Under Wildwood Read online

  Elsie smiled a confused thank-you to the boy before stuffing the paper into the pocket of her skirt. She skipped back to stand at the ruffled hem of her mother’s dress, listening to Miss Mudrak say, “And I will leave you to say your good-byes.”

  David knelt down and took his two daughters in his arms, clutching them tightly to his shoulders. His voice was quiet, choked. “My girls,” he said. “My girls. We’re going to find your brother. We’re going to find him, so help me God. And we’re going to bring him back so we can be a family again. A whole family.”

  Rachel began to cry. Elsie stood with her face plastered into the fabric of her father’s corduroy sports coat, smelling his musky aftershave and wondering why she wasn’t crying too. She felt her mother’s hands on her shoulders. Lydia Mehlberg didn’t speak, but Elsie could feel her begin to sob; the convulsions sent little spasms down her arms.

  “Be good, girls,” was all she managed to say.

  Then, David and Lydia began to extricate themselves from their daughters’ arms and make their way back to the car. Rachel was the hardest to leave; she tore desperately at her father’s clothes, trying to hold on. And then they were gone, the family’s black sedan crunching down the gravel drive back into the dark, snowy corridors of the Industrial Wastes. Elsie and Rachel stood on the landing by the building’s front doors, watching them go. Their breath made little plumes of mist in the air above their heads. Remembering, Elsie reached into her pocket and pulled out the piece of paper the boy had given her. Slowly, she unfolded it and read the words that were scrawled on the yellowed surface:

  CHAPTER 4

  The Corporal’s Story

  “Prue!”

  …

  “PRUE!”

  Wind. The rustle of leaves.

  “Prue McKeel! Can you hear me?”

  It was a woman’s voice, a voice that Prue recognized, but only slightly. It was like hearing the sound of a familiar song over the loud thrum of a noisy restaurant. The voice made her think of safety. And cell mitosis. And patchouli.

  It was the voice of Darla Thennis, her Life Science teacher.

  “Are you okay?” asked Darla, her face blocking the dark sky.

  Prue groaned. “I—I think so,” she managed to say.

  The teacher helped Prue to a seated position on the snowy ground. Prue’s legs felt numb; her pants were icy cold and wet and clung tenaciously to her legs. She guessed she hadn’t been lying there long; the day didn’t seem much progressed. She began to piece together the events that led to her passing out: the walk to the bluff and then the noise. But she’d seen something, hadn’t she? Something startling. It came back to her in a sharp vision: the black fox. And then the screaming, deafening hiss. Prue craned her neck to look over the precipice of the bluff and scanned the ground below. The fox was gone. She looked over at Ms. Thennis.

  “What are you doing here?” Prue asked.

  “I’d ask you the same,” replied the teacher, rubbing her bare hands together. The tips of her fingernails were black with mud. “Interesting place to come walking.” She searched the horizon. “Just having a nice gander at the Impassable Wilderness?”

  “I was just wandering,” said Prue. “And then I …” She paused, unsure of how much she should reveal to her teacher. She hadn’t mentioned anything of the plants’ voices to anyone—she was sure she’d be seen as a lunatic. “And I just became really light-headed.”

  “It’s been a tough day,” said Ms. Thennis, standing up from her squatted position. There were bits of dead grass clinging to her skirt, and she wiped them away before she offered her hand to Prue. “Come on, I’ll buy you a steamed milk. You need to warm up.”

  They made their way to the coffee shop on Lombard and slid into the opposing chairs of a table at the front window. The server brought a cappuccino for Darla; the steam from a mug of honey-sweetened milk warmed the air in front of Prue. They talked for a while about the snow, the dreary Portland winters. Darla sketched out her childhood for Prue, her love for books and music, her military dad who kept moving the family around. She talked about being a “real hippie” in high school and how she followed some jam band around the country, selling hemp jewelry in the parking lot during the shows.

  “Do you like music?” asked Darla.

  “Yeah, I like some bands. I don’t know. I’m kind of nerdy when it comes to music. Like, I’ve recently started listening to a lot of Cajun stuff. Do you know it?”

  “Like, accordion music?”

  “Yeah,” said Prue, feeling herself blush.

  “Wow, kid,” said Darla, taking a hit off her coffee. “You are nerdy.”

  They shared a fit of laughter together, which died away to a calm silence. They both looked out the window and watched the cars shshing by. A man struggled to open a newspaper box. Prue turned her head to watch her teacher across the table silently; the woman raised her mug to her lips with an almost inhuman grace.

  The truth of the matter was that Prue had long kept the secret of her adventures in the Impassable Wilderness from her Outsider peers—only ever speaking of the harrowing events that unfolded there to her mother and father, who tended to greet mention of the place with a saddened frown. The entire incident only dredged up memories of lost children and sleepless nights for them. Mac ended up being the best and only confidant for her, someone who would appear to listen without judgment as she wondered what events continued to transpire beyond the wooded wall—and he was barely receptive, babbling “Pooo!” every time she took a pause in her speaking. It often occurred to Prue that it was a tremendous weight to be carrying about; she longed to share her secret with the world.

  As if reading Prue’s mind, Darla set down her mug and fixed her companion with a look of wide-eyed confidence. “Do you ever wonder?” she asked.

  Prue knew she was speaking of the Impassable Wilderness, though she thought it was too weird how matched their thinking was. “About what?” she asked.

  “The Impassable Wilderness. Like, what’s beyond it?”

  “I guess so.” Prue could feel her heartbeat speeding up.

  “I used to hang with these kids, back when I was just out of high school. My parents lived in Hillsboro, and we used to stand at the edge of the I.W. and just … stare. And wonder. Just like you were doing, I suppose. Back on the bluff, there. This old boyfriend of mine—he was a little loony—he used to swear up and down that he’d seen things in the trees. Like, animals—but ones that walked upright. He even said that one tried to talk to him once.” She waved her hand dismissively, miming the boyfriend’s crazy mental state.

  Prue couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Can I tell you something?” she asked finally.

  Darla looked at Prue quizzically. “Yeah, sure.”

  “This is going to sound really weird, I’m warning you.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “And you’re the first to hear this, other than my parents.”

  “That’s what teachers are for, Prue.”

  A deep breath. “I’ve been in there.”

  Darla’s eyes widened.

  “Into the Impassable Wilderness.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” said Prue. “And you wouldn’t believe what happened.”

  Prue felt an enormous weight lift from her shoulders.

  A blast of hot air greeted Curtis as he walked into the enormous hall, and his glasses immediately fogged up. He stumbled forward a few steps, feeling the stone floor beneath his boots, until he stepped on something soft.

  “OW!” came a voice from below him. It was Septimus. “Watch where you’re walking!”

  “Sorry!” said Curtis, yanking the glasses from his face. He opened his coat and began wiping the lenses clean with the hem of his shirt. His vision was intensely blurred without his glasses on, but even so he could see that a massive conflagration in a central fire pit provided the long hall its warmth and light. It glowed in the center of the room like a sun. He could make
out the misty silhouettes of figures around the fire; they began to move toward him. He fed his cleaned glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. What he saw made him smile.

  “Iphigenia!” he said, recognizing the approaching figures. “Mr. Fox!”

  “H’lo, Curtis,” said the fox, a toothpick hanging jauntily from his teeth. He stuck out a red paw, and Curtis shook it happily.

  Iphigenia watched the exchange, and when Curtis turned to her, she grasped him by the shoulders. Her gray hair hung strawlike to touch the rough weave of her sackcloth robe. Her eyes, mottled green and deep, quickly sized him up. “I’d say you’ve grown a bit since last I saw you, Bandit Curtis,” she said, “but how can that be?”

  He felt a hardy slap on his back; Brendan stood behind him, smiling. “That’s what a few months of rigorous bandit training will do to a lad.”

  “Welcome to our province, Bandit King,” said Iphigenia, her eyes still searching Curtis’s. When she appeared satisfied, she turned to Brendan and bowed.

  “Hrrmph,” said Sterling Fox gruffly. “If my grandfather Chester had lived to see this day; Wildwood Bandits in North Wood.” The slightest wisp of a smile played on his face.

  “Indeed!” exclaimed Brendan, his arms akimbo. He made a show of surveying the interior of the long hall. “Hope you made a careful log of all the valuables that you’ve got stashed about,” he said. “I don’t intend to rob ye blind, but I can’t speak for my comrade here.” He nudged Curtis playfully. “An ace on the pickpocketing, this one. Could steal the lip ring from a sultan’s concubine!”

  “He’s joking,” explained Curtis, embarrassed. “We won’t take anything.” He paused, then corrected himself. “But yeah, I’ve gotten fairly good at that.”

  “Very impressive, my boy,” said Iphigenia. “You’ve taken to the bandit way of life with gusto.”

  “Still needs help with his horsemanship, I understand.” This was Owl Rex, folding one massive wing around Curtis’s shoulders.

  “How do you know that?” Curtis asked, chastened.

  “We have eyes,” said Owl. “We are the creatures of the air, after all.”

  Brendan looked down on his recruit proudly. “He’ll get there, I have no doubt.”

  “But come!” said Iphigenia, taking Curtis’s hand. “To the fire pit. We have much to talk about and very little time to do so.” There was a new sadness in her eyes, Curtis couldn’t help but notice; she seemed to have grown impossibly old since he’d seen her last. Her fingers felt like fragile twigs in his hand; they felt as if they would dissipate into ash at the slightest pressure.

  Iphigenia guessed at his concern. “Rationing, my boy,” she said sadly. “Takes a toll on old bones.” She waved a gaunt hand to the surrounding hall. “’Tis the winter of our discontent. I believe one of your Outsider poets penned the line. Hard times are upon the North Wood. And we are not alone in our misery.”

  “That’s what the heron—Maude—said. She also said Prue was in danger. What’s happening?” Curtis ventured, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  A frown was set on Iphigenia’s wizened face. “Indeed,” she murmured. “That is a chief concern. But it is a symptom of a much larger problem.”

  The group walked toward the heat of the central fireplace, a circular stone hearth surrounded by a series of low benches. The warm glow of the fire sent shadows flickering through the darkened hall, and Curtis could see spectral figures hovering just beyond the reach of the light.

  “What is this place?” Curtis asked as he felt Owl’s wing guide him to sit at one of the benches. One of the shadowy figures glided into view, carrying a glass and a pitcher of water. It was a young boy, and he wore a robe similar to Iphigenia’s. He silently handed Curtis the glass and filled it with the clear liquid.

  “The Great North Hall,” answered Owl Rex, finding his seat on the far side of the fire pit from Curtis. “In my grandfather’s time, it was a gathering place for Woods folk from all provinces who wished to share ideas beyond the reach of the Mansion’s many ears and eyes.”

  “And so it must be again,” said Iphigenia, waving another robed attendant, his arms filled with chopped wood, to the fireside. At the Elder Mystic’s command, the attendant fed the logs onto the fire and the flames grew, licking at the large copper hood that was suspended from the hall’s wooden rafters. The explosion of light revealed the true size of the hall, its corners reaching far away from the central hub of the hearth. The vaulted ceiling towered above the building’s milling occupants, and Curtis could make out the sprightly motion of a few swallows diving and twisting between the rafters.

  “All present?” asked Sterling, eyeing the gathered figures as they murmured approval and found their places on the wooden benches. Curtis counted the ones that had stepped forward: He, Brendan, Owl, Iphigenia, and Sterling all sat equidistant from one another, facing each other over the curling tendrils of the fire. There was only one figure Curtis didn’t recognize; he’d joined the circle last, issuing from the darkness like a ghost from the ether. He was a gray wolf, and he wore the colors of the South Wood Guard: a smart khaki officer’s coat, all natty wool and brass buttons, with a sash attached at the shoulder displaying the tricolor of the South Wood Reformation: green, gold, and black. The wolf wore two chevrons on his left shoulder, which seemed to indicate a high rank, and on his right lapel, oddly enough, he’d pinned a brooch that appeared to be a small, toothy bicycle sprocket. A black eye patch reduced the wolf’s usable eyes to one, and his left ear appeared to be half chewed off.

  Iphigenia spoke. “My friends, it is dire times. Dire times, indeed. The winter has taken hold of our poor, embattled country and has refused to let go. Even now, as we speak, the gentlefolk of North Wood line up for their rations and hoard what little food they have in their stores for the worst of emergencies. In my time as the Elder Mystic—alas, even since I was a Yearling—I have not seen a time of such despair.”

  Curtis eyed the figures present. Owl nodded gravely while Sterling Fox took a long, ponderous drag off his clay pipe. The strange wolf stared silently into the glow of the fire.

  “What is to blame?” continued the Elder Mystic. “I have spoken with the tree, and as yet I have no satisfactory answer. Certainly, the winter is unforgiving in its harshness. But I feel I would be remiss if I did not voice my suspicions: that there is a disease in the land that goes deeper than the whims of weather. The unrest in South Wood is a poison to us all. And it must be removed at its root.”

  “Unrest?” Curtis spurted out. “What about the revolution? Wasn’t that supposed to fix everything?”

  The mysterious wolf coughed up a withering laugh at this remark. Everyone’s eyes fell on the figure by the fire.

  “Curtis, Brendan,” said Iphigenia, “meet Corporal Donalbain. He’s risked his life to be here; I’m sure you’ll find what he has to say very interesting.”

  The corporal huffed a greeting and took a long final draw from a wooden pipe clenched in his teeth. Wisps of smoke drifted from his gray snout as he tapped the contents of the pipe into his paw and scattered it on the ground. “How do you do,” he said. His voice sounded like a metal rake being dragged across loose gravel. “Call me Jack.” He leaned forward and placed the pipe on the edge of the fire pit.

  “Corporal Donalbain has come directly from South Wood,” explained Iphigenia. “He has traveled those many miles secretly, and by foot. His commanding officers do not know he is here; he has placed his station—indeed, his very life—at risk to bring us this information. His good conscience has impelled him.”

  “Is this the boy?” asked Jack, lifting his snout to Curtis. “You’re friends with the girl—the half-breed girl. Prue?”

  “Yes,” said Curtis, feeling himself moving forward on his bench seat. “Is she okay?”

  The wolf was silent for a moment before speaking. “She’ll be dead before the evening. Of that, I have no doubt.” He scanned the attending circle of listeners. “They’ve sent an assassi
n.”

  Curtis felt all the muscles in his body tighten in a quick jolt. His mouth went completely dry. Brendan, sitting at his left, growled angrily.

  “Who would do such a thing?” asked Brendan. “And I thought you South Wooders considered her to be some sort of hero—the Bicycle Maiden or some such hogwash. Did she not, with this lad here, bring on your great revolution?” The ire was rising in his voice. “And did we not, we Irregulars, cut our flesh and spill our blood for your precious safety while you were all about throwin’ them birds into prison for nought? And this is how you choose to move on?” In his anger, he had nearly tipped off his bench. He steadied himself on the lip of the rock hearth.

  “Easy, Bandit King,” soothed Owl Rex. “Your sacrifices have not been forgotten.” He waved a wing in the direction of the corporal, who was listening, disinterestedly, to Brendan’s rant. “He is a friend. The good corporal is an ally.” When the room had quieted, the Owl continued, “Please, Corporal Donalbain, tell our bandit friends who ‘they’ are.”

  “Well, that’s the tricky bit, ain’t it?” said the wolf dryly. “No telling who’s the responsible party, really. I mean, I’ve got a fairly clear idea, but there ain’t no way of proving it. They’ve come to be pretty handy at passin’ blame, they have. Ever since the Emergency.”

  Curtis moistened his lips and spoke: “The Emergency? What’s that?”

  “I spoke of poison,” interjected Iphigenia. “This is the poison.”

  “It’s what’s left of the government in South Wood, ever since you lot left us to our own devices,” continued the wolf. “Though most folks don’t call it that; it’d be seditious, they say. But me? I’ll call it as I see it. And it’s as good a description of the cock-up of that formerly great province as any.”

  “What happened?” asked Brendan, regaining his seat.

  “Nothing. That’s what happened,” responded Jack. “Too much of nothing. Lots of people comin’ forward demandin’ reparations, and no one willing to take the blame. Once the workin’ people got over the romance of the thing, this Bicycle Coup, they started realizin’ there weren’t no government for to take care of ’em.”