Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“They could use all the manpower they can get. I count just under a hundred. Ninety-seven bandits. With you? Ninety-seven and a half.” He chortled at his own joke. When he saw it elicited no response from his host, he continued, “Whatever. Come tomorrow night, there ain’t going to be any bandits. Zero.”

“Septimus,” said Curtis sternly. “What did I say?”

“Right: No bad-mouthing the bandits. Got it.”

They arrived at the munitions tent, a large canvas structure nestled up against the ravine wall. A grizzled-looking bandit, Damian, with a cheek full of tattooed tears, stood at the front flap, doling out bullets and powder to a line of waiting men and women. The line moved quickly, each bandit peeling away when they’d received their allotment. Curtis was nearly at the front when a ruckus broke out between Damian and the bandit in front of Curtis.

“Sorry, Aisling, that’s what ye get,” Damian was saying stoically.

“C’mon! I mean, I’m fourteen!” said Aisling, a girl. She wore her sandy yellow hair back in a ponytail. A brightly colored skirt ruffled above a pair of tall boots; a pin-striped vest covered an ash-stained white blouse.

“Exactly,” Damian rejoined. “You’ll get your pistols at sixteen. Next, please!” He motioned for Curtis to step forward.

As Curtis excused himself and scooted to the front, Aisling clapped her fuming eyes on him. “But,” she sputtered, “he’s no older than I am! And he’s got a pistol AND a cutlass.”

Curtis, taken aback, could only apologize. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t really have anything to do with it.”

Damian eyed him suspiciously. “Where’d you get that stuff?”

“B

rendan,” explained Curtis defensively, “Brendan gave ’em to me. I didn’t ask for them. He just gave them to me.”

Aisling, in disgust, blew a puff of breath at a dangling strand of her hair. “Figures. Brendan. Oh, it’s okay for a boy to have pistols before his sixteenth. But me? No way. Hold all plants, animals, and humans as equals, my shoelace. What a bunch of squirrel scat.”

Damian shrugged his shoulders apologetically before disappearing into the tent and coming out with two pouches of powder and bullets. Seeing this, Aisling gave in with a loud “Hrrumph!” and stalked away to a nearby fire circle. Curtis watched her leave curiously. He was jolted back to attention by the munitions officer.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Kid!” He snapped his fingers just inches from Curtis’s face.

“Oh, sorry,” said Curtis, blinking.

“You know how to use this stuff?” asked Damian impatiently.

“Um,” said Curtis, “not really.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “It’s simple,” he said. “Just watch me closely.” He proceeded to give Curtis a quick demonstration of how to load the pistol and set the flint. Once he’d finished he handed the pistol, unloaded, back to Curtis. “Got it?”

Curtis didn’t really. “I think so,” he lied.

“Good. Next!” He waved Curtis away. Perplexed, Curtis wandered away from the munitions tent, studying the strange, archaic mechanics of the flintlock pistol.

“Careful with that thing,” said Septimus, shying away.

Curtis looked up and saw the girl Aisling sulking on a nearby tree stump, fiddling with what appeared to be a tangled skein of rope in her hands. Walking closer, he saw it was a crude sling. She saw him approach and scowled.

“What do you want?” she asked, before adding, “Outsider.”

Curtis stopped in his tracks as if he’d heard the rattle of a snake.

Aisling looked back down at the sling in her hand. Picking up a pebble, she placed it into the sling’s cradle and fired it haphazardly into the ground. “I just want to do my part,” she said mournfully.

Looking over his shoulder quickly, he said, “Hey, do you want to use this instead? I’ll trade you.” He held out the pistol, handle first.

Aisling eyed him suspiciously. “Really?” she asked.

Curtis nodded. “I’m not much of a gunner, myself,” he said. “I’m more of a, you know, tactical-ops man.”

The girl’s face brightened. “Tactical-ops, huh?” she said, impressed. “Cool.” She took the proffered pistol and bounced it in her palm, as if weighing it. She held the rear end of the barrel to her face and, pinching one eye closed, inspected the sight. “Nice,” she said, offering her appraisal. “Thanks.” She looked up at Curtis. “You want the sling?”