Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Iphigenia nodded, her knobby fingers pressing deeply into Prue’s palms. “Such is the madness of this woman,” said the Mystic. The other Mystics, their golden robes rustling the meadow’s grass, approached and stood behind Iphigenia.

“This is our task,” said Iphigenia slowly, looking at each of her fellow Mystics in turn. “We must stop this aberration from happening.”

The Mystics each nodded gravely.

Iphigenia continued, “The trial before us, however, may be impossible. While there are protocols in place for such an event, rarely in the history of North Wood have we faced the need to muster an army. Nonetheless, this is what we must do now. And quickly.” Here she addressed her fellow Mystics directly: “When the sun rises to its highest point on this day, this autumnal equinox, the child dies. We have little time.” She turned and spoke to one of the Mystics, a slender doe. “Hydrangea,” she said, “call the constabulary. We must ring the bell.”

The doe nodded and loped away from the gathered Mystics.

“You have an army?” asked Prue.

“No, not as such,” Iphigenia replied. “The North Wood charter decrees that all citizens of North Wood are duty bound to militia service, should the need arise. We are a peaceable people, my girl, but even we, in the course of our history, have been called to defend our community.” She knitted her brow and frowned. “Though I can’t rightly speak to the condition of our volunteer militia at present. Nine generations have gone and passed since we’ve had any need for an army. This is all very distressing.” She sighed and glanced back at the massive tree in the center of the darkened meadow. “But if it is the will of the tree, then we must abide.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” said Prue.

“If we are successful in stopping the Governess, your brother being saved would be a fortunate consequence of our actions, dear Prue,” said the Mystic. “We will involve ourselves for the sake of the Wood. For the sake of our home.” She looked to the space where the trail broke an opening into the bordering trees. “Look: The constables approach. Let’s walk to them. We have little time to waste.”

The campfires were fed wood until the flames licked at the overhanging boughs, illuminating a throng of activity among the bandits—bindles being packed, provisions stowed, and arrows refeathered. A line of men and women stood inspecting ancient-looking rifles; another line carefully poured black gunpowder into leather pouches. Curtis quickly finished up the last of the weapons he’d been tasked to sharpen and was about to help load a brace of rifles into an awaiting cart when Brendan called him over.

“Yes?” asked Curtis as he approached.

“A newly christened bandit of your stripe, we’ll need to outfit you right.” Brendan brushed Curtis’s coat. “That’ll get tarnished over time—though ye’ve got a good start to it. How’re your boots?”

“Fine, I think,” said Curtis, shifting his feet as a way of inspection.

“Good, ’cause we ain’t got any more boots,” said Brendan. He paused before saying, “Trying to remember—you were more of a tactical-ops man in that battle we fought, when you was with the coyotes, weren’t you?”

Curtis blushed at the mention. “Not really,” he said. “I wasn’t supposed to fight at all, actually. I kind of fell into it. Literally. I mean, I was up in this tree—”

Brendan interrupted: “Got it—no time for battle stories, boyo. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Now: What’ll it be? Pistol or cutlass?”

Curtis chewed on the options for a moment. The question had brought that old quandary fresh to the surface: He was going to have to fight. The battle he’d fought with the Governess leapt back to his mind, and it seemed to him that he’d been incredibly lucky; it didn’t strike him as likely that that sort of luck would hold out again. The cannon fire, the dead tree trunk falling into the howitzer crew—he saw it in his mind’s eye as if it were a dream.

A wry smile had cracked across Brendan’s face. “I get ya,” he said, reading Curtis’s silence. “Both it is.” He turned and walked into a nearby tent and returned holding a rugged leather belt. An ivory-handled pistol and a long, curved saber jutted from a holster and sheath attached to the belt. He threw it to Curtis, who gingerly caught it in his arms.

“You’re a hard man, Curtis,” said Brendan. “A hard man. Go see Damian for munitions. And keep your head high! Remember: You’re a bandit now.”

Curtis, unsure of himself, gave a quick salute.

“And don’t salute,” reproached Brendan. “This ain’t the army.”

“Okay,” said Curtis, his arm falling awkwardly to his side. “Thanks, Brendan.”

He began walking toward the munitions tent, carefully dodging the insistent traffic of busy bandits: a leap to avoid a barrel-chested man with an armload of cutlasses, a pinwheel to avoid tripping two bandits carrying a wooden crate. Passing one campfire, he felt the familiar tug of Septimus grabbing hold of his pant leg and climbing to his shoulder perch.

“You really like it up there, don’t you?” asked Curtis, when he felt the weight of the rat on his left epaulet.

“It’s nice, yeah,” responded Septimus. “I like the view. Besides, I prefer being up above things. It’s every rat for himself down there on the ground. Had my tail stepped on twice already tonight.”

“They’re not used to having a rat in the camp,” said Curtis.

“Guess not,” said Septimus. “Hey: Where’d you run off to there? Looked ominous.”

“I’m a bandit now, Septimus. Officially. Took the oath.”

“Wow, kid, wow,” said the rat. “I mean, impressive. How does it feel?”

Curtis shrugged. “I don’t know. Guess I feel the same.”