Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“You’ll have to ask the madam.”

“I’m not sure if you’re, you know, familiar with the human species or not,” Curtis said, “but I am not technically an adult. I’ll be twelve this November. I don’t know what that is in coyote years, but in human years it’s a kid. A boy. A child!” He was walking briskly to keep up with Maksim. Curtis waited for a reply, and when there was none, he continued, “So what does this mean? Do I have to do anything? I told you guys, I’m a pacifist. I can’t really use this sword. Whatever swordsmanship I was showing off back there was totally, totally accidental. Just some stuff I cribbed from, like, Kurosawa movies.”

“I expect all will be made clear when we see the Governess,” responded Maksim, batting branches from his path, not attempting to hide the irritation in his voice.

Curtis glanced back, trying to find the entrance to the warren amid the woods’ thick bracken. He was astonished to see how all signs of the coyote encampment completely disappeared into the forest as they traveled farther away.

“Like, will I have to command . . . something?” asked Curtis.

“I have no idea,” Maksim said. “I’m a little surprised myself.”

They walked in silence for a moment. The wood grew darker, the canopy oppressive.

“How did you become an . . . aid of camp?” asked Curtis.

“Aide-de-camp? I was appointed.”

“What did you do to deserve that?”

“I suppose I distinguished myself,” responded Maksim, “in battle.”

“Oh boy,” said Curtis, his worry growing.

“Though I was not born a fighter. In truth, I owe my life and my destiny to the Dowager Governess. I was born to a poor pack in the bush; my father had been killed in a mudslide and my mother slaved to raise my five siblings and myself. We were starving when the Governess found us. She brought us to the camp; she fed us and taught us to build and to fight.” Maksim told his story without a shade of sentimentality. “And so: I would gladly lay my life down for the Governess. She elevated our entire species from our lot as scavengers and scroungers; she brought us coyotes to a place of honor among the beasts of the wood. And we’ll enjoy a seat at the table when Wildwood is ours.”

“Yeah,” said Curtis. “Listen, Maksim. I can totally see how that works for you and I appreciate your commitment, but, you see, I don’t know if I’m quite there yet, you know, officer material. I’ve only been here for a day and I’m still kind of figuring everything out.”

A voice, a woman’s voice, sounded from above them. “And that’

s why we’re here, dear Curtis.”

Curtis looked up and saw Alexandra, the Dowager Governess, astride a jet-black horse, emerge from over a hillock between two massive cedars. She extended a willowy hand. “Come,” she said to him, “I’ll show you the world.”

CHAPTER 9

A Lesser Svik; To the Front!

Step this way, Miss . . . ?” prompted the attaché when they had

reached the far end of the landing and were standing in front

of a massive oaken door. He was looking through the smeared glass of his bifocals at his clipboard; he’d written down the details of her circumstances on a single-sheet dossier.

“McKeel,” said Prue distractedly. She peered around the edge of the door as it was prized open by one of the attaché’s aides. A wide hallway was revealed, lined with dark wooden wainscoting topped by panels of dusky green damask. The door pulled wide, Prue could see that the hallway terminated at the far end at another large door, which was hinging open and closed like a giant clam. With every out-breath, it emitted men in black suits carrying sheaves of paper and file folders, its in-breath receiving more of the same.

“Don’t mind the activity, Miss McKeel,” said the attaché. “While it resembles chaos, I can assure you, the government is running as smoothly and efficiently as ever.” He smiled widely at her, revealing two crooked rows of long, mustardy teeth. He took a deep breath, frowned, and ushered her into the hallway.

“Excuse me. Pardon me. Sir, if you’ll allow us . . . ,” the attaché called out with every step as they dodged the coming-and-going current of government agents. Prue felt the hallway bending in her vision as she navigated her way toward the far door, the whirl of bodies pushing in and out of her periphery like a plague of insects. “Just a little farther—excuse me, sir!—and here we are,” said the attaché as they arrived at the door. “I won’t be a moment.” When the door breathed open again, the secretary slipped through the opening and disappeared. The door remained closed for a few quiet moments before it was thrown open and the attaché beckoned for Prue to enter.

The room was stately; hunters chased stags in a pastoral frieze along the top of the wall, illuminated by a giant crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The chamber seemed, however, to be in serious disuse. Large framed paintings, evidently intended to be hung, were leaning against the wall in a haphazard fashion, and the ornate rug that covered the wooden floor was worn with abuse and neglect. In the center of the rug, the floor bore the weight of a huge wooden desk, piled so high with stacks of paper that the person sitting at it was completely obscured by the mess. In fact, you wouldn’t even know there was someone sitting at it if it weren’t for the huddle of black-suited men standing around, competing for the attention of the person behind the piles of paper. When the attaché arrived at the front of the desk, the black-suited men all snapped to attention.

“Sir,” said the secretary, “meet Prue McKeel. Of St. Johns, the Outside.”

The pale, balding crown of a head appeared over the mountain of paper. The man to whom it belonged followed close behind, wearing a pair of huge tortoiseshell glasses and a wide mustache on a jowly face. His skin was wet with perspiration, and his lips quivered as he spoke.

“How do you do?”

Prue was taken aback by the man’s disheveled appearance. This was the Governor-Regent? His suit was wrinkled, and little blossoms of sweat bloomed from the armpits of his jacket. His tie, a plain burgundy, was loosely knotted and hung askew above a shirt unbuttoned to just below his Adam’s apple. Apparently noting Prue’s surprise, the Governor made an attempt to tidy himself by adjusting the knot of his tie and smearing a few strands of oily hair over his bald patch. “My name’s Lars. Lars Svik. The Governor-Regent of South Wood.” Finding an opening between two of the towering stacks of paper, Lars put out his hand, and Prue stepped forward to shake it.