Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

The speakers were silent for a moment; the Elder Mystic inhaled a long, dramatic breath of air. “Mr

. Fox,” she said, finally, “I am a woman of infinite patience. I have devoted my life to the practice of meditation. I have sat and watched a stone, a single stone, gather moss over the course of three weeks. You, however, are trying this seemingly limitless patience.” The admission seemed to ease her temper, and her tone changed: “If there is a lock, Mr. Fox,” she said calmly, “and there is no key, then the obvious solution is to break the lock. The bell simply must be rung.”

Sterling, suitably cowed, threw his paw to his forehead in a salute. “Yes, ma’am!”

“We will follow,” said the Mystic, waving for Prue to stay by her. “To make sure these things are done to satisfaction.” The first filigree strands of dawn appeared on the horizon, the edge of the clouds touched with a glowing pink. The constables stalked off toward the path, whispering between themselves, and Iphigenia and her entourage—Prue and the other Mystics—fell in after them.

After a brisk walk, they arrived at the fire tower. Standing atop a high hill, it was a rickety wooden affair: a small, domed hovel built at the top of a haphazard maze of cross-bracing beams, circumvallated by a narrow walkway. A stepladder, nailed to the side, led to a small door in the hovel, and it was to this door that Sterling the fox climbed, his pruning shears at the ready.

“See,” he explained to the crowd below as he, with some difficulty, mounted the ladder to the door, “security is of utmost priority in this sort of situation. Hence the lock. Left unlocked, you can expect that the fire bell would be the prized object of every prankster in North Wood.”

Iphigenia, from below, urged the fox onward. “Come on, Sterling, we’ve not got all day.”

“Easier said than done, Madam Mystic,” Sterling said as he brandished his pruning shears and carefully wedged the blades into the keyhole of the lock. “This lock is of the finest South Wood craftsmanship; I myself oversaw its installation. It is very doubtful that I’ll be able to . . . oh.” An audible metallic click sounded. The lock fell to the ground. Sterling blushed.

“What happened, fox?” asked the Mystic.

“It, uh, appears to have been unengaged,” replied the fox.

Iphigenia shook her head. “Well, get in there and ring the bell!”

The fox did just that; a jarring series of deafening clangs issued from the fire tower, the peals echoing out over the surrounding forest meadows and thickets.

The placid farmland, quiet in the early dawn, came to sudden life.

Figures in the trees and among the rows of crops began to show themselves; cottage doors were thrown open, their occupants stepping out on to dawn-dappled verandas and looking curiously up at the small crowd gathered at the base of the fire tower. Brightly hued caravan wagons appeared from the woods and began trundling their way toward the hill. Shovel-laden farmhands paused in the day’s first labors and walked from their tidy fields, their eyes set on the old wooden tower. Before long, a sizable crowd had gathered at the top of the hill.

Iphigenia turned to Prue. “You wouldn’t mind helping me here, would you?” she asked, gesturing to the stepladder that led to the top of the fire tower. Prue smiled, said, “Of course,” and mounted the ladder, holding her hand behind her so that Iphigenia could grip it on her ascent to the walkway. Once she’d arrived at the top, she looked out at the gathering crowd. Prue stood at her side. The serene countryside of North Wood stretched out beneath them, a maze of alder groves and patchwork garden plots. Little hamlets, their few quaint huts spewing peat smoke, nestled into far-flung hillsides; a single wide, meandering road—Prue guessed it to be the North Wood tributary of the Long Road—carved its way through the landscape like a wild river, disappearing finally among the wooded hills.

“Step forward, please,” the Elder Mystic instructed the crowd. “Let the folks in the back in a little closer. I can only speak so loud. Sterling, make sure the smaller animals can be seated at front: the moles and the squirrels. Dears, if you’re taller than four feet, please keep to the rear of the crowd. Mm-hmm. That’s good.”

She paused for a moment as a new flurry of witnesses arrived, swelling the crowd considerably. The two constables, Sterling and Samuel, busily walked the perimeter of the expanding assemblage, doing their best to keep people calm and attentive. The low hum of the crowd’s chatter swarmed the scene like a hive of bees. When Iphigenia was satisfied with the hill’s capacity, she spoke.

“Are we all here?” she asked.

A sea of moving heads, some nodding, some shaking. A voice from the outer rim of the crowd sounded, “Folks up Miller Creek are on their way.”

Another: “Kruger and Deck Farms are in the middle of hay baling. Can’t make it.”

Iphigenia nodded. “We’ll make sure word spreads. For now, this will have to do.” By Prue’s estimation, three hundred fifty souls were gathered—a dizzying menagerie of creatures: stoats, coyotes, foxes, humans, and deer. A family of black bears in overalls towered above the crowd in the center; the antlers of a cluster of bucks jutted from the left side. A group of skunks, motioned forward by Samuel, made their way to the front.

“The reason we’ve called you here,” said Iphigenia, her voice firm and resounding, “the reason we’ve rung the bell, is that a great trial is at hand. An army is on the march in Wildwood, an army intent on the destruction of the entire Wood. We have meditated through the night at the Council Tree and we have reached a unanimous decision, with the tree’s consent, to gather arms against this foe. The North Wood volunteer militia will muster.”

The quieted murmur of the crowd burst open afresh, the whispers turning to desperate chatter. “What do we care about what happens in Wildwood?” called one of the bears. “That’s no business of ours.”

Iphigenia frowned, responding, “The thing that threatens Wildwood threatens us all. The ivy has been awakened. The exiled Dowager Governess of South Wood promises to feed the blood of a human child to the plant and thereby gain its control. We have this girl, this Outsider, Prue McKeel, to thank for first bringing this to our attention.” She waved for Prue to come forward. Prue did so shyly, giving a little half curtsy to the teaming crowd.

“What’s an Outsider doing here?” called a faceless voice from the crowd.

Another voice corrected the first: “She’s not just some Outsider, she’s a half-breed!”

The crowd seemed to collectively attempt a closer inspection of Prue as she stood on the tower’s walkway. Satisfied, many in the crowd nodded. “It’s true!” Prue heard someone say to his neighbor. Iphigenia gestured to Prue, an open palm extended in invitation. Prue’s eyes widened.

“You want me to say something?” she whispered.

Iphigenia nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It would be best if they heard it from you.”

Prue gulped and took another step forward, resting her hands on the rail of the walkway. She stared out at the crowd. “My brother,” she began. “My brother, just five days ago—”