Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“Watch it!” Prue yelled after him. She picked herself up and, wiping the grit from her palms, ran back to her bike. Inspecting it, she was relieved to find that it had suffered little damage other than a few scrapes on the frame. She picked it up, climbed back aboard, and pedaled off, pushing hard to regain her previous speed.

I can’t afford another wreck like that, she thought. If this bike gives out on me, I’m screwed.

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel her lungs working like bellows to keep up with her every heaved breath. Finally, her eyes caught sight of two distant tall shapes on the horizon, where the road straightened out and the landscape seemed to buckle and fall away into a massive ravine: the ornate columns that marked the near side of the Gap Bridge.

“Come on, Curtis!” shouted Septimus. “They’re about to make the turn into the woods!”

“I’m coming!” Curtis called, though his steps felt slower—as if he was compelled to dally. The ring of keys in his pocket—what a miracle that had been!—rang quietly with his every step, each single clink reminding him of his home, of his bed. In his mind, he heard his father’s wheezing laugh, cracking up at some lame sitcom joke from the TV. He smelled his mother’s cooking—something he’d never considered to be anything extraordinary, but now, in this environment, it took on a kind of God’s-own-ambrosia aspect. Even the boxed mac and cheese she’d serve up for a quick lunch on a summer afternoon seemed like a gourmet meal. He could hear his older sister, the sound of her dancing footsteps pounding through the ceiling below her room as she cranked her stereo and cast herself as whatever pop star she was currently obsessing over. It was all waiting for him. I could just go, he thought. Right now. I could just go.

He gazed again behind him, to the bend in the road that was beginning to obscure the place he’d recognized as being the spot where he’d first encountered the Long Road, when he’d been strapped to the back of the coyote and the forest had gone racing by on their way to the warren. Had it only been a few days before? It felt like an eternity. And now here he was, involved in this foolhardy scheme to try and wrest this baby boy from the hands of a crazed woman—and likely die in the trying. Did it matter so much? At what point had he arrived at this juncture? When had the retrieving of this kid—someone he wasn’t even related to—become something worth losing his life over? Prue hadn’t even stuck around. She’d left, gone back to her safe and happy home. She was enjoying her parents’ cooking now, undoubtedly, catching up on her schoolwork, seeing friends, watching television. For all he knew, her life had returned to normal. And perhaps, eventually, the McKeel family would just learn to forget, and the grief of losing a child would dissipate. Why should he sacrifice himself as well?

“Psst!” hissed Septimus from ahead. “Curtis, what are you doing?”

Curtis realized he’d stopped in the middle of the Long Road, his hands in his pockets, his fingers rubbing the cool metal of his house keys. “Septimus,” he began, “I don’t know how to say this, but . . .” He paused. Septimus cocked an eyebrow and waited for him to finish.

“I think I . . .”

A sound came from behind him, cutting his speech short. It was a distinctly metallic sound, disrupting the serene quiet of the woods. It grew louder and louder, a clanking noise that seemed to be lumbering toward him. Curtis froze and listened.

It was the sound of a bicycle.

CHAPTER 24

Partners Again

PRUE!”

It had sounded initially like the hoot of an owl. Prue’s focus was so intent on her front wheel and the navigating of a particularly rough section of the Road that she’d ignored the sound as being just another note in the unending symphony that was the forest’s many noises. But it came again, louder, closer:

“PRUUUUUUE!”

It was, undoubtedly, someone calling her name. She looked up and saw, standing in the middle of the road, a short figure wearing a dirty brigadier’s uniform. The figure had the hair and spectacles of Curtis, but her reasoning refused to allow her to believe it. As she came closer, however, the fact was indisputable. Curtis was not home in St. Johns. Curtis was not safe with his parents. Curtis had not left Wildwood. Curtis was standing right in front of her. And she was about to run him over.

“CURTIS!” she hollered as her fingers mangled her bicycle brakes and the back tire skidded and swerved against the dirt of the road. The wagon kicked up violently from behind and slammed back down on the ground with a tremendous WHAANG. Curtis leapt out of the way, diving headlong into the brush by the side of the road. Coming to a sliding stop, she jammed the kickstand down with her heel and vaulted from the seat, running to where Curtis had landed.

“Curtis!” she cried. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it!” Curtis was pulling himself from a small shroud of raspberries, the stickers clinging tenaciously to his uniform. She threw out her hand and he accepted it. Together, they stood on the side of the road staring at each other in amazement.

They both began speaking at the same time. “I thought you . . . !” “How did you . . . ?” Unable to get a word in, they let out a unified holler of joy and fell into a long, happy hug.

Emerging from the embrace, Prue was the first to speak. “I thought you’d gone home! That woman, Alexandra, said so.”

Curtis shook his head. “No, I was in the warren when you were there. I was locked up!”

Prue cursed, her face pinched in anger. “That evil, evil lady. I can’t believe that! All the lies she’s told—”

“But you!” interjected Curtis. “They said you had gone home.”

“I did,” explained Prue. “But I turned around and came right back. Oh, Curtis, so much has happened since I saw you last—I can’t even begin to explain.”

Curtis slapped his palm against his chest in excitement. “Me too! You wouldn’t believe it.”

“But I don’t have much time,” said Prue, remembering her charge. “I’m riding ahead of the North Wood army—I have to get help.”

“The North Wood army?” asked Curtis. “What’s that?”

“Not really an army,” Prue corrected herself. “More like a few hundred farmers and their pitchforks. I’m riding ahead to try and get help from the Wildwood bandits—I figure with their help, we stand a chance.”

Curtis smiled.