Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“OH, OH, OH!” he shouted as the ladder, all sixty rickety feet of it, began tipping backward.

“Oh boy,” said one of the bandits flatly.

Time moved comically slow as the top of the ladder, with Curtis affixed, fell away from the wall. It balanced momentarily as it came perfectly perpendicular to the floor and then began its quick descent backward.

The floor sped toward Curtis.

The scattered bones on the cavern floor seemed to cheer what would be the newest addition to the collection.

But then the ladder stopped. Suddenly, violently. Curtis was now upside down, his back facing the ground below, his left arm desperately linked to one of the ladder rungs. His left leg was wrapped over another, the wood biting into the crook of his bent knee. His eyes were tightly closed.

He heard a swell of laughter from the bandits: throaty, relieved laughter.

He opened his eyes to see that the ladder had landed squarely against Angus’s cage, the metal hooks extending from its top rungs conveniently hooked into the bars of the bandit’s cage door.

“Well, that’ll do, boyo!” shouted Angus between snorts of laughter.

Curtis breathed deeply. “That’s . . .” His voice cracked. “That’s what I meant to do.”

A sheen of water remained on the top of the pavement, and Prue’s bike tires hissed over the slick black surface. The red Radio Flyer wagon bounced noisily behind her.

The do

wntown of St. Johns seemed abandoned in this early morning quiet. A haze of dimmest blue tinted the sky. A few dogs howled in welcome to the new day. A single car waited helplessly at a dormant traffic light; even in this otherworldly hour, the rules of the day applied. A figure huddled at the bus stop in the center square was a faceless pile of parka and knitted cap.

Prue turned the corner at the old clock and headed toward the river. The street ended at a sudden cul-de-sac; a line of cement bollards provided a barrier between the pavement and an unkempt field of raspberry brambles and yellow-trumpeted Scotch broom. Here, she dismounted her bike and walked it over the curb, past the barrier, and into the field of weeds. The river was a low rush of noise ahead of her, past where the ground sloped away to arrive at the lip of the bluffs.

She hadn’t gone far, however, before she came to a small clearing in the weeds. In the midst of this clearing lay a large slate-gray slab of stone, just as her father had described. Mere feet beyond the slab was the steep embankment of the bluff; here the earth fell away to the grassy bank of the river far below. A thick pall of fog had settled over the river valley, obscuring it entirely. Prue carefully laid her bike amid a crop of knapweed and walked to the stone. Kneeling down, she pulled the little box from her hoodie pocket.

Opening the lid of the box, she stared at the contents, at the six multihued pebbles and the strange inscriptions etched into their smooth faces. “Uh,” she whispered to no one in particular, “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to say anything, but . . .” She emptied the pebbles on to the stone, watching them clatter and roll against the cold, hard surface. “Abracadabra? Open sesame?”

The pebbles wheeled and spun on the stone until they each found a resting place, the alien sigils faceup in a curious pattern. Prue caught her breath and waited. A sudden breeze tousled the surrounding thicket of weeds.

From the direction of the river, Prue heard a distinctive metallic lowing, an ancient groan of a hundred thousand tons of metal and iron settling into place.

She looked up to see that the fog over the river had erupted into a dense plume of cloud; it towered above her, blotting out the dim blue of the early morning sky. Slowly, shapes began to emerge from the cloud: a distant green arch, a giant coiling cable. The cloud of fog began to dissipate, revealing more and more of this hidden structure until a massive bridge stood before Prue, spanning the distance from the bluffs to the far shore. Its vast span was interrupted by a pair of wide, flat towers, hundreds of feet high, each inset with a series of cathedral-like arches of varying sizes. On either side, tree-trunk- sized cables anchored the tops of the towers to the bridge’s span.

Prue looked around her quickly to see if anyone else was witnessing this spectacle, but saw that she was alone in this cool dawn of the morning. The fog continued to fall away from the bridge until it pooled just beneath the surface of the span, revealing the awesome edifice in its entirety. The river remained covered in mist. Satisfied, Prue ushered the rune stones back into their container and, snapping the lid shut, picked up her bike and began walking it across this ghostly bridge.

The fog continued to fall away from the bridge until it pooled just beneath the surface of the span, revealing the awesome edifice in its entirety.

The beginning of the span was marked by two lampposts, their glass glowing with a spectral light. Prue stepped gingerly onto the pavement of the bridge, testing its surface before venturing farther: It held her weight firm. Indeed, this “ghost” pavement felt no different from real pavement. Prue confidently set about making her crossing, the clacking of her bike and wagon the only sound disturbing the morning’s quiet.

Upon arriving at the middle span of the bridge, she saw a single brass bell hanging from a small hook. Curious, she walked over to it; its metal was deeply tarnished, a kind of gray-green, and it was simple in design. The clapper hung down from the center of the bell by a leather cord.

Prue instinctively reached up and put her hand around the cord. She imagined her parents standing there, some thirteen years before, their hearts burning with fear and curiosity and wishfulness. She imagined her father’s hand grasping this same cord, the look he must’ve given her mother before he gave the bell a few pealing rings. At that moment, she felt a surge of sympathy for her parents, for all that they’d risked for their two children. Would she have done the same in their shoes? Overcome by a sudden boldness, Prue flicked her wrist and sounded the bell; three firm tones rang from the brass of the bell. The sound pierced the soft, misty air and echoed against the wall of trees on the other side of the bridge.

I’m coming, witch, thought Prue. I’m coming for my brother.

Part Three

CHAPTER 20

Three Bells

Alexandra stood on the dais in the throne room, staring up at the snaking tendrils of plant roots that dangled over the chamber. They seemed to tremble and shimmy in the flickering torchlight. The clamor of the soldiers surrounded her: crates hammered shut, walls of halberds and rifles loaded onto wagons, tenting being struck.

The roots spoke.