion. “I—I mean—we—you’ve got to be—I mean, NO! What are you talking about?”
“This is a coup,” said the girl. “So if you wouldn’t mind opening those gates, we’d greatly appreciate it.”
The guard continued to sputter. “But—come on, now, little one. You and what army?”
The girl smiled. “This one,” she said.
From behind them, around the distant bend of the Long Road, the horizon was suddenly filled with a multitude of birds, humans, and animals, a wall of figures moving toward the great gate.
It would be called “The Bicycle Coup” when, in due time, the history was written. It would be recorded as a perfectly peaceful overthrow, the existing South Wood army having already been at odds with the ever-expanding force of the SWORD, the government’s nefarious secret police. As the combined force of the Avian infantry and the so-called Wildwood Irregulars marched through the streets of South Wood, they were met with open arms, the citizens and soldiers falling into step with them on the march toward Pittock Mansion. When they’d finally arrived at the doors of the Mansion, the major players of the Svik administration had either escaped, running into the surrounding woods to, presumably, find refuge in some damp gully in Wildwood, or were kneeling in supplication on the marble floor of the Mansion foyer.
There, the arriving revolutionaries issued their first demand: the keys to the South Wood Prison. The overthrown officials handed them over with no resistance. The revolutionaries then boarded the steam train that ran to the prison, a welcome respite since they’d spent the better part of the last twelve hours on a grueling march through half the country. When they’d arrived at the walls of the prison, the gates were thrown open and a pinwheeling collage of plumage erupted from within, funneling into the sky. The imprisoned birds of the Avian Principality were freed.
The last bird to exit the prison, it is recorded, was a very large owl, the Crown Prince of the Avians, and he was met with embraces from the lead revolutionaries. Together, they decamped back to Pittock Mansion and set about mapping out a new era for the Wood.
“Hold still,” instructed Prue, her colored pencil poised over the page of her sketchbook.
Enver cocked an eye sideways and looked at her. “How much longer?” he managed through a half-open beak. He shifted his small talons on the railing of the balcony, trying to find a more comfortable stance.
“Almost done,” replied Prue, lowering the tip of the pencil and drawing a rust-colored streak. The wisp of the bird’s tail feather was complete. “There,” she said. She placed the pencil on the stone of the railing and held the sketchbook at a distance, so the grainy details of the colored pencil blurred together to form the striped features of the sparrow.
Enver, freed from his frozen position, hopped over to take a look. “Very nice,” he said. Prue wrote his name in capitals under the picture. Below that, she wrote the words Melospiza melodia in her best script.
“Song sparrow,” explained Prue.
Enver chirped appreciatively.
“It’s not improving on Mr. Sibley, or anything,” Prue demurred. “And he didn’t even have the benefit of being able to talk to his subjects. But it’ll do.”
Enver, antsy to move, leapt into the air and wheeled above the twin turrets of Pittock Mansion. Prue watched him sail against the charcoal-gray sky.
A skyline of dense trees defined the horizon below the sparrow’s dizzying flight path: golden yellow maples and deep green firs. Beyond the shroud of trees, she knew, was Portland. Her home. From this vantage, Prue thought, Portland seemed like the strange, magical country—not the world she currently stood in, with its stately groves of tall trees and busy populace, plying their trades in a peaceful coexistence with the world around them. The lattice of Portland’s freeways, clogged with cars and trucks, all the concrete and metal—these things seemed more alien to her now.
She shook herself from her thoughts: A long day’s ride was ahead of her. She closed her sketchbook and collected the colored pencils, slipping them back into her messenger bag. The air was cool; fall had truly arrived. The smell was everywhere.
A door opened behind her, and she turned to see Owl Rex and Brendan, deep in discussion, approach through the wide French doors from the second-story sitting room. Brendan’s arm was affixed to his chest in a tight sling, but he seemed to be moving about without much trouble. There had been quite a to-do the day before, when the Mansion nurses had insisted on his having a bath; the hallways had echoed with his roared objections. His clothes having been laundered and his skin freshly scrubbed, he was barely recognizable as the rake she’d met in the woods.
“How’s it going in there?” she asked as the two walked to the railing of the balcony.
“There’s little doubt that it will be a long and difficult process,” said the owl. “So many species were given short shrift by the Svik rule of law; much recompense is due. The coyote dignitaries are expected today; their inclusion in the process will no doubt be controversial. Already, the bandits and the North Wood farmers are at odds; a few of my bird underlings staged a walkout over compensation to the families of the imprisoned Avians. Thankfully, lunch arrived early, and they were coerced back to the table with the promise of fresh pine nuts.” He sighed. “One thing is certain: No process of government building is ever easy. There is, however, a striking feeling in the air, regardless of the petty disputes, that we will arrive at a solution in time, a solution that will see to the rights and needs of all citizens of the Wood.”
Brendan massaged the bandage at his shoulder. “Aye, it’s no easy thing,” he said, his feet shifting against the brick of the balcony. “But the sooner we get to some sort of agreement, the better. All the paving stones around here hurt my feet. I’m antsy to get back to the woods, back to the hideout, back to my people.”
“I’m sure it will all work out,” said Prue. “You’re all pretty able folks.”
“There’d be a place for you, you know,” said the owl, arching an eyebrow. “An ambassadorship, perhaps. Envoy to the Mystics? How does that title suit you?”
“Thanks, Owl,” she said. “But I really have to get back. My parents—I bet they’re tearing their hair out, wondering what’s happened. Mac needs to go home. I need to go home.”
The owl nodded in understanding. “Well, as you know, you’d be welcome back, anytime.”
“Where’s that little bairn now?” asked Brendan. “Your brother, I mean.”
As if conjured by the reference, Penny the maid appeared at the open French doors, crouched over to hold the upstretched hands of Mac, helping him totter over the threshold onto the balcony.
“He’ll be a walker in no time!” proclaimed Penny, beaming. “He’s really getting the hang of it!”
Prue walked to meet them. She hoisted Mac up in her arms. “Thanks for watching him, Penny,” she said. “I just needed a little moment to get ready.”
The maid curtsied. “I guess you’ll be leaving then,” she said. “It was an honor to have met you, Miss McKeel.”
“You too, Penny. Thanks for your help.”
The maid turned to go but let out a little shriek when a figure came bowling out of the sitting room through the doorway, nearly knocking her over.
“Curtis!” shouted Prue. “Watch where you’re going.”
Curtis, neatly decked out in freshly pressed uniform, made a clumsy bow to the maid. “Sorry about that.” he said before returning to his mission. “Owl! Brendan! There you both are!” exclaimed Curtis. He came rushing to the railing of the balcony. “You should really go back in there—hi, Prue—it’s kind of a mess. The birds are in the chandelier, and they’re refusing to come down till the South Wood contingent agrees to dismantle all checkpoints; the North Wooders are still arguing with the bandits on amnesty for poppy beer s
hipments, which the bandits have rejected, and Sterling is brandishing his pruning shears, saying he’ll clip the trouser buttons off any bandit who disagrees.”
“Ugly, ugly words,” said Septimus, clucking his tongue. He was perched on Curtis’s shoulder, gnawing on a medal he’d been awarded for bravery. The silvery surface was covered in little teeth marks.
The owl and the Bandit King exchanged a vexed look, and the two of them turned to go. “Good-bye, Prue,” said the owl, shaking his head. “Maybe you’re better off on the Outside.”
Brendan held out his arms and gave Prue and Mac a long embrace. “Till next we meet, Outsider,” he said, stepping back. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small, shiny piece of metal, dimpled from having been hammered flat. He pressed it into her palm. “If ever you find yourself back in Wildwood,” he said, “and you’re waylaid by bandits, show ’em this.” Prue turned it over in her fingers. On the back had been etched the words GET OUT OF HIGHWAY ROBBERY FREE, BY DECREE OF THE BANDIT KING.
Brendan winked and turned to leave.
Curtis started to follow the two of them back into the Mansion, but the owl stopped him. “Stay here,” he said. “We’ll handle things in there. Your friend is leaving. You might want a moment with her before she goes.” He gestured to Septimus. “Come, rat,” he said. “You never know when a rodent’s perspective will be needed. Leave these two alone for a moment.”
Septimus, easily flattered, leapt from Curtis’s shoulder to the ground. “Bye, Prue,” he said. She bowed slightly and watched as the rat scampered into the Mansion. The owl and the bandit followed, disappearing behind the French doors.
Curtis looked at Prue, his face falling. “Really?” he asked. “That soon?”
“Yep,” she said. “I’ve got to get Mac back. To be honest, I’ve been missing my bed, my friends. I’m even missing my parents, if you can believe that. It’ll be nice to be back home.”
A wind picked up and coursed through the manicured estate of the Mansion, sending a fountain of leaves whirling about the tidy gardens below them.
“You sure you don’t want to come with?” Prue asked.
Curtis nodded. “Yeah,” he replied. “There’s lots of work to do here. A whole government to rebuild. Since I spent that time with the coyote army, they’re saying I might be a lot of help when the coyote ambassadors arrive.” He paused and looked out over the horizon of trees. “Plus, I made an oath, Prue. I’m a bandit now. A real Wildwood bandit. I just can’t go back on that. That moment on the Long Road, before you came up, I had the chance to leave. But I’m needed here, Prue. I belong here.”
A silence fell over the two friends. The baby in Prue’s arms filled the quiet with a string of babbling gurgles. Prue watched her friend Curtis, wondering if she looked as changed as he did.
“Okay,” said Prue, finally, “I understand.” She squinted up at the sky, the thin gray of the clouds beginning to glow as the morning sun continued on its upward arc. “Walk me to my bike?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Curtis.
They made their way through the long, looming halls of the Mansion, down the wide curve of the grand staircase above the foyer and out through the front door to the grounds. They walked in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Leaning against the stone balustrade of the Mansion’s veranda was Prue’s bike, and Curtis helped her make a little bed of blankets in the wagon for Mac to ride in. A carved wooden horse, given to Mac as a gift, lay where they’d left it on the floor of the red wagon, and Mac was overjoyed to be reunited with the toy.
“Come on,” said Curtis, “I’ll walk you as far as the start of the Long Road.”
“So what are you going to do now?” asked Prue as they made their way lazily along the serpentine drive of the Mansion.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Once this is through, I guess the rest of us bandits, those who haven’t already returned, will head back to the camp. There’s a lot of work to do; we lost a bunch of bandits in that war. Gonna have to get used to sleeping under the stars, that’s for sure.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” said Prue.
Standing in the middle of the driveway, just beyond the turnout in front of the Mansion doors, was a single brilliantly colored caravan wagon. A white rabbit was lying on his back underneath the axle of the wagon’s front wheel, hammering at the assembly with a crescent wrench. A woman in a sackcloth robe stood over him, muttering instructions.
“Iphigenia!” shouted Prue as they came closer.
The woman turned and waved. Her face wore a look of bemused frustration.
“You’re leaving?” asked Curtis. “Aren’t you needed in the meetings?”
Iphigenia dismissively waved her hand in the air. “Bah,” she said. “Who needs an old bag like me? I have no stomach for prolonged argument. There are folks younger than I who can uphold our interests. However, I’m not going anywhere till this blasted axle is fixed.” She eyed Prue. “I suppose you’re on your way, yes, half-breed?”
“Yep,” she said. “Going home. What about you? You heading back to North Wood?”
“Yes,” replied the Elder Mystic, “I’ll be making my way there eventually. The Council Tree will need attending to. I imagine it will have a lot to say about our little adventures.” She set her hands at her hips and lifted her chin, as if taking in the air. “I think I might take my time heading home, though,” she said. “While it was not under the best of circumstances, I did so enjoy seeing the Ancients’ Grove again. I’d not been there for many years. There are truly so many beautiful things to see in the Wood—the great falls at the headwaters of Rocking Chair Creek, the outlook from the top of Cathedral Peak. The very kind Crown Prince has invited me to stay with the Avians for a time, a personal guest of the owl. I think I’d like that very much. Then—who knows—perhaps I’ll find my way to the Ossuary Tree, visit the tombs of my fallen predecessors, those ancient Mystics who managed the journey before me. And then? A long, steaming hot bath and a cup of tea in the comfort of my own little home. That’ll be enough adventuring for me.”
“Best of luck,” Prue said. “That sounds like a wonderful journey.”
“Good-bye, Prue,” said Iphigenia, holding out her arms.
Prue set the kickstand of her bike and walked into the Elder Mystic’s embrace. Her wiry gray hair caressed Prue’s cheek and was bathed in the rich scent of lavender. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again,” Prue said, choking back her tears.
The Mystic patted Prue’s back. “You will,” she said. “You will.”
Leaving the caravan wagon behind, Prue and Curtis continued on their way. When they arrived at the junction of the Mansion’s drive and the wide expanse of the Long Road, Curtis turned and extended his hand.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Let’s not make this all blubbery and emotional. Good-bye, Prue.”
Prue stuck out her lower lip in mock seriousness. “Good-bye, Curtis. Coyote soldier, bandit, revolutionary.”
They shook hands firmly.
Curtis’s chin began to quiver. Prue marked this by saying, “Oh, come on.” She reached out her arms.
Standing in the middle of the driveway, surrounded by a steady stream of traffic on the Long Road, the two friends shared a long hug. After a time, Curtis stepped back, wiping his nose with the cuff of his uniform. “Look what you did,” he said. “My newly cleaned uniform, all snotty on the cuff.” He looked up at Prue, his eyes wet with tears. “See you, Prue.”
Without another word, Prue turned and walked her bike into the flow of traffic on the road. She gave Mac a quick kiss on the cheek and checked the connection between the bike and the wagon; all was well. Throwing one leg over the frame of the bike, she mounted the seat and set her feet into the pedals. Within a few moments, she was off.
“Hey, Prue!” Curtis suddenly shouted. Prue pulled the handle brakes to slow the bike and turned around.
“If I ever need you,” he called over the hum of traffic, “I
’m gonna come and find you, okay?”
“Okay!” responded Prue, moving farther down the road.
“Because we’re partners!” shouted Curtis.
“What’s that?” yelled Prue. It was hard to make out words in the din of the busy road.
“WE’RE PARTNERS!” yelled Curtis, at the top of his lungs.
Prue grinned widely, hearing him. “OKAY!” she shouted, and the Long Road made a jog around a bend and Curtis was gone behind her.
She’d traveled for a time, weaving in and out of the knot of traffic, before she arrived at the front gates. Seeing her coming, the guards threw open the doors and gave her a proud salute as she rode slowly under the arch of the wall. The Long Road stretched before her, leading off into the hazy distance. Standing up on the pedals, she kicked the bike into speed, the cool wind whipping at her cheek. Mac gurgled happily in the wagon and waved the carved horse above his head, as if it was itself riding wildly down the road.
“Let’s go home, Mac,” said Prue.
Prue and Mac’s reception, when they arrived back at their house in St. Johns, was riotous. Her mother gripped her around the shoulders in a bone-crushing embrace while her father whipped Mac, laughing, from the wagon and threw him deftly into the air. The exchange of hugs and kisses was so lengthy that they soon lost track of who had hugged whom and which child had been kissed more. Even her parents spent several moments embracing each other as if they had been the ones lost, while Prue looked on, bemused. The afternoon rolled into evening and the celebrations did not cease: Prue’s dad played DJ, pulling out all his favorite old rocksteady records, while her mother danced around the room, lost in a constant frenzy of indecision about which child should be her partner. In the end, she chose both, and the three of them spun about the house in a tight bunch, their arms clinging tightly to one another, their faces bright red with joy.
