Under Wildwood Page 2

  “Bethany?” Ms. Thennis asked. “I don’t suppose you’d be ready to exhibit your project, considering that Miss McKeel’s father has made it impossible for her to exhibit her own?”

  Bethany Bruxton, relishing the moment, shot a condescending glance at Prue before standing to attention. “Yes, Ms. Thennis,” she replied.

  “Please,” corrected the teacher, “it’s Darla.”

  Bethany smiled shyly and said, “Darla.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, then …” Darla Thennis waved the student to the front of the room.

  Tugging at the hem of her black turtleneck, Bethany walked to the far side of the classroom, where a long table held a variety of students’ projects. Opening the door of a lamp-lit greenhouse, Bethany removed a tall, flourishing tomato plant and walked it to the front of the class.

  “This semester, I’m working on grafting,” she said, cradling the plant in her arms. “The idea is to create a more disease-resistant plant, and one that will produce totally delicious tomatoes.”

  Ugh, thought Prue. What a showoff. They’d been class partners the fall semester, and Bethany had gone out of her way to sideline Prue in all their experiments. She’d taken full credit for the leaf collage they’d made, even though Prue had collected all the ochre-colored oak leaves herself.

  Ms. Thennis nodded along with Bethany’s speech. “Rad,” said Darla Thennis. Prue glared.

  “Thanks, Darla. I’m happy to report that it’s doing really well,” Bethany continued. “And the graft seems to be taking. And while there’s no fruit to report as yet, I expect in a couple of weeks we’ll start to see a few nice blooms.”

  “Very cool,” prompted Darla, inviting the class to join in. The seventh graders in third-period Life Science murmured a collective, but decidedly unenthusiastic, ooh at the teacher’s behest. Prue stayed silent.

  She was listening.

  The tomato plant was issuing a low, angry hum.

  Prue scanned the room to see if anyone else heard this. Everyone was staring listlessly at Bethany.

  The hum was getting louder; it quavered as it hitched upward in volume. As it grew, it became clear that it was a hum of discomfort and frustration.

  Sorry, thought Prue, directing her thoughts to the plant. She could certainly sympathize; it wasn’t even the plant’s proper season and here it was: being grown in a science class hothouse. And she couldn’t imagine having had a fellow tomato plant’s limb grafted onto your stalk. It was positively barbaric!

  The tomato plant seemed to heave a sigh.

  Prue had an idea. You know what would be funny? she thought.

  RMPPH, hummed the tomato plant. Prue laid it out.

  Suddenly, Bethany flinched her head backward, crinkling her nose. The students gasped. It had appeared, for a split second, that the top leaf of the tomato plant had actually slapped Bethany in the nose. It was evident that Ms. Thennis had not seen it; she shot a glare over the classroom. “Now kids, c’mon,” she said.

  Gasp! the classroom heaved again. It had happened once more; the topmost limb of the small, green tomato plant had feinted upward and undeniably given its holder another swift swat across the nose. A look of bewildered terror had spread across Bethany’s face, and she began holding the plant at arm’s length. Following the students’ gaze, a very confused Ms. Thennis turned to watch Bethany as she inched toward the little greenhouse.

  “M-maybe it needs a little more time,” managed Bethany, her face grown perfectly pale. She gingerly placed the plant back in the glass confines of the greenhouse and backed away. “It was totally healthy this morning.”

  A low, satisfied whistle had replaced the tomato plant’s unhappy hum.

  Ms. Thennis’s eyes swiveled to Prue; she stared at her with shock and disbelief. Prue smiled and returned her gaze to the window, to the falling slush beyond the glass and to the gathering puddles in the rain-swept streets.

  FROM THE DESK OF LEE BREAM, PRINCIPAL

  GEORGE MIDDLE SCHOOL

  Date: 2/15/—

  Anne and Lincoln McKeel

  Parents of Prue McKeel

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. McKeel:

  Since your daughter’s admission to this school last year, she has proved herself to be a bright and independent thinker. Her promise was judged to be very great.

  It saddens me, however, to report that this promise has been somewhat clouded of late. Since the beginning of last term, her grades have fallen precipitously, and her behavior in class has been reported as being—across the board—uncharacteristic. She has shown little of her former interest in her schoolwork and has taken to exhibiting a very unbecoming attitude to her teachers. The bearer of this note, Ms. Darla Thennis, has kindly volunteered to speak to you on this subject, and we hope that her involvement can lead to a happy resolution.

  We understand that the crisis your family underwent earlier in the school year, the disappearance of your young son, must have been incredibly difficult. We are aware of the effect that such trauma can have on the minds of our children. However, we would wish to get to the bottom of any unfortunate backsliding and nip the problem in the bud lest it should become insurmountable and lead to a promising student being suspended, or worse—expelled.

  Sincerely,

  Lee Bream

  Principal, George Middle School

  Prue lowered the letter from her eyes, allowing the faces of the three adults in the kitchen to rise over the page like the orbiting moons of some distant planet. The room was silent, save for the regular sproing coming from Prue’s little brother Mac’s doorjamb-mounted bouncing chair.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” she offered.

  Sproing.

  Her mother and father shared a concerned glance. “Hon,” said her mother, “perhaps you should…”

  Sproing.

  Prue’s dad looked away from his wife to the dashiki’d teacher, the third of this celestial triumvirate. She was leaning against the refrigerator.

  “Ms.…,” began Prue’s dad.

  Sproing.

  “Please,” said the teacher, her gaze transfixed on the little boy in the bouncing chair, “call me Darla.” She seemed to be waiting for the next loud—

  Sproing.

  “Darla,” continued Prue’s dad, “I have to say this comes as a complete shock to us, I mean …” Sproing. “It’s been a difficult few months, for sure, but we feel like this is inevitable, considering the kind of …” Sproing. “Craziness that we’d all been through at the beginning of the year and …” Sproing. He paused, noticing that Darla’s attention was being forcibly diverted to the bouncing child in the baby seat with every contraction of the seat’s spring.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, finally, to his wife, “would you mind taking Mac out of that thing for a second?”

  Once Mac had been removed from the bouncing chair and Prue’s mother had returned to the kitchen, the discussion recommenced. Darla Thennis: “Listen, I know what you’re going through—this is all very normal for a child of her age—we just don’t want her to fall too far behind.”

  Prue remained silent. She studied the three adults intently. They were talking about her as if she weren’t even in the room. It made her all the more disinclined to include herself. She kicked her Wellies against the cork-tiled floor and attempted to imagine her three interrogators away. She envisioned an earthquake sending a jagged crack through the middle of the kitchen, consuming the adults in one swift tremor.

  Darla evidently caught on to Prue’s disconnectedness and began speaking directly to her. “Hon, your final exams last semester were dismal; it’s like you’re not even there in class, like your head is just somewhere else—in some faraway place.”

  It is, thought Prue.

  “And don’t even get me started on your absences,” said Darla, looking over at Prue’s parents.

  “Absences?” This came from Prue’s mother. “What absences?”

  Darla fixed her gaze on Prue.
“You want to tell them?”

  “Well,” said Prue, looking up from her boots, “there have been just a few days…”

  “A few days?” sputtered her dad, staring at his daughter in disbelief.

  “A few days where I didn’t quite make it in time and I thought, Well, that means I miss homeroom, and if I miss homeroom, that means I won’t be ready for World Studies, and if I wasn’t ready for that—how was I going to manage in math?” She waved her hands in front of her face, as if conjuring the disorienting mists of a dense fog. “It was like a long line of dominoes falling. I decided to just bag it and read at the coffee shop.”

  Prue’s father smiled sheepishly and looked at Ms. Thennis. “At least she’s reading, right?”

  His wife ignored the comment. “And this … this … domino thing—happened on several occasions?” she asked, her eyes boring into Prue’s bangs, which were now conveniently covering her downcast face.

  “Five, to be precise,” answered Ms. Thennis.

  “Five?” pronounced Prue’s father and mother, in unison.

  “FITHE!” came Mac’s voice from the living room. “POO! FITHE!”

  “Ugh,” said Prue.

  But the truth was that she hadn’t been reading at the coffee shop. And she hadn’t really even “not made it in time” to school. The truth was that Prue McKeel, twelve years old, would sometimes wake up in her comfortable bed, in her comfortable house, with her comfortable family, and feel a very sudden and very sharp tug. On those days, she’d pull herself out of bed and try her best to go through the repetitions of her daily life—to ignore this mysterious tug—but sometimes she’d get as far as her bike and she’d feel compelled to pedal it in the opposite direction of her school. And this tug would be guiding the way. It would tug her down Lombard and tug her past the opening shops and tug her down Willamette and tug her past the college until this strange tug would deposit her, bike and all, on the bluff, overlooking that vast fabric of trees across the river that was the Impassable Wilderness. And that’s where she would spend the better part of the day, just staring at that wide field of green. Remembering. On those days, the thought of going to school seemed perfectly out of the question.

  The snap of a finger. “Hellooo?” chimed her mother. “I swear it’s like your brain’s been abducted by aliens or something.”

  Prue calmly looked each of the three adults in the eye, one after another. “Mom,” she said, “Dad, Ms. Thennis—I’m sorry, Darla. I appreciate you bringing these concerns to my attention, and I’m sorry for any disappointment I might’ve caused. Excuse me, but I’d like to go on a walk right now. I will meditate on everything you guys have said.”

  And with that, she turned heel and walked out the back door, leaving a flummoxed huddle of grown-ups watching her depart.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Messenger; Another I.W.

  They were an odd assemblage: the two young boys, the two young girls, the large man in a top hat, the skinny bearded man in a dress, and the rat. They stood in a line in the middle of the wide, snow-covered road, watching as two riders approached on horseback. When the riders arrived and had dismounted, the man in the dress stepped forward from the line.

  “Brendan,” he said, in greeting. He was visibly shivering; the chiffon of his frayed gown rippled in the chill breeze. His posture was hunched, his arms folded across his chest.

  “William,” replied the man, serious, nodding a chin that was forested in a deep tangle of red whiskers. He wore a fairly dirty officer’s coat and a pair of riding britches, patched at the knees. A blue-black tattoo snaked up the side of his forehead. He studied the salmon-gowned man for a time before a smirk rolled out across his mouth. “The pink,” he said, “really … brings out your eyes.”

  The top-hatted man stifled a laugh. Curtis, standing just behind the bandit William, joined in on the laughter; he was rewarded for this by a penetrating glare from Brendan.

  “Who said this was funny?” he shot at Curtis, again serious. The smile abruptly disappeared from the boy’s face. A wind had picked up, blowing the remaining flurries of snow sideways across the road, and the little flakes clung obstinately to the fur of Curtis’s hat.

  “Henry, William. Back to camp.” The man in the top hat and the man in the dress scampered away, the latter doing this with some difficulty until he’d hiked the hem of his skirt above his pale, hairy knees. Brendan returned his gaze to the remaining bandits. “Colm: Mind your horsemanship. You were pushing too hard. You’ve got to have a better feel for your mount.” He held his leather-gloved hands out to model his words. “Let up on the reins; feel the strain of the horse. Only urge on when you’ve got the power to do so.”

  “Aye, Brendan,” responded Colm.

  “Now, back to camp. Get ice on that pony’s shin. And it’s two more weeks of horsemanship for you.” Brendan watched as the boy jogged away toward a limping horse in the distance.

  Looking back at the line of four: “Carolyn, solid job. The hard work you’ve been putting in—it shows. Quite an improvement from last week’s drill. As for you, Aisling.” Here he smirked a little—Aisling was the pursuer who had been clotheslined by the cedar bough. There were still bits of twig and moss in her hair, and her face was smeared with tree sap. “Not so cocky next time, eh?”

  “Aye, Brendan,” responded Aisling, chastened.

  “Now back to camp with ye.” The two girls sprinted from the line as if they were running a dash and had just been waiting for the starter pistol. Only Aisling hazarded a look backward. She gave Curtis a quick, reaffirming smile—a moment that he barely had an opportunity to enjoy before the wiry whiskers of Brendan’s beard were inches from his forehead. They smelled like wet dog.

  “As for you,” began Brendan, drawing out the words in a low growl. “As for you: I’ve lost too many good bandits who made that same move. They think it’s all in the bag, everything’s taken care of, and BANG.” His hand, shaped like a pistol and pointed at Curtis’s forehead, gave a little recoil. “Dead. All because of what?”

  “They didn’t consider the passenger.”

  “They didn’t WHAT?”

  “THEY DIDN’T CONSIDER THE PASSENGER!”

  “Right,” said Brendan. “Biggest mistake you can make. Not only is the passenger just as likely to be armed as anyone, he’s likely to be the most dangerous—in my time, I’ve seen more than one jumped-up banker come out of a carriage with pistols blazing, all panicked, and take out more of his own armed guards than bandits. Never open that door—don’t even approach it—till you’re sure whoever’s inside isn’t going to come out fighting. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” responded Curtis, nervously adjusting his furry cap. Brendan reached up and gave the ushanka a firm pat, pushing the brim down over Curtis’s eyes.

  “Good,” said Brendan, his voice softening. “I’d hate to lose our most promising recruit.”

  Curtis beamed. It was the first time he’d heard such praise from the Bandit King during these many weeks of intensive training. It had been hard initially; for some reason, even mounting the pony without nearly toppling sidelong to the ground took a good two weeks to master, and Brendan hadn’t passed up a single opportunity to hector him for it. But he could feel he was improving; he knew that Brendan did not give such commendations lightly.

  Septimus cleared his throat. “Um,” inserted the rat, “what about me? Did you see that move? Straight down his back!”

  Looking down at the rat: “Very good, Septimus. But an easy target; you know Henry’s squeamish about rodents. He’s going to be traumatized for weeks.”

  Septimus cracked his knuckles. “It’s a joy to have such an effect on a man.”

  The Bandit King laughed before saying, “You two will make fine coach-robbers. I have no doubt.” His voice went steely as he continued, “Though I can’t say that you’ll have a chance to practice on the real thing.”

  This much was true: For the past few months, the rustling parties that ha
d been sent out from the camp had been coming back empty-handed. There were fewer and fewer carriages on the road these days, and those travelers that did brave the frozen path were rarely carrying anything more than a few bushels of dried onions and wilted winter greens. It was severe enough for Curtis to notice; the elder bandits were all grumbling how it had been among the worst dry spells they’d ever seen. They said it was a herald of bad times.

  The wind picked up, and a new front of falling snow moved through the trees. Winter was in full sway, and the light felt ever dim, even at midday. But now, at the first breath of evening, a dark mist was settling over the branches and obscuring the distant bends of the Long Road. Brendan shivered in his coat and gestured to the two remaining bandits-in-training. “That’s enough for today—let’s get back to the camp. There are many more points to review, and we have to be ready for tomorrow’s …” His voice dropped away as they began their walk toward the awaiting horses. Something had caught his attention. He brought up his hand. “Hold,” he said. “Something’s coming.”

  Curtis and Septimus froze; they hadn’t heard anything. Septimus sniffed the air briefly before scrambling up Curtis’s pant leg and coat to arrive at his shoulder. Again he sniffed the air. “Bird?” he said.

  Brendan, his hand still an open palm, nodded. “A big one.”

  Suddenly, a crashing noise exploded from the canopy of trees above them, sending a flurry of smaller birds twittering away. A shower of broken branches toppled to the road below. The horses in the road spooked and whinnied. Brendan’s hand went instinctively to the saber hilt at his side. Out of the sky fell the crumpled form of something blue and gray and feathered. It slammed into the ground with a pained squawk; a spray of dirt and snow erupted at its landfall.