Under Wildwood Page 6

  “But what about the interim government?” asked Curtis, remembering the charter that he had signed himself, along with many of the people who were present around the fire, that had established the temporary structure of government.

  “It’s still there, all right,” said the wolf, “just gettin’ more and more like a congregation of snakes every day. Almost straightaway, after the Owl Prince and the Bandit King and the Elder Mystic left”—here he looked each one in the eye, intoning their names as if they were only words from a storybook—“folks in the government got down to what they knew best: backstabbing and palm greasing. Suddenly, so-and-so weren’t so patriotic as he was before, according to folks in the Mansion. Then this so-and-so counters by sayin’ that at least he weren’t the one taking bribes on those poppy beer shipments or what-have-you. Which invites another so-and-so to discredit the lot and bring all the attention on himself. Suddenly, you’ve got a ‘interim government’ that ain’t as concerned about runnin’ things as they are makin’ sure their backsides are covered. Things get heated; suddenly so-and-so’s not only unpatriotic, according to his enemies, but he’s a collaborator from the Old Regime, and maybe he’s not done such a good job in his palm greasin’ and—boom—he’s in the prison. So the prison starts gettin’ fairly filled up, as you might expect. And suddenly, there’s a new ‘patriotic sentiment’ in the province, and everyone’s trying to out-patriot the other one, and people start gettin’ all misty eyed about the ‘legacy of the Coup’ or some such piffle. And now we all got to start wearin’ the sash of the revolution, and we all get stuck with these badges.” He thrust a claw at the sprocket brooch at his chest. “To remind yourself of the Great Bicycle Coup and all the good it done people. But this ain’t ordained or nothin’—no, no—no one’s tellin’ anyone else what to do, right? ’Cause it’s the New Society, right? We’re all free now.” The wolf laughed a little under his breath and held his arm straight across his chest in a severe salute. “But if you don’t be walkin’ around with one these brooches, well, ‘Citizen Donalbain is a Svikist and a counterrevolutionary!’

  “So I keep my head low and I do as I’m told and I wear the sash and badge and I sing ‘The Storming of the Prison’ and ‘Le Vélo Rouge’ when everyone else is, even when I’m sick to death of those damned treacly numbers. And I do all right for meself, don’t I? But now: With law all coddly-wobble and such, there’s hellions on the loose, and it ain’t safe to walk the streets at night so much.” The wolf coughed into his paw; he looked at Iphigenia imploringly. “Don’t suppose I could importune you for another mug of that fine North Wood poppy beer, could I? All this talkin’ brings up a mighty thirst.”

  The Elder Mystic nodded and called forward one of the milling attendants. The corporal was given a large mug of frothing liquid, which he lapped at thirstily before continuing.

  “But this ain’t the worst of it. Nah, not by a long shot. So this prison, you know: the one from the tune? The one that we stormed to free all those unjustly imprisoned bird citizens? Well, it’s just gettin’ all filled up again, ain’t it? But that ain’t a worry, ’cause all the name-calling and backstabbing has got to such a pitch that the real detractors, the real collaborators and Svikists, well—they’re just: skkkkkrrrk.” He made a kind of tearing noise with the back of his throat while he dragged a claw across his neck. “That makes things awfully tidy, don’t it?

  “But the worst of it—oh gods, the worst of it—is the Synod.” After saying these words, the wolf took a long pull off the mug of beer, as if to settle his nerves. “The council of the Caliphs, religious zealots pushed aside during the rule of the Svik dynasty in favor of a more secular society, now back in full force.”

  Curtis glanced over at Iphigenia and noticed that a very worried look had come over her face.

  The wolf continued, “Suddenly, everywhere you went you saw those hooded clowns on the street corners, jangling their little bells and reading their tracts on sanctuary and salvation, and when folks’ve got no food in the larder, well, those pamphlets and all their starry promises seem awful attractive. So then the congregation’s growing at the Blighted Tree and then you’ve got the Synod themselves, all hooded and masked as they are in their dark robes, walking through the streets of South Wood, bangin’ their gongs and swingin’ their smoky censers, and everyone’s out all starin’ and listenin’ to them carry on. And before you know it—and I swear to this, as I’ve seen it with my own eyes—I seen a few of the Caliphs wanderin’ the halls of Pittock Mansion itself, glad-handin’ with the pols and having closed-door meetings with commissioners and councilmen and what have you.”

  Curtis heard a groan; it came from Brendan, who now had his head in his hands.

  “Their influence is growing,” said Iphigenia solemnly. “We’ve known this to be so for a time now. The Council Tree has made us aware. This poison works at the root of the plant, my friends. If it is not cut out, our present circumstances will only be made worse.”

  “But what about Prue?” asked Curtis. “Who’s sent this assassin? The Caliphs?”

  The wolf knocked back the remaining poppy beer and set the emptied mug down on the hearth noisily. He licked his chops clean of foam. “Could be, could be,” he said. “Though it’s just as likely to be some faction from the Mansion—a real Old Regime Svikist. They still have a scrap of power, though they’re forced to scheme in secret.”

  “How do you have this information, then?” asked Brendan, his chin resting in his hands.

  “Like I said: I’ve made a good name for myself. I’ve kept my noggin intact.” A black claw tapped three times at his temple. “Kept my head low. Got a job in the Mansion intelligence service. Pushin’ paper. Tidy office job, right? So what if I watch a few reams of paper go by that might condemn a man to imprisonment or death? I’m watching out for myself. Anyways, they’ve got these Intuits working in the Mansion, folks who have the way to listen like the North Wooders—you know, can hear plants talk and such—and they’re just sittin’ out in the garden all day, listenin’ to the chatter among the leaves and trees for information. And they report to my office every day with what they’ve heard. Well, comes down from one of them—an awfully good Intuit, this one—that there’s word of an assassin, a Kitsune, no less, who’s been sent to murder the Bicycle Maiden. Seems like a big deal, right? I mean, she’s the hero of the revolution! But no sooner do I report this to my betters than they’re stampin’ the thing confidential and throwin’ it in a archived box to molder away in the deepest depths of the Mansion basement.”

  “But why?” asked Curtis.

  “Beats me,” replied the wolf. “And I don’t have much time to think about it; things start getting tense in the office, and suddenly I see another report come through from the Intuits sayin’ something about cleanin’ out the intelligence office, and I figure that means me; that they’re wipin’ out anybody who’s seen that bit of intel about the Bicycle Maiden. That’s what I guess anyways, so I finish my afternoon’s work—say I’m goin’ out for a quick bite to eat and I’m out of there, scramblin’ north as fast as my paws can carry me. You wouldn’t believe my feeling of relief when I managed to get across the North Wall and into Wildwood. Pure relief to be out of that cesspit.” The corporal reached for his mug again, forgetting he’d downed it, and attempted to take a long swig. He looked forlornly at the empty pewter mug and gave a pleading smile to Iphigenia.

  “In time, Corporal,” was her reply.

  Owl Rex spoke up. “Were you discovered? Does the Mansion know you’ve left with this information?”

  The wolf shrugged. “Dunno. Managed to slip the gate without too much hassle. Got roughed up one night in Wildwood, by the Ancients’ Grove. Some coyotes. Did this to me.” He pointed to his torn ear. “But otherwise, who knows?”

  “It’s not safe for you to return,” said Iphigenia. “You must stay here. In hiding.” She looked at the assembled circle and concluded, “As must we all. We are the face of the Bicycle Coup to
the people of South Wood. If they—whoever ‘they’ may be—intend to go after Prue, they’re likely to go after all of us.”

  “And what about Prue?” asked Sterling.

  “We need to get her to a safe place,” replied Owl. “And quickly.”

  “Where’s safe?” pressed the fox.

  Owl Rex looked over at Curtis and Brendan. “In the farthest redoubt of the wildest province. To the newfound camp of the Wildwood Bandits, in the deepest crevices of the Long Gap. If you will take her.”

  “Of course!” shouted Curtis. “She should come to the hideout!” Even though the prospect of Prue being hounded by a vengeful assassin was making him queasy, Curtis felt a jolt of excitement travel through his body: to think that he’d see his friend again!

  “Hold up, boyo,” interrupted Brendan, before turning to Iphigenia. “How did you know where the camp is?”

  “There are no secrets to the North Wood Mystics,” answered the old woman. She added: “While you may be beyond the ken of the Intuits, the tree knows all. It is important, should you take the girl, that we know where she is hidden. We are all brethren here.”

  Brendan seemed to take in this information with a certain amount of resignation. “Speaking of brethren,” he said, “there’s no sense bringin’ this all down on the bandits; they’ve not got a say in it. She’d be a dangerous fugitive. We’d be puttin’ the whole camp at risk.”

  “She’s got nowhere else to go,” said Iphigenia quietly.

  A silence came over the hall. The fire crackled noisily. Brendan deliberated while the eyes of the gathered attendants stayed on him.

  “Very well,” he said finally, reluctantly. “We’ll take her in. Gods know she saved my life once; it’s the least we can do to repay.” Here he wagged a finger at the Elder Mystic. “But if that Katchoony catches wind of our camp and comes sniffin’ around…”

  “Kitsune,” corrected Owl.

  “Whatever. As soon as it comes around—it’s time for one of you lot to take the ‘Maiden’ in. Agreed?”

  The Elder Mystic and Owl Rex nodded in unison. Curtis scooted forward and turned to Corporal Donalbain, who was by now looking as if he were about to nod off in his chair. “Jack,” he said, “what’s a Kitsune, anyway?”

  “Hmmph?” asked the wolf, clearly having been startled from a nascent stupor. “A Kitsune? Well, it’s a creature from the Shrine Groves at the edge of the Wood. A shape-shifter.”

  “Shape-shifter? What do you mean?”

  “Some folks say it’s an ancient aberration in the Woods Magic. Some say they’re demigods. But either way: A Kitsune is a black fox,” replied the wolf. “With the very incredible ability to transform itself, at will, into human form. The damndest thing. The damndest thing.” And with that, the wolf’s words trailed away, his snout coming to rest on the fabric of his coat, and he fell into a deep slumber.

  CHAPTER 5

  Enter the Assassin

  Abraided barista excused herself while she stretched her arm over Ms. Thennis’s head and pulled the cord to the neon OPEN sign in the café’s front window. It flickered a few times before turning off, and Prue looked up at the girl apologetically.

  “Sorry,” she said. “We’ll get out of your hair now.”

  The barista smiled and waved her hand. “Nah,” she said, “don’t worry about it. Looks like you two are having a serious conversation. I got a ton of cleanup to do, anyway. Take your time.”

  Out on the dark avenue, a red traffic light changed green, and the shine of passing headlamps flashed the front window. The last of the fading, dim light was rapidly disappearing behind the wall of trees just beyond the river’s ravine. Prue glanced up at the clock on the wall above the café bar: It was five thirty.

  “Shoot,” said Prue. “I should really get going.” Ms. Thennis was sitting beneath the taxidermied head of a moose. Prue hadn’t noticed it until that moment.

  “Yeah,” said Ms. Thennis, dazed. “Yeah.” She hadn’t touched her cappuccino; the milk foam had begun to look like Christmas tree flocking.

  Prue waited for her teacher to say something else, but nothing was coming. “I’m sorry to, like, burden you with all this. I know it sounds so crazy.”

  “Yeah,” repeated the teacher. She shook her head a little and rubbed her chin with a finger. A bracelet made of small wooden beads clattered against her wrist. “So, again: Curtis. Your friend. The one who went missing. He’s still there.”

  “Yeah,” said Prue.

  “With a band of bandits.”

  “Yeah. I mean, he’s a bandit himself now.”

  “Uh-huh,” replied Ms. Thennis. “Right. What about his parents?”

  “They don’t know.”

  Ms. Thennis seemed to blanch. “Okay.”

  “You swore yourself to secrecy, Ms. Thennis,” Prue reminded the teacher.

  Darla squirmed in her chair. “Yeah, well, I didn’t know your story would involve a missing child.” A pause. “So Curtis is just there? In the bandit camp?”

  “Yup. Totally safe. I’d even go so far as to say that he’s probably totally happy there.”

  “And where is this place? Like, where’s the camp?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Prue, scraping a fingernail at a little of the foamed milk residue on the edge of her mug. “Like I said: You wouldn’t be able to go in there anyway.”

  “Right. Magical barrier.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “But he’s safe?” Ms. Thennis leaned forward in her chair. “And this so-called Bandit King, this Brendan—is he in the hideout too?”

  “Yeah—that’s his home.”

  “Well, I can tell you I’m going to definitely have to let all this, well, settle for a bit. In my mind.” She sat back in her chair and wiped her hands on her gauzy, floral-patterned skirt. The room’s quiet was disturbed only by the occasional clacking of the barista and her juggled fleet of pitchers and mugs.

  “Sure,” said Prue. “Listen: I know that’s a lot to take in, but I can’t tell you how nice it is to have someone other than my parents to confide this stuff to. It’s been driving me crazy.”

  Darla allowed herself a smile. “No problem. But you have to get going, right? Walk you home?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  They walked in silence down the wet sidewalks, their shoulders hunched against the cold. The torrent of words and emotions that had positively poured out of Prue at the coffee shop haunted her; like an overly rich dessert you’d devour without a thought, the regret kicking in only once the last spoonful had been consumed, Prue was now wondering if confessing her wild adventure in the Impassable Wilderness had really been the best idea. Without turning her head, she glanced sideways at Darla, who was walking lost in her own thoughts, and inwardly cringed. What was going to happen now? Would Darla respect Prue’s wishes to keep this revelation to herself? Would she tell the police? Or Curtis’s parents? Her nose stung at the frigid wind, and she pulled her scarf higher against her cheeks. Maybe that was for the best, after all. Maybe Prue had been the one at fault here, not telling the Mehlbergs and letting them despair over the loss of their son.

  Curtis. What had Prue brought on him? What kind of wild life among bandits would he be leading? Would they be sufficient parents for a kid? Was Brendan really the right father figure for a boy to…

  Suddenly, something occurred to Prue. It revealed itself to her like the answer to a puzzle you’d contemplated for hours without seeing the easiest solution. And it made her spine go cold.

  “Hey,” she said. “Darla.”

  “Yeah?”

  “When we were talking back there, in the café, you said his name.”

  “Whose name?”

  “Brendan’s. The Bandit King.”

  “Uh-huh. So? Isn’t that his name?”

  Prue dug her hands deeper into her peacoat pockets. “Yeah, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t remember telling you his name. Before.”

&
nbsp; Quiet. A car passed. The muffled sound of a syncopated bass track reverberated from within.

  “You must’ve,” said Darla Thennis.

  “I don’t think I did.”

  Darla laughed a little. “Oh, Prue. You’ve been through a lot. You’re just confused. It’s totally understandable. Here, isn’t this your house?”

  The familiar front porch loomed on the sidewalk ahead.

  “Yeah,” said Prue. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to just chill out or something.” She looked into Darla’s eyes, black and empty in the streetlamp-less dark, and reached out her hand. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for listening.”

  Darla, grasping with both hands, holding tightly, saying: “Of course. See you tomorrow.”

  Pulling from the handshake, Prue mounted the steps to her front door. Light from the living room descended from the house onto the yard, and a weave of leftover Christmas lights winked on the steps’ banister. Prue felt unsettled as she climbed; reaching the front door, she paused at the handle and turned. Ms. Thennis was still standing on the sidewalk, her face obscured in the blank dark. The figure waved. Prue waved back and walked into her house.

  Whatever uneasiness she was feeling disappeared immediately as she stepped into the foyer of her family’s home. Instead, she was overcome by a scent so pungent and all-consuming that it seemed to dispel all other thoughts from her mind. Pickles. She crinkled her nose and shouted, “What is that?”

  Her dad appeared from the kitchen, wearing long rubber gloves and holding what appeared to be a mossy clump of greenishness. “Oh, hi, honey,” he said. He quickly slipped back into the kitchen. Prue shed her peacoat, kicked off her Wellies, and followed her dad. “What’s that smell?” she asked.

  In the kitchen, her mother and father were staring at a large brown crock in the middle of the cork floor.