Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

She studied the hillside, looking for an opening in the bracken; an obliging break between two stands of twiggy dogwood allowed her deeper into the brush. She navigated her bike and wagon for a time through this low-growing vegetation, grimacing at every sticker bush that caught the leg of her jeans, until the underbrush began to thin away and was replaced by a stately grove of fir trees. The gaps between the trees became windows to wide glades of ground cover: wood sorrel, salal vines, and wildflowers. As she traveled farther, and the gray light grew more pervasive, she noticed that one of the forest meadows she’d passed had been lined with garden rows, a tangled muss of twining pumpkin vines and bean stalks. A quiet gravel lane opened up before her and she began to follow it; it wound through a series of similar glades, the wildness of the ground cover tamed by these tidy garden plots. Prue began to see small, ramshackle houses nestled in the far trees, tendrils of smoke drifting from their stone chimneys. Curious at this new development, she set the kickstand of her bike and walked closer to one of the garden plots to investigate. No sooner had she left the path when she heard a voice explode behind her.

“Go. No. Farther,” came the voice, low and steady.

Prue froze.

“Show your hands,” it instructed.

Prue raised her hands above her head.

“Now, turn to me. Slowly. I’m armed and unafraid to use force,” cautioned the voice. “So.”

Gulping, Prue slowly wheeled around to face her captor, away from the garden patch and back to the dirt lane. Before her stood a rabbit. A hare with a pitchfork. And what appeared to be a colander on his head.

“Disarm yourself,” said the rabbit.

Prue stared. He was a mottled brown hare and, reared on his hind legs as he was, came up no higher than her knee. The colander on his head splayed his long ears down the side of his face in what looked like an uncomfortable fashion. He apparently recognized Prue’s wonder, as he embarrassedly adjusted his helmet. A single ear poked out of the side handle of the colander. He brandished the small pitchfork angrily.

“I said, disarm yourself!” he shouted, baring two white, flat teeth.

“I’m unarmed!” said Prue, finally. She shook her hands. “See? No weapons.”

The hare, satisfied, sniffed at the air. “Who are you and what is your business in North Wood?”

“My name’s Prue. I’m from the Outside.” She paused before adding, “I’m here to see the Mystics.”

The hare raised an eyebrow. “An Outsider? I thought there was something funny about you, so. How’d you get in here?”

“I came from the river, from St. Johns. I walked in,” she explained. “Can I drop my hands now?”

“Okay,” acquiesced the hare. “But you’re coming with me.”

The hare led Prue farther down the earthen lane, following close behind with his pitchfork tines pointed at Prue’s back. A small break in the overhanging clouds cast little rays of light across the wooded meadows they passed; the garden plots that dotted the surroundings sucked in the brief sunlight before it was swallowed again. Here was a field of poppies, a mosaic of naked blue bulbs garlanding a hilly meadow. More small houses appeared, nestled into the trees. They were more rustic than any house Prue had seen in South Wood, appearing to be made with whatever materials were at hand, be it tree boughs, rock, or mud plaster. The roofs were thatched with bundles of yellow hay. Prue, after they’d walked a while, hazarded

a question.

“Is that a colander on your head?” she asked.

“What?” asked the hare incredulously. “No. It’s a helmet. So.”

“Can I ask who you are? Like, what’s your title?” asked Prue, not wishing to challenge the hare’s response.

“Constable to the People’s Collective of North Wood,” responded the hare proudly. “And it’s my job to keep the roads clean of riffraff like yourself.” He then added, clearly unconsciously, the single word, “So.”

The lane widened. They began to pass more and more travelers, animal and human alike. Many walked; others rode rickety bicycles or slow, slope-backed donkeys. A brightly covered caravan wagon, drawn by a pair of tasseled mules, lumbered along the road ahead. Prue watched it curiously as it passed them. The wagon itself was like a small house on wheels. Prue was shocked to see that it was being driven by a coyote. Her mind flashed to the scene, only a few days prior, of Curtis’s abduction at the hands of the coyote soldiers. However, as the caravan drew closer, the kind look on the coyote’s face immediately put her fears to rest. The coyote nodded at the constable as they passed. Apparently coyotes lived amicably among their fellows in this part of the Wood.

Finally, the hare led Prue down a smaller road off the lane, and they arrived at a small wooden house in the middle of a wide meadow. A sign above a ramshackle porch read N. WOOD CONSTABULARY. A fox in a pair of faded dungarees and a half-buttoned linen shirt sat in a chair on the porch, smoking a pipe.

“What ya got there, Samuel?” asked the fox.

The hare stamped the handle of his pitchfork on the ground and saluted. “An Outsider, sir,” he said. “Found her on the boundary. Says she wants to see the Mystics. So.”

The fox looked up. “An Outsider? How the heck did she get in?”

“Probably Woods Magic, sir. She must be a half-breed,” was the hare’s reply.

“What?” Prue interjected.

The fox studied Prue intently before answering, “Yep, seems like she is. Don’t see much of that anymore.”