Under Wildwood Page 9

  “On your list,” repeated Desdemona, clearly unimpressed. “Darling, this is your chance. Put this machine parts thing behind you. Become your dream of childhood: producer of movies. Yes? This is prize to keep eye on, yes?”

  “Yes, Desdemona,” said Joffrey.

  “Who needs Titan of business? Be Titan of movies!”

  “Yes, Desdemona.”

  “So you will speak to Mr. Vigman?”

  “Yes, I’ll speak to Mr. Vig—Mr. Wigman.”

  “And you will procure visa?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Give me kiss, my little kapusta.”

  The man did as he was instructed. Desdemona patted him affectionately on the cheek when she pulled away. “Now you have to work to do, yes?”

  “Yes. Closer every day.”

  Miss Mudrak paused as she turned from her partner. “Did not last tincture work?”

  “No, it did not,” said Joffrey. “It didn’t work at all.”

  “Oh,” said Desdemona. “A shame. And the specimen?”

  “Gone.”

  Another pause. “Oh. A shame. Well, get back on the chicken, Joffrey love.”

  “Yes,” said Joffrey, turning and walking into the room with the bookshelves. “Back on the chicken.” The door closed behind him.

  Elsie and Rachel froze as Desdemona turned toward them and began walking down the hall; they’d been so rapt listening to the two adults’ conversation that they’d neglected to plan their escape. If they made any sudden movement now, they’d undoubtedly be detected—and yet it seemed that Miss Mudrak was heading directly toward them. Elsie didn’t have a sense of what sort of punishment was handed down in the orphanage for eavesdropping, but she guessed it would be fairly severe. She could feel her sister tense behind her. “Rachel,” hissed Elsie, “what should we—”

  The last word of this sentence was rendered unintelligible; a very loud bell suddenly sounded, and the hallway was full of its metallic clanging. Elsie and Rachel could see it; the bell was installed high on the wall in the middle of the hallway. Even Desdemona started at the noise. It rang for what seemed like an interminable amount of time, and Miss Mudrak stood looking at it with her hands planted on her hips, as if willing it to stop. While she was thus distracted, the sisters Mehlberg managed to make their escape, dashing up the staircase and back into the girls’ dormitory.

  They barely had time to climb onto their beds and act inconspicuous (Elsie with her Intrepid Tina doll back atop the blanket mountain; Rachel with earbuds firmly in place) before a rhythmic tramping startled them: It was the sound of a multitude of feet pounding up the stairs. The dormitory doors flew open, and in walked a congregation of haggard young girls, their hair disheveled and their faces marred with black streaks of grease. They varied in age—some looked to be younger than Elsie, while the oldest were clearly teenaged—but they all had the carriage of weathered adults: Their shoulders sagged, and their brows hung over sallow faces. They all wore identical gray jumpsuits, which were similarly streaked with grease marks, and their hands were soot black. They paid no attention to the two new occupants in the dormitory, but rather marched straight to their respective beds and sat down heavily; they each carried little metal lunch boxes, which they slid underneath their bed frames. Several lay down, fully clothed, and appeared to fall immediately to sleep. Some sat with their heads in their hands. Others spoke in hushed tones to their neighbors. The footsteps in the hallway continued unabated; Elsie could see a long line of boys, dressed in the same kind of coveralls, file past the doors toward their upstairs dorm. Rachel and Elsie shared a look; it felt like the room had been invaded by ghosts.

  “Psst.”

  The hiss had come from the bed next to Elsie’s; an Asian girl, Elsie’s age, was pushing a pair of plastic safety goggles from off her eyes to rest on her forehead, leaving a pale strip where the pitch-black grease hadn’t reached. Her hair was slightly matted from sweat and bunched beneath the elastic straps of the goggles. “What’s your name?” asked the girl.

  “Elsie.” She instinctively offered a handshake. The girl smiled and shook her head, holding her hands up: There wasn’t an inch of clean skin on them. Elsie withdrew her hand.

  “I’m Martha. Martha Song.” Her voice was tired, but assured. “Welcome to the factory.”

  “You mean the orphanage?”

  Martha laughed. “Oh, right. I forget they call it that, too.”

  “Are you one of the orphans?” asked Elsie, puzzled.

  “Orphan? Ha. Ain’t no adoptions happening here.”

  “Really? But I thought—”

  The loudspeaker above the doors barked into life: “BZZT CHVVVK XZZZT SILENCE IN THE DORMITORY.”

  The girls complied; a hush fell over the room. After a short squall of feedback, the noise from the loudspeaker continued, but this time a new voice had taken over. It was Desdemona: “Attention to girls’ dormitory: We have today new members. Meet Rachel and Elsie Mehlverg. Beds twenty-three and twenty-four.” A loud click sounded, and the speaker fell silent.

  Everyone’s eyes fell on Rachel and Elsie. Rachel scowled beneath her hair; she fiddled with her earbuds nervously.

  The click came again. Another squeal of feedback. “Please give them best of Unthank Home welcome.” Click. Silence.

  Elsie looked around her. The surrounding crowd of girls gave them both a feeble, exhausted wave.

  The loudspeaker howled into life again. “It is brought to attention that quarter yield in shop must improve. As of tomorrow, we must reinstall extended hours.”

  A collective groan greeted this announcement.

  “And now some words from your host, Mr. Joffrey Unthank.”

  The girls waited; the quiet extended into the room. Elsie felt a tug on her shirtsleeve. It was Martha. “Hey,” she whispered conspiratorially. “You should tell your sister to knock it off with the headphones during announcements. That’s an Unadoptable offense, for sure.”

  Elsie looked at her, confused. A click came from the loudspeaker, threatening another burst of information. Before it began, Elsie managed to grab the headphones from Rachel’s ears. “We’re supposed to listen,” she hissed. Rachel glared but complied with her sister’s instruction.

  The voice from the loudspeaker was now distinctly male. “Hello, boys and girls,” it said. “Residents of the Unthank Home, I understand you are looking forward to a moment of rest. And I understand how distressing it must sound to have your hours extended again. However: I ask you to remember all the good men and women—all those potential fathers and mothers—who are relying on your labor for all the machines of convenience on which their lives depend. Without you, dear children, there would be no washing machines, no alternator assemblies, no digital watches or electric fresh pasta makers. The very things that make our society work. The more convenience we allow into citizens’ lives, the more they are able to consider the idea of caring for children.”

  A click. The voice paused; it seemed to Elsie that his line of reasoning required a good deal of careful thought.

  “And the more these citizens consider the idea of caring for children, the likelier it is that you, boys and girls, will find a place in a comfortable, warm home with a caring family, a family surrounded by every amenity that modern life can afford. And now, before you’re given clearance for showers and supper, I’d like to ask that you put as much spirit into the Recitation as you can muster. The childless mothers and fathers of America are relying on you.”

  The dormitory girls straightened their backs and spoke as they were prompted by the faceless voice, repeating each line back to the gray-green loudspeaker.

  “MACHINE PARTS MAKE MACHINES.

  MACHINES MAKE CONVENIENCE.

  CONVENIENCE IS FREEDOM.

  FREEDOM IS FAMILY.”

  “Very good, children,” said the voice gently. “I will speak again with you tomorrow.”

  The loud click, the disengaging of a handset, sounded. It was followed by
the brusque voice Elsie and Rachel had heard earlier—robotic and terse.

  “BXXG ZZZGT STRIP AND BATHE. SUPPER AT EIGHTEEN HUNDRED HOURS.”

  A burst of energy filled the room as the girls in the dormitory shed their soiled jumpsuits, revealing identical red woolens beneath, and dashed toward a door at the other end of the room, presumably leading to the bathrooms and showers. Elsie and Rachel sat in shock. In a few short moments, the large room was emptied of its occupants and a noisy commotion could be heard echoing from within the tiled walls of the bathroom. At that moment, a figure entered the room and approached the two Mehlberg girls. He was an old man, dressed in the requisite gray coverall, and he was carrying what looked to be two packages, wrapped in transparent plastic. Arriving at the girls’ beds, he wordlessly dropped the packages at their feet; he then abruptly turned and walked, stooped and crooked, from the room. Elsie watched as Rachel picked up the package and tore into the plastic. Inside, neatly folded, were two items of clothing: a starched gray jumpsuit and a pair of red long underwear.

  CHAPTER 7

  Return to Wildwood

  Prue was still in shock by the time the heron wove through the deep, snow-shrouded canopy of the trees and touched down on the forest floor. She’d barely uttered five words to Curtis, whose midsection she’d hugged tightly during the flight. They’d flown high enough to break through the low-hanging clouds, and she’d been awed to see the pinpricks of stars shining through the darkness of the night sky. But her heart was frozen; the attack had left her numbed, and her mind was spinning with unanswered questions. Why had she been targeted? Who was Ms. Thennis, after all? And more important, how was she ever going to explain another disappearance to her parents? The heron’s breathing was labored as its two riders dismounted; Curtis turned to Prue and thrust out his hand.

  “Hey, partner,” he said.

  It was the first time Prue had been able to smile since the scuffle in the street. She and Curtis shared a handshake that collapsed into a long hug. Pulling apart, Prue searched her friend’s eyes. “What’s going on, Curtis?”

  The other heron had deposited Brendan near them; they were standing in a snowy glade, surrounded by tall fir trees. A little moonlight was peering through the shifting clouds, dappling the white snow opalescent. The Bandit King approached Prue and set his hand on her shoulder. His red beard was flecked with frost.

  “For your safety,” he said, “you’ve got to stay with us.”

  “Who … what was that thing?” Prue asked.

  “A shape-shifter,” explained Curtis. “This is all going to sound totally crazy. It was sent to kill you, Prue.”

  “By who?”

  Brendan spoke. “We don’t know. Important thing is you’re kept hidden. We gave that thing a good thrashing, but I don’t expect it to stay away long.”

  “But what about Ms. Thennis? What happened to her?”

  Curtis and Brendan shared a look. “I don’t think Ms. Thennis really exists,” said Curtis. “She’s a Kitsune—a black fox who can take the form of a human.”

  Prue absently massaged the nape of her neck, thinking back on the previous few weeks: Mrs. Estevez’s resignation, the sudden arrival of her fresh-faced replacement, Ms. Thennis, at the school, the dirt beneath the teacher’s fingernails after she’d found Prue on the bluff. In the face of these strange events, “Why?” was all Prue could manage.

  “Too much to tell,” said Curtis. “Let’s get to somewhere warm.”

  Bidding farewell to the exhausted herons, the three travelers marched beyond the clearing’s looming underbrush. Curtis and Prue followed Brendan closely as he wove his way through the dense knot of trees; as they walked, Prue peppered her companions with questions.

  “Your family should be safe,” responded Brendan to one of Prue’s most urgent queries. “We’re told that Kitsunes, while being vicious, deadly creatures, rarely waver from their mark. She was after you, not your parents or your brother.” Prue imagined her mother and father watching the lentil curry simmer on the stove, fretfully eyeing the clock. They’d have guessed her disappearance by now.

  “I’ll need to let them know I’m safe,” said Prue.

  “It’s done,” said Curtis, lifting the dangling boughs of a vining maple so that Prue could walk underneath. “Owl said he’d take care of it; he promised to send a messenger.”

  “Oh, that’ll be just great,” said Prue, envisioning her mother’s surprise to have a starling alight on her knee and explain to her that her missing daughter was okay, she’d just been abducted by bandits and taken back into the Impassable Wilderness. “But I guess nothing my family isn’t kind of accustomed to by now.”

  “Exactly,” said Curtis. “Weirdness abounds in the McKeel family.”

  A massive cedar bridged the gap of a narrow defile in the landscape, and the trio carefully walked across the tree’s snowy bark to arrive at the other side; a rushing creek babbled below. “So where are we going now?” asked Prue.

  “To the camp,” replied Brendan. “You’ll be safe there.”

  “And what then?”

  “We wait them out.”

  Curtis jumped in: “Maybe you could get in on some bandit training!”

  Brendan grumbled. “It mayn’t be safe for her to venture past the boundary of the camp. In fact, it might not be safe for any of us.”

  “Right,” said Curtis. “That was another thing the wolf said: that the Kitsunes might be targeting all the important people in the—what do you call it?—Bicycle Coup.”

  “The Bicycle Coup?” asked Prue, nonplussed.

  “Yeah, you missed that bit, the naming,” said Curtis. “That’s what they called the overthrow of all the South Wood government when—after the plinth—we freed the birds and got Lars Svik out of the Mansion. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I guess a lot of people are really attached to the whole thing—the bicycle and all. They call you the Bicycle Maiden, supposedly.”

  “The Bicycle Maiden,” Prue repeated quietly, trying out the words. The label seemed pretty appealing, actually. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. “Wait a second. If these shape-shifters are after people who were part of the coup, what about Iphigenia? And Owl? Won’t they be targeted too?”

  “Aye, perhaps,” said Brendan. “We don’t know the details of these assassins’—or their masters’—intents. We don’t rightly know if there’s more than just the one. Maybe they’re after everyone. Maybe they’re just after you! In any case, we’ve been tasked to keep you safe, Prue, since there weren’t nothing to guard you in the Outside.”

  They walked in single file along a game trail that seemed to Prue indistinguishable from the wild forest floor; Curtis told her everything the wolf, Corporal Donalbain, had reported at the clandestine meeting in North Wood: the patriotism surrounding the Coup, the rise of the Synod, the marginalization of the interim government, the deprivations brought on by the unrest and the harsh winter. It was enough to make Prue’s head spin.

  “I can’t believe how much has changed in only a few short months!” exclaimed Prue as they skirted the boundary of a grassy meadow. “I mean, what happened? They’re getting it all wrong!” She abruptly stopped and planted her hands on her hips. “Why don’t we just go down there—I mean, I’m the Bicycle Maiden, after all. Can’t we just go march into South Wood, to the Mansion, and just get things going again?”

  “Not safe, Prue,” said Brendan. “Our instructions are to keep you away from the watching eyes of whoever is trying to have you done in. Come on, let’s keep moving. We’re nearly there.”

  Within fifteen paces, they arrived at a dense tangle of high salal bushes, which created something of a wall that seemed to extend in either direction endlessly. Brendan paused and studied it. “This is fairly new,” he explained. “Still getting used to … Where … aha!” Tucked inconspicuously within the hedge’s greenery was a weblike piece of fabric that Brendan pulled aside to reveal a passageway. Prue walked in first and ducked low to avoi
d the low-hanging tendrils of leaves that batted at her hair. Clearing the massive hedgerow, she suddenly felt the ground slip away beneath her. She yelped and scrambled backward. The moon had disappeared behind a cloud, and the ground before her was veiled in blackness. Brendan appeared, carrying a lit torch. “Careful there,” he cautioned. “Watch your feet.” The Bandit King swept the torch out before them, and Prue saw that she was standing at the edge of a rocky cliff.

  “Where are we?” she exclaimed.

  “The Long Gap,” said Brendan. “Our new home.” Handing the torch to Curtis, he reached behind a nearby rock and produced a large spool of rope that had been hidden there. Giving a quick, shrill whistle, he tossed the rope over the edge, where Prue heard it patter against the cliff wall. He then looped an oxbow of the rope through a metal ring attached to his leather belt and tried the strength of the line; it held firm, anchored at the base of a large tree. He gestured to Prue. “Climb on,” he said. Prue threw her arms around Brendan’s neck and felt her stomach plunge as he began descending, backward, down the cliff face. The rope supported them; he fed it from his gloved hands as he easily walked his way downward. Prue nuzzled her face into his shoulder, her eyes shut tight; the bandit smelled of sweat and evergreen needles.

  After a time, as the mouth of the giant cleft swallowed the cloudy sky above them, the two rappellers alighted on a wooden platform that was affixed to the cliff wall. A small red lantern provided a dim light. Brendan set Prue down gently and then gave two hard tugs to the rope. Prue looked around her, getting her bearings. The bottom of the rocky fissure was still obscured by impenetrable dark. Leading from the platform was a rope bridge, which crossed into the darkness. A few flickering lights could be seen in the distance, like a swarm of fireflies. Curtis joined them shortly on the platform; he detached the rope from a figure-eight clasp at his belt. Prue looked at him with amazement. “Where’d you learn to do that?”