Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Someone called from the crowd, “But if she controls the ivy . . . she’ll kill us all!”

Another: “And pull down every tree, drown every plant!”

“And that’s what she means to do,” said Brendan. “She’s a madwoman, this Dowager Governess. She means to lay waste to the whole wood, and she’ll take us all down with her.” His voice grew calm, and he limped forward and away from Curtis, closer to the bandits. “So we’ve got two options. One”—he held up a single finger—“we stay. And at the dawn of the equinox, tomorrow mornin’, we are swallowed up whole by the ivy. Every one of us, dead. Man, woman, and child.” He stared down the rapt crowd, making quick, deliberate eye contact with each bandit.

“Or two,” he continued, holding up a second finger. A tattooed snake wound its way around the central knuckle. “We fight. We give them everything we’ve got.”

“And we die,” said the earringed woman, her face suddenly resolved and still.

Brendan nodded. “Yes, Annie. We die. But we die in the fight. And that’s a sight better than wa

iting for the ivy to come and do the job.”

Quiet settled over the camp. A log of cordwood buckled and popped in one of the fire pits. The sun disappeared behind a haze of cloud. The patter of raindrops descended on the high branches of the surrounding trees.

Brendan’s tired, desperate eyes traveled over the faces of his compatriots, searching for their answer. Finally, one came.

“We fight,” said Annie solemnly. The gathered bandits looked to her and back at Brendan. After a moment, each in turn nodded and intoned those words as well.

“We fight.”

CHAPTER 22

A Bandit Made

A premature dusk settled over the grassy meadow as the sun ducked behind an encroaching cloud. The telltale sound of distant raindrops foretold the coming rainfall; the Mystics, in their wide circle, did not move. They’d been sitting in silence for hours now, Prue guessed, and there seemed to be no indication they’d be leaving soon. The rain began to fall, pelting the grass in torrents. Prue sat for a time, trying to match the Mystics’ resilience, but in the end gave up and ran to the cover of a nearby oak tree. Wringing water from her hair, she sat against the tree’s rough bark and continued to wait.

And wait.

The rainstorm was momentary—it passed within half an hour, and the meadow was barraged by an explosion of sun as the rain clouds melted away, leaving the dew-dappled grass in a glistening sheen that looked almost diamond-studded. The late afternoon gave way to early evening; Prue walked back out from underneath the oak and returned to her seat, still watching the unchanging circle of Mystics intently.

It was clear that the robed children she’d seen earlier were acolytes of some sort. They had partaken in the sit briefly, lasting an impressive hour or so until the youngest among them became too fidgety and respectfully stood up and ran off to some other distraction. After a time, all of the acolytes had shrugged off the meditation and were back to the prior activities: playing tag and ring-around-the-rosy; studying bugs in the tall grass; daydreaming. One of the acolytes, a young girl, peeled away from her group, having kept an eye on Prue the entire time. Overcoming her shyness, she approached Prue and sat down a cautious five feet away.

Prue waited for the girl to say something and when she didn’t, she smiled and said, “Hi.”

“Hi!” said the girl, apparently overjoyed to have gained Prue’s attention. “I’m Iris. What’s your name?” Prue introduced herself.

“You’re from over the boundary, huh?” asked Iris.

“Yep,” said Prue.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m hoping the Mystics will help me find my brother,” said Prue before adding playfully, “What are you doing here?”

Iris blushed. “I’m learning. I don’t know if I’m any good, though. It’s hard to sit still. I’m only a second-yearer, though. They say I’ll get the hang of it by sixth year. My parents said I have the gift.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, though.”

“The gift?” asked Prue.

“Yeah,” said the girl. “To be a Mystic. I didn’t think anything of it; I just like to sit in the garden and talk to the plants.”

“Do they talk back?” asked Prue.

Iris crumpled her nose and laughed. “No, they don’t talk,” she said. “They don’t have mouths!”

“Well,” said Prue, a little embarrassed, “then why do you talk to them?”

“‘Cause they’re here. They’re all around us. It’d be rude to just ignore them,” said the girl. “Watch.”