by Colin Meloy
Darla exhaled a sigh of relief as the warmth of the cave settled around her. She shook a few errant flakes of snow from her long black hair before she looked at the fourth occupant of the cave: a wolf wearing an eye patch.
“Now, Corporal,” said Darla, “if you would kindly tell us exactly where this bandit enclave is, we can issue you your reward.”
The wolf huffed agreement and took a long draw off a flagon of beer.
“I don’t know if this is such a good idea, Prue,” said Curtis, watching his friend frantically pack a knapsack with a few days’ worth of supplies. They were standing in the bandits’ kitchen; Prue was pulling items from a makeshift larder while the kitchen staff looked on. “I mean, we’re supposed to keep you safe. Hidden.”
“Hold this,” said Prue, putting the half-filled pack in his arms. She stuck an apple in her mouth, clasping it with her teeth, while she searched through a basket of tarnished silver utensils. Finding an oak-handled buck knife, she opened it and tested the blade. Satisfied, she turned and threw it into the knapsack in Curtis’s hands.
She took the apple out of her mouth to speak. “I have to. I have to see her. I have to see what happened. I have to see the tree.”
“What tree?”
“The Council Tree,” Prue said as she began rummaging about in the knapsack, taking stock. “After I came to, after the screaming stopped, I felt this weird pull. It felt a little like homesickness. But it wasn’t, ’cause I wasn’t sick for my home. It’s like if I don’t do this, I can’t see the way forward. Besides, maybe I can help.” She grabbed the bag from Curtis and slung it over her back.
“But what about Brendan?” Curtis said, his voice low so as not to attract too much attention. The bandits of the kitchen staff returned to their work, skinning potatoes and dropping bowlfuls of carrots into a steaming pot on a crackling fire. “What about our instructions? To keep you safe? You know, it was Iphigenia herself who gave them to us.”
“Bye,” said Prue.
Curtis chased after as Prue walked out of the cave and onto a swaying rope bridge. “Now hold on here,” he said.
“I can’t explain it, Curtis,” said Prue, moving briskly.
“So you just heard all this screaming....”
“Yes.”
“And you nearly passed out.”
“Yes.”
“And now you have to come out of hiding—even though your life is threatened by a shape-changing assassin—to walk however many miles in a snowstorm to go talk to a tree.”
“Yup.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Curtis.
Together, they threaded the various walkways and bridges of the bandit encampment. Soon, they arrived at the bottom of the cliff wall they’d climbed to enter. Two cables hung down from the precipice above, their ends pooled in a coil. Curtis and Prue helped each other lock into the climbing harnesses; arriving at the top, they were greeted by a familiar voice.
“What’s up, kids?” asked Septimus the rat, standing at eye level on a low branch. He was picking his teeth with a twig.
“Did you just now get back from the North?” asked Curtis, a little out of breath from the climb.
The rat nodded. “Flying’s not natural for a guy of my species. Besides, it was a nice walk. Took a little detour on the way, helped out some folks, did some good deeds; I go where I’m most needed.” He puffed up his chest a little. He then eyed Prue’s knapsack. “Where are you guys headed?”
“Back to North Wood,” said Curtis.
“Back?” The rat groaned. “Aren’t you supposed to be in hiding?” He was pointing his twig at Prue.
“I’ll take my chances,” she said.
“Does Brendan know?” asked the rat.
“No,” said Curtis. “And we’d like to keep it that way.”
Septimus stuck the twig in his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I’m no good at keeping secrets. Guess I’ll have to come with you guys. Besides, I don’t want to be in the room when he finds out; the man’s got a temper.” He hopped nimbly from the tree branch and landed squarely on Curtis’s shoulder. “Onward!” he said, pointing the twig northward like a saber.
The trio made their way through the tunnel in the salal bushes. Their feet quietly crunched through the light layer of snow on the groundcover. It was cold enough that they could see their breaths, but once they’d gotten moving, their bodies warmed to the weather. They walked in silence; Prue was busy trying to untangle the strange resonances she’d received at that moment when the trees started screaming and the world seemed to give way beneath her. The pull to return to North Wood had been so great; regardless of the possibility that she was putting her life—and her friends’ lives—in danger by doing this. She could only trust her intuition. Occasionally as she walked she listened in on the noises of the Wood—the chatter of the flora—and was dismayed to hear only, still, the voiceless noise of their seemingly unknowable language.
Finally, a voice she understood broke through. “So why, exactly, are we going to North Wood?” It was Septimus. Frankly, it was amazing he’d been able to keep quiet as long as he had.
“A calling,” said Prue cryptically. In truth, it was the best explanation she could muster.
“Oh,” said Septimus. “Like, a phone calling?”
Prue considered this before replying: “Sort of. But, like, in my soul.”
“Neat,” said the rat. “A soul phone.”
The sky had darkened; as they began climbing up a steep hillside, the snow began to fall. It appeared in Prue’s vision like sparks of pure white, sailing down from the tops of the trees. She could feel the little flakes alight on her cheek and burn away to nothing. She wore a dark-green knitted hat, given her by a bandit on her arrival, and she pulled it low over her brow. Reaching a level area of ground, she paused. “The way I figure it,” she said, “we should keep to the woods. We’re more likely to be detected on the Road, right?” She eyed the terrain warily. “But where to from here?”
“Hold on,” said Curtis. “Let a native handle this.” He proudly strode past Prue and skidded down a steep slope on the other side of the flat area. She followed. Before long, Curtis had peeled away a thick blanket of briar to reveal a game trail leading through the bracken. “I got an ‘exceptional’ in Wildwood Geography last quarter,” he said, smiling.
They followed the trail quietly, the two kids winding the snaking path by foot while Septimus stayed in the canopy of the trees, scouting the way as they traveled. They’d been walking for several hours when Prue and Curtis heard a hissing from the boughs above their heads.
“Guys!” It was Septimus. “Get hidden! Something’s coming!”
Without speaking, Prue and Curtis dove into the brush alongside the winding trail, hiding themselves in the prehistoric stands of sword fern that lined the way. Ahead, the trail gave onto an open, grassy meadow; this was where the two kids trained their eyes. A little bit of snow fell down the back of Prue’s coat when she disrupted the fern fronds, and she winced at the sudden chill.
A crackle could be heard in the underbrush ahead, in the stand of trees that lined the far edge of the meadow. It sounded to Prue like something coming on four feet. She lowered her head farther to the ground; she imagined a black fox emerging, its teeth bared, and her chest sputtered with pinpricks of fright.
But no: It was an antelope. And a very tired-looking one at that. It stopped on the edge of the clearing and sniffed at the frozen ground. As it turned its head, Prue noticed that it was wearing the sackcloth robe of the North Wood Mystics; as if compelled, Prue burst out of hiding, startling the antelope badly.
“Hello!” she called. “It’s me, Prue!”
The antelope spooked; its legs articulated toward the earth, ready to spring away at lightning speed. When it saw Prue, a look of surprise fell over its face.
“The half-breed girl!” said the antelope. “How glad I am to see you!”
Prue waved Curtis from his p
lace in the stand of ferns. “What are you doing in Wildwood?” she asked.
“I thought I’d never find you!” continued the antelope. “In all of Wildwood, and I was prepared to search high and low.”
“You came for us?” asked Curtis, standing and wiping snow from his pants.
“Yes,” said the antelope. The astonishment drifted from his face and was replaced by a despondent frown. “My name’s Timon. The Elder Mystic, she sent me to find you. To warn you.”
Prue froze, a quiet realization coming over her. The Mystic needn’t have even spoken; she understood what he had come to say. It was what she had expected, what she had intuited from the trees.
“Iphigenia,” said Prue.
The antelope nodded ruefully. His knees buckled, and he sat down on the ground. He began shaking his head. “Oh my, oh my,” he chanted.
“Is she okay?”
“Oh, Prue,” said the Mystic, lost in his own sorrow. “Oh, dear Prue.”
She shared a glance with Curtis before approaching the antelope. She knelt down by his side and began petting the brushlike fur of his neck. “Calm down,” she said, attempting to sound consoling. She tried to channel her parents, the way they warmly rubbed her back as she lamented some lost pet or forgotten toy. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s all right.”
The antelope brought his hoof to his eye and wiped a tear from his cheek. “I just don’t know what to say; I hadn’t allowed myself to even think until now. I was so intent on finding you, on doing the Elder Mystic’s bidding. And it all seemed so hopeless, but at least I had something to keep my mind off that terrible, terrible scene.”
“What scene?” asked Prue. Curtis had arrived at their side. He gave Prue a long, searching look. “Iphigenia—is she okay?”
“I don’t know,” said the Mystic. “I left her while she was still being pursued. She bid me find you. That’s the last thing she said to me. ‘Find the half-breed children. Warn them.’ But I hadn’t traveled far before I felt a grave foreboding from the trees. I fear she may be gone.” He collapsed into swelling sobs.
Curtis stubbed his boot angrily in the ground. “It was that fox, huh? That woman-turned-fox.”
Timon, gaining control again, nodded. “She’s a formidable foe,” he said. “We knocked out her partners, but she herself was too strong and fleet of foot.”
“How many were there?” asked Prue.
“Three: Two men, one woman.”
“Darla,” said Prue. “Darla Thennis.”
“You’ve met?” asked Timon.
“Yeah, she was my science teacher.”
Timon looked at her, perplexed.
“But she survived?” asked Curtis.
“Yes,” said Timon. “And there may be more. Kitsunes never engage in packs larger than three. Their training revolves around the concept of the strategic triangle. So while she might be deprived of her two partners, no doubt she has more somewhere.”
“Well, that settles it,” Curtis said, sounding almost relieved to hear this foreboding news. “Guess we should head back to the camp.”
Prue ignored him. Instead, she spoke to the antelope. “How are you, strength-wise? Can you make it back to North Wood safely?”
The Mystic huffed a little breath of steam from his nostrils and pushed himself onto his hooves. “Yes, fine,” he said. “Plenty strong.”
“Do you think you could carry two kids on your back?”
“Wait a second, Prue,” interrupted Curtis. “Did you hear a thing he just said? The Kitsunes are in North Wood. They’re looking for us. You just want to go announce yourself to them?”
“I told you: I don’t have a choice,” said Prue. “I’ve got to go, science teacher or no. Stay if you want.” Then, to the antelope: “Will you take me?”
The antelope hemmed uncertainly and pawed at the ground. “If that is your wish, Prue,” he said. “Though you may be putting yourself in serious danger.”
“It is.”
“Very well,” the antelope said, and he crouched low so that she could climb astride his slim back. Curtis stood, fidgeting in his boots.
“Are you coming or not?” Prue asked.
He pointed an accusing finger at his friend. “You!” he said. “You are infuriating!” Having given his accusation, Curtis promptly capitulated and climbed onto the back of the antelope. Curling his arms around Prue’s belly, he braced himself as the animal broke into a trot and began heading north. The rat in the tree boughs overhead leapt nimbly from branch to branch, preceding the party as they went.
The closer Prue moved to the tree, the more certain she felt in her decision to make the journey. Like a kind of thirst that grows stronger once you’re holding the glass of water in your hand, when she’d crossed over the boundary between Wildwood and North Wood, the desire to be at the tree was nearly unendurable. The going had been tough; the coming storm blanketed the tall hills and peaks of the Cathedral Mountains, and they were forced to stop on several occasions to wait out the flurry of a particularly bad squall. The antelope was strong and sure-footed; he made careful but steady time over the little notches in the mountainside they were forced to cross.
They were given fresh water and food by a badger who lived in a cabin in the hills; a wandering swan, white as the snow on the ground, gave them clear directions once they’d come down into the valleys of the North Wood and were uncertain of their way. Both animals had seen the antelope’s robe and had made every effort to help them. The going was arduous; anytime they found themselves coming closer to any well-trod road, they instinctively moved away from it, preferring instead to remain in the safe concealment of the dense forest. Occasionally, the two kids would opt to walk alongside the antelope, giving him a break from carrying them.
They’d only just remounted the back of the antelope when they arrived at the great clearing in the woods. The tug of the tree at that point was so distracting and powerful in its strength that Prue could barely stay steady in her seat. Curtis had to hold her tight against his chest; she’d nearly fallen from the Mystic’s back twice. They broke through a line of trees where they could see brimming daylight and found themselves on the edge of the great meadow that surrounded the Council Tree.
The mysterious pull that Prue had been feeling since the day before suddenly dissipated, like a wisp of smoke. She had arrived at the source.
Curtis, who hadn’t set eyes on the great tree before, caught his breath in his throat when he saw it. The sun was setting, and a gray pallor was cast over the wide clearing; the gnarled and ancient tree loomed tall over the disappearing light in the meadow, its branches bereft of leaves. At the base of its trunk, a pallet had been constructed of moss and stone. Seeing this, the antelope issued a sorrowful moan. Prue and Curtis slid from his back and watched as the Mystic stumbled toward the tree. They numbly followed. Prue guessed at the reason for the simple construction; she mouthed a no as she hurried after the antelope.
The pallet was tucked into one of the tree’s large exposed roots like a baby cradled in the arm of a protective parent. The surface was made of a thick blanket of moss and was strewn with the simple hues of winter flora: the soft white globes of the snowberry bush, the bright-red-berried holly, and the pale green of the thistle. All this lovely detritus served to make a kind of bed. Arriving there, Prue looked to Timon and rasped a desperate, “Is it?”
Timon, his eyes choked with tears, nodded.
Just then, a flickering motion from the edge of the clearing caught their eyes. A procession was approaching: A group of robed figures carrying torches issued from the tree line. As they poured into the meadow, they gathered in a line and made their way toward the mossy bed. In the middle of the procession, several of the figures walked under the weight of a stiff stretcher, bearing what looked to be the shrouded body of a woman. Prue and Curtis were frozen in place as they watched the solemn parade. When the first of the figures arrived at the pallet, they moved outward, creating a semicircle around the structu
re. They walked in silence, their eyes downcast.
The stretcher was placed on the pallet’s bed of moss; the body was covered in a simple quilt, which one of the Mystics pulled back to reveal the face of Iphigenia.
The Elder Mystic’s eyes were peacefully closed. Her face, pale and still, was set in a look of quiet grace. She looked as if she’d just had a pleasant meal and was enjoying the afterglow. Tears immediately sprang to Prue’s eyes as she watched the ceremony proceed.
Once the body had been laid on the pallet and the torch-bearing Mystics had fanned out to surround it, a new group of mourners appeared from the edge of the clearing: the acolytes. They came from the surrounding woods bearing objects in their arms: blankets and robes, papers and plants. Prue guessed the objects to be the possessions of the Elder Mystic, carried from her home. They were each placed carefully around Iphigenia’s still body. Many of the bearers touched the hem of her shroud lovingly before stepping back to join the crowd.
“I can’t believe this,” whispered Curtis as they stood among the gathered Mystics and acolytes. “I just saw her. She was so … alive.”
Prue wiped tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. “I wish I’d had the chance to see her again,” she said. “I wish I’d had the chance just to talk with her.”
Curtis put his arm around Prue’s shoulder. They both let the tears fall freely.
One of the Mystics, an older man with long, braided hair and a white-flecked beard, stepped forward. He walked to the pallet and placed his hand softly on Iphigenia’s body before turning to the crowd and speaking.
“Tonight, we return the vessel of Iphigenia to the Wood, her spirit having already been absorbed by the fabric of the cosmos. And with her, we return the trappings of her earthly life to the ground.” His voice was calm, benevolent.
He then nodded to the surrounding Mystics, and they began to make a semicircle around Iphigenia’s body. A young boy, an acolyte, held the center of the arc as each one, in turn, sat down and arranged their legs into lotus position. They began to meditate. Prue instinctively held her hand to her lips, her eyes full of tears.
