by Colin Meloy
The fox looked at the two children out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he relented. “All right, then,” he said. “Just tonight. Then I want you out of here come morning.”
“Got it!” said Prue. Curtis waved to the fox and dragged his friend away toward the warmth of the fire.
“Come on,” he said. “You seem exhausted.”
“I just need to sit down for a second,” said Prue.
A bonfire blazed in the stone hearth, and Prue took a seat at one of the benches surrounding it. Curtis plopped down by her side. The joyous revelry of the party was broken here and there by groups of people consoling one another in hushed, warm tones and smiling through their tears. A drawing of the Elder Mystic, rendered lovingly in pencil, had been set on the banquet table on the far side of the room. Garlands of green and white bulbs, the first of the season, were laid around it. On the other side of the fire pit, Septimus was in the process of regaling some lady rat with his version of the Battle for the Plinth. She was smiling shyly. Prue and Curtis stared into the yellow flames.
“What’s up?” asked Curtis.
Prue rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know. I just had a sort of weird interaction. Trying to figure it all out.”
“What happened?”
“I spoke with the tree. Or, it spoke to me. Sort of. It spoke to me through a kid.”
“Really? What did it say?”
“To raise the true heir. Sorry: reanimate the true heir.”
“Okay,” Curtis said before taking a sip from his mug. “Weird.”
“Do you know what that means?”
He looked off for a moment, as if running the words through his head. “Nothing’s coming to me,” he said finally.
“Alexei,” said Prue. “We need to bring Alexei back.”
“Oh,” said Curtis, and then: “OH! You mean, Alexandra’s son? The one who died?”
“Yes.”
“But why? What’s that going to do?”
“I don’t know. Something about bringing peace. Uniting the Three Trees.”
“There are three trees? Like the Council Tree?”
“Apparently,” said Prue, staring into the copper-colored liquid in her cup. “It also said that it would save my life and my friends’ lives.”
“Well, that’s something I can get behind,” said Curtis.
“Me too,” Prue said, trying a smile.
The band had switched to a mid-tempo waltz, and a fiddle had taken up its soaring melody. The sound of feet sweeping across the sawdust-covered floor gave a kind of solemn rhythm to the song. During the interval of quiet between the two kids, Curtis had a moment to think. “Okay. I mean, if that’s what it told you, then I guess it has to be done, right? How’s it supposed to go down?”
“‘Bring back the makers,’” said Prue. “That’s what the tree said. Someone needs to find them so they can fix the mechanical boy prince.”
Curtis wiped his hand across his face in perplexed frustration. “That’s a pretty bossy tree there,” he said. And then: “Where’s Alexei now? The body, I mean.”
“Probably in some crypt somewhere, I suppose.”
“Bleagh,” said Curtis, making a disgusted face before correcting himself: “Oh well, at least he’s a machine. He wouldn’t be, like, a rotting corpse or anything. So we just head to South Wood and tell the folks in charge that that’s what needs to happen, and our work here is done, right?”
Prue shook her head. “I don’t think so. The tree also said that other people would be attempting to do it; that if they were to succeed, it would spell failure for us, for the tree. From what you’ve told me about the situation in South Wood, I’m guessing it wouldn’t be a good idea just to go down there and advertise what we’re doing. I think there are probably quite a few people who would try to stand in our way.”
“But it’s you!” said Curtis, holding his hand patriotically at his heart. “The Bicycle Maiden! Come to set things to right! Surely folks’d be bending over backward to do your bidding.”
Prue slapped his hand down, embarrassed. “I’m not so sure. I mean, with some folks, maybe. But I bet I’ve got a lot of enemies down there now.”
Curtis gave a little huff of agreement. “Jeez,” he said. “Grown-ups. They’ve got the run of a magical kingdom and they still manage to always mess things up.”
“Plus, there’s the whole thing about the shape-shifting assassins coming after us,” said Prue.
Together they took resigned swigs of their spiced ciders. The lady rat Septimus had been entertaining was in a fit of laughter over something he’d just said. The jug band in the corner announced a square dance, and couples were lining up for the opportunity. Curtis looked to his friend. “Wanna?” he asked.
“What?”
“Sometimes, when the world is falling apart around you, all that’s left to do is dance, right?” Curtis stood, bowed, and proffered his hand.
Prue smiled shyly. She rose from the bench and curtsied, though she didn’t think she’d ever curtsied before in her life. “I’d be happy to,” she said, and the both of them made their way, hand in hand, to the dance floor.
The young man with the fiddle stepped forward as the floor began to fill with eager dancers. He carried his instrument under his right arm, the bow dangling from the hook of his finger. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a sonorous voice, “animals, all. The next number will be a jig to the tune of ‘Colton’s Fancy.’ Please take your partners.” He hefted the violin to his neck and began sawing out a quick and vibrant tune, which was soon picked up by the ensemble behind him. The bear slapped mightily at the single string of his washtub bass, his claws giving the instrument’s low tones a fine edge; the girl with the banjo, a teenager in blond braids, focused in on her whirling fingers as she plucked out a staccato roll. The rhythm was held down by an acoustic guitar, wildly beaten by a mustachioed young man in overalls sitting on an upturned apple crate. The music soared over the crowd and wove its way between the rafters of the hall like a murmuration of sprites. From the first note, the crowd came alive, and Prue and Curtis were swept up into a whirlwind dance, all led by the band as the fiddle player occasionally pulled his instrument from his chin and called out instructions.
“Promenade!”
“Do-si-do!”
“And swing your partner, round and round!”
The two of them had spent enough time running square dances in gym class to keep up with the more basic moves; when they fell out of step, there were always plenty of revelers around to catch them up. By the time the song wound to a halt, their faces were flushed and strands of Prue’s bangs clung to her forehead, wet with sweat. They barely had time to catch their breaths before the fiddle player stepped forward to announce another number.
That was when the commotion sounded from the back of the hall.
A tussle of some sort had broken out near the door. The band tried gamely to play over the ruckus, but after a time, everyone’s attention was so diverted that they had to grind to a stop. The chill wind of the outside had been let into the hall; a shower of fine snowflakes blew frantic cyclones in the air, like unwanted revelers rushing into the room. Prue and Curtis looked over to see a grizzled old wolf with an eye patch scrapping in the open doorway with two members of the local constabulary. One of them was a hare wearing a colander on his head.
“Hands off, vipers!” the wolf was shouting. “Get yer mitts off me!”
Sterling, who’d been planted by the banquet table most of the evening, sprang into action. “What’s this?” he demanded of the constables. “Why’s this wolf being handled this way? Samuel?”
The hare stepped forward and, adjusting the rake of his colander, presented himself. “Chief Constable, we found this one in a ditch off the Long Road, babbling to himself in a very loud and disruptive manner. By my figuring, he was not comporting himself in an appropriate way in public. Reeks of drink, this one. He’s raving. Keeps talking the craziest things. I’d say he’s taken one to
o many flagons of poppy beer; he’s got the hallucinations. Anyways, I thought it was prudent to check in with ye before we haul him down to the drunk tank so’s he can sleep it off.”
The wolf had slumped down to his knees, and the two constables struggled to keep his arms secured. He now began to weep. His sobs came in sloppy waves, and huge tears welled and fell from his one unpatched eye.
Sterling, suddenly recognizing the drunkard, strove to contain his anger. Grabbing the wolf by the front of his worn military jacket, he hefted him to eye level. “Corporal Donalbain,” he hissed, “what do you have to say for yourself?”
The wolf’s weeping suddenly turned to fits of strange laughter as he was confronted by the chief constable. “Ha!” he said loudly. “Do yer worst, friend. Do yer worst.” His words were badly slurred, and flecks of spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. “I ain’t afeard of you shape-shiftin’ fffff-oxes.” He shoved free of Sterling and staggered a couple steps back, pulling his paws up as if he intended to challenge the fox to fisticuffs.
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Sterling. “You’re clearly off your rocker.”
“Wait a second!” This was Prue, who had raced from the dance floor to watch the commotion. “Shape-shifting foxes. The Kitsunes! What does he know about them?”
Curtis had followed her. He eyed the corporal with pity. “This is the wolf who warned us about the assassin. The real question is: What’s he even doing here?”
“Answer, wolf,” demanded Sterling. “Why are you out of hiding?”
But the corporal seemed oblivious to the fox’s demands. He was suddenly staring at Prue and Curtis, a horrified look on his face. He stumbled momentarily and reached for a nearby table, upsetting a platter of silver mugs in the process. “You!” he shouted. “You—children!”
“What’s the matter?” asked Curtis, inching forward.
“NO!” shouted the wolf shrilly. “NO! You—you’re supposed to be—to be dead!”
Prue and Curtis shared a worried look. “What are you talking about?” asked Prue.
“Away!” shrieked Donalbain. “Away, foul spirits! Back to the netherworld from whence ye came!” He had grabbed a slotted spoon from the table and began brandishing it wildly, like a sword. Those guests within swing range leapt to a safe distance. Sterling had drawn a pair of pruning shears, his weapon of choice, from his belt; Samuel pulled out a small gardening spade.
“Take it easy,” said Sterling. “Relax there, old man.”
Donalbain did not take his one eye off Prue and Curtis; it was wide and bloodshot and darted crazily in the cavity of his skull. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, and his yellow teeth were bared inside the matted gray of his muzzle. And then something changed in him, as a look of realization suddenly poured over his face and his mouth contorted into a severe pout. Tears sprang to his eye as he again collapsed into a heap on the floorboards.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he blathered. “So, so sorry.”
Despite Sterling’s sputtered objections, Prue ran to the wolf’s side. She put her arm on his shoulder. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
The wolf looked up at her tearfully. “Blast it all. Blast me. I’ve sold you away for the price of a pint of poppy beer.”
“What do you mean, sold me away?”
“You and the boy. And the old woman. All of ’em. Sold ’em down the river. And I’m ever so sorry.” His words were lost in a new torrent of sobs.
“Pull it together, man!” shouted Sterling. Prue waved him away angrily.
The wolf spoke again. “That demon liquid. That ambrosia, sweet and vile. It’s all I’ve got. It’s all I’ve got. Can you blame me? They came to me, those black foxes, in my hour of deepest need, and it seemed like such a small thing, then. Just to talk, that’s all they wanted. Words. And so I gave ’em their words, the ones they wanted, as it was such a small thing between me and more heavenly bliss. I told ’em: The boy and the girl’s done gone to the camp, the camp what’s snuck away in the Gap, and they’re hidden there, and the King too.”
Prue listened in shocked silence.
“What have you done?” whispered Curtis.
“And that was it!” moaned the wolf; his voice had devolved into a kind of mad singsong. “That was all I needed to do, and it seemed like such a small thing, then. But the dram’s dry and here be I, a wretched, wretched thing. No poppy beer to whet my thirst, but plenty of blood on my paws.” He held them out, his paws, and stared at them ruefully. “Look!” he shouted. “Blood! Reddest blood! The blood of children!” But all that was there was his gray fur, flecked with dirt.
They wasted no time in getting ready for the trip. Sterling managed to arrange for two saddled horses from a nearby farm’s stable, though he let fly an endless string of objections at the two children in the process. “This is crazy,” came one. “You’re going straight into the jaws of the enemy,” came another. “You’re riding a runaway train into a tunnel that leads into a station where there’s a welcome-home party from all your worst nightmares,” came a longer one.
“I agree with you there, that last one,” said Septimus, dutifully adhered to Curtis’s shoulder.
It was Curtis, mostly, who deflected these objections. He was intent on making it back to the bandit camp as quickly as possible. As he said, Brendan and the bandits had to be warned. He had defied his King’s orders and in doing so had not only risked the location of the hard-won camp but also put the entire bandit family in danger. The rat, for his part, agreed, though he’d not been a full-sworn bandit. In truth, there was no telling what these shape-shifting foxes would do to get to their quarry. And no bandit worth their salt would give up the secret of Prue’s location; they would rather die. This was a chief concern as well.
He spoke very little to Prue as they readied themselves for their flight. She could see the percolating resentment in his eyes but knew that he was fighting the urge to lash out at her. It was, after all, her fault that they’d come out of hiding. But it didn’t change the fact that Donalbain would’ve likely revealed their location anyway; and what then? No, she figured, Curtis was angry about his not being there, at the camp, at the hour of its greatest need. It was unbandit-like to abandon your family. And the bandits were his family now.
Above the distant peaks of the Cathedral Mountains, a storm could be seen brewing. Dark clouds hung and obscured the mountains’ tops as they climbed astride the horses and bid a quick farewell to the milling crowds outside the Long Hall. They wore heavy woolen stoles around their shoulders, given them by one of the farmers. It was approaching midnight; a sliver of moon peeked from behind a trough of clouds like a pale white eye. They kicked at the horses’ flanks and galloped off toward the Long Road.
They traveled fleetly over the snow-swept highway, which was all but empty of its daytime traffic. Prue took up the rear, as each time she tried to ride abreast of her friend, he would spur his horse forward and take the lead. They didn’t speak during their travels, stopping once to water the horses and eat the dried rations they’d packed in Prue’s knapsack. They’d stood awkwardly in silence, Curtis with his eyes downcast the whole time.
“Curtis,” Prue had ventured, “it’s okay. We’ll get there in time.”
He didn’t respond but abruptly chucked his half-eaten apple into the surrounding woods and climbed back onto his chestnut mare. “Come on, Septimus,” he said. The rat made brief eye contact with Prue, shrugged, and hopped onto the back of Curtis’s horse. Saddened by her friend’s silence, Prue dumbly followed.
The storm that had settled over the spine of mountains separating North Wood and Wildwood hampered their travel significantly. The visibility had been reduced to nearly zero as the way before them became engulfed in a dense white cloud. They wrapped their stoles around their faces to protect them from the driving snow. A warming hut had been built on the side of the road, where a tall stone cairn stood, and a light poured from the windows. As they passed, a man entreated them
to come inside, out of the cold. However, when Prue called to Curtis and suggested they take up the man’s offer, the look he shot her was enough to let her know what he thought of the idea. She thanked the man, then pressed the wool of the stole to her cheeks, and they continued on their way.
They traveled all night; Prue was dozing off in her saddle when Septimus, scouting ahead, called from the overhanging branches; he’d located one of the bandits’ secondary supply trails. Silently, they broke away from the road and began to follow it through the trees. The dark was dissipating now, giving way to an eerie film of light that saturated the snow-draped world around them. At this early hour, there was a renewed urgency in the way Curtis was traveling, watching the surrounding forest; he drove his horse on, kicking at her flanks, though it was clear that the animal desperately needed a rest.
“What is it?” Prue called, through the fog of her tiredness. Curtis didn’t answer. They followed the game trail for a while before they came to the wall of salal bushes and blackberry vines that concealed the entrance to the bandit encampment. Septimus was standing there, waiting for them.
“Take a look at this,” he said.
Someone—or something—had torn a massive hole in the clutch of green leaves and brown stalks, and Curtis leapt from his horse at the sight. The sharp, ashy smell of smoke was in the air. The understanding was mutual and wordless between the three riders; they’d come too late.
Just past the wall of bushes, where the green, mossy ground gave way to the abrupt cliff face, black, acrid clouds of smoke were issuing from the chasm. They wasted no time in rappelling down to the lower platform, where the rope walkway bridged the wide gap. There was no lamp glowing on the far side.
“What’s happened?” Prue rasped. “Where is everyone?”
They ran across the bridge and found that the lantern that had previously been used to announce visitors was thrown to the ground in a scattering of bent metal and broken glass. Prue ran her fingers along a scratch in the wood of the platform’s guardrail: white splinters scarred the worn surface. Some blood had been spilled. No sound came from the camp, farther along the walkways.
