Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“Eegh,” he said. “That stuff gives me the creeps.”

“What’s up, rat?” asked Brendan. “What have you seen?”

Septimus shook his head. “Blackberries. Blackberry brambles. As far as the eye can see. Just beyond that grove of alders there.” He was winded from running and paused to catch his breath. “Impassable,” he concluded.

Sure enough, as the long column of farmers and bandits made their way through a peaceful stand of tall alders, their leaves a kaleidoscope of yellow and green hues, they arrived at an impressive snarl of blackberry bushes that stretched like a wall in either direction, seemingly impregnable. Brendan cursed under his breath.

“Men!” he hollered to the line. “We’ll have to cut our way through.”

The army dove into the brambles headlong, their swords, scythes, and hacksaws a blinding flash of iron against the green of the bushes—but to no avail. The farther they were able to cut themselves into the dense thicket of briars, the more the bushes seemed to fall upon them, catching their uniforms and clothing in their sharp, clawlike thorns. Brendan finally pulled away, returning to the grove of trees. He’d hiked the sleeves of his tunic up to his elbows, and his forearms were laced with red scratches; a few leaves clung to his beard.

“Blast it all!” he swore. “I should’ve known this—it’s been years since I’d been to the Grove. This must’ve seeded and grown in that time.”

“Iphigenia,” said Prue, remembering Iris, the young acolyte, and the braiding tuft of grass. “We should get Iphigenia.”

Brendan looked at her askance. “What is she gonna do? Meditate them away?”

“Trust me,” Prue said. “Just let me go get Iphigenia.”

Brendan set his hands on his knees and briefly held his head down—sweat was pouring from his brow and glistening against the strange tattoo on his forehead. “Okay, Outsider,” he said, adding, “But move quick. We’re running out of time.”

Prue engaged the kickstand on her bike and set off down the trail at a swift sprint. The line of soldiers extended back to the switchbacks leading down to the creek bed, and they all stared as she whipped by them. She cut the last few switchbacks in two short leaps and bolted over the small bridge to arrive at the cluster of caravan wagons that were laboring their way up the narrow path.

“Iphigenia!” she shouted, arriving at the first wagon.

A small door behind the driver’s seat opened and the Elder Mystic’s head peered out over the shoulder of the driver, a robed badger. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Why have we stopped?”

Prue paused to catch her breath from the sprint. “They need you . . . ,” she sputtered. “At the—at the top of the ridge.”

“What’s happened?” asked Iphigenia.

“Blackberry brambles,” explained Prue. “We can’t go any farther. I thought maybe you could, you know, ask them to move.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” asked Iphigenia when she arrived at the top of the ridge. “We are quickly running out of time. The sun is reaching its zenith.”

“Apologies, madam,” said Brendan, “but we’ve hit a snag. This bramble of berries is impassable—and to make our way around it would waylay us for far too long. The girl has suggested that you might be of some assistance in the matter.”

Iphigenia harrumphed and stamped her foot beneath her flaxen robe. She stomped forward to take in the wall of brambles.

“This bramble has been here for many, many years—why did we not take a different path?” she asked.

Brendan reddened. “I was not aware that the bushes were here,” he said, attempting a gentle diplomacy with the aged woman. “At least not in this density. I would’ve surely chosen a different path, but this is the only one afforded to us now, considering the time.”

“Would you have your own camp, your bandit hideout, moved, torn apart and scattered, at the insistence of the . . . what . . . perhaps the trees?” asked Iphigenia unsympathetically, her hand waving toward the canopy of branches above them.

“I don’t even know how to answer that question,” responded Brendan.

Iphigenia glared at the King for a moment before capitulating. “Very well,” she said. “I will ask the blackberries if they will move.”

“What?” he asked, agog. “I’m not sure I heard you right. Did you say you were going to ask the brambles to move?”

“You heard right, Bandit King,” was Iphigenia’s response as she hiked up her robe and prepared to sit cross-legged on the forest floor. “I can only ask. I make no promises. If they deny this request, there’s little I can do.” She squinted sidelong at the tangle of vines before them. “Blackberries tend to be rather stubborn.”

Brendan was speechless. He looked over at Sterling the fox and stared, searching for an explanation. Sterling lifted his shoulders in a shrug. Iphigenia, the dirty hem of her sackcloth robe gathered about her crossed ankles, sat on the ground and began to meditate. Curtis shot a questioning glance at Prue.

“Watch,” Prue said quietly, confidently.

A calm breeze fluttered through the alder grove, scattering the mosaic of fallen leaves around the bent knees of the Elder Mystic. A brief sun break cast rays of golden light through the alder boughs, and Prue squinted to feel the warmth of the sun against her cheek. Iphigenia breathed deeply and loudly, the rhythm of her breaths providing an odd soundtrack to the late morning. Brendan, having suffered the quiet meditation session for a few minutes and borne witness to no results, made an angry curse below his breath and started to stalk off.