Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3)

It was like a wave of gray had crashed over the village, lapping up every citizen in its tide. That was the only way to describe it. Where one day there had been only a few of them, the next it was one out of every five; and suddenly they were everywhere you looked: hooded robes and swinging censers, silvery masks and silent stares. The South Wood Guard, an honored institution since the first brick of the Mansion had been pulled from the kiln, was immediately dissolved, its ranks subsumed into the Synod’s new security force, the Watch, whose members walked through the village distributing pamphlets describing the laws of the new regime.

It seemed as if it happened overnight, this sudden takeover, and yet its seeds had been planted months before.

No one quite knew what happened to the leaders of the post-revolution regime, whether they had been absorbed into this new vision of leadership or had simply been disappeared like the Svikists of old, but it was a hardy Spoke indeed who would pine for the revolution’s endless social and political protocols that had been stripped away—the sashes and the sprocket brooches, the forced honorifics, and the always-looming fear of the guillotine—with the rise of the Synod. The revolutionary leaders, those who had survived the months of purges within their own ranks, had made such a hash of governance that when the wave of gray robes crested and fell upon the people of South Wood, they were, from most quarters, welcomed as long-awaited saviors, and their edicts, though strict, were adopted almost immediately.

“One has to give up some liberty,” a village elder was heard to say, “in the service of the greater good. At least initially.”

A strict curfew was imposed; no one outside the Synod’s inner ranks and those employed by the Watch were to be on the streets, outside their homes, after ten p.m. The uniform of the Spokes—the bicycle pants, the caps, and the sashes, not to mention the ever-present brooches—was absolutely verboten. Anyone found wearing such a costume would be detained by the Watch and put on trial in front of the Blighted Tree for the crime of inciting unrest. Any literature or paraphernalia connected to the former revolutionary movement—deemed a fascist junta by the Synod—was to be collected and destroyed. No questions asked, the wording of the pamphlets emphasized. The good folk of South Wood were to be received with open arms by the Synod and forgiven their past missteps, according to the teachings of the Blighted Tree—provided no unfortunate backsliding was exhibited. And despite their prior allegiances, all were expected to show their devotion to the Blighted Tree by congregating in the Glade every Wednesday morning at nine and again at noon for those who couldn’t make the earlier service.

Those so moved would be welcome to petition the Elder Caliph (or, in case of his absence, his second in command) for a role within the clergy—perhaps even an acolyte-ship, provided they received the tree’s communion and were prepared to take the vow of silence required of the inner circle of Caliphs. Those who had felt lost within the revolutionary fervor of the prior regime, those who had felt threatened by the all-as-one mentality the prior regime sold, those who had longed for more security and control, gladly gave themselves to the edicts of the Synod, and peace, of a sort, reigned over South Wood for the first time in quite a while.

And so, Zita could not blame her father for his newfound religiosity. There’d been a pretty sizable void in his life since the passing of her mother, and, once the Synod’s influence had found its way into their home, a new life sprang into his eyes. He’d been given a position in the civilian ranks of the Synod, a job that entailed organizing events within the community and occasionally assisting in the services that were held at the Blighted Tree. It gave him a renewed perspective, and a fresh intention.

That morning, he’d been pulled in by a group of other low-level Caliphs who’d been tasked to whitewash the many pro-revolution murals that had been painted on the village walls over the last several months, and he’d arrived home, sometime after nightfall, achingly tired. He’d been surprised to see his daughter, quite awake, sitting in the living room, reading a book.

“Hey, Dad,” said Zita, seeing him come in. She recognized him, despite the mirrored green mask and the floor-length gray robe he’d been asked to wear when he was doing the work of the Synod.

He hung his robe on the rack by the door and slumped in the chair opposite Zita; he pulled the mask from his face, dropping the loop of his cowl to the back of his chair. “Hiya,” he said. He looked exhausted. “What are you doing up?”

“Can’t sleep,” she said. “Plus, we just got all new textbooks at school. Everything’s chang

ed to meet the Synod’s new rules.”

Her father frowned. “Ah,” he said. “Well, it’s really for the best. We have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

“Yeah,” said Zita. “Oh—did you hear? Kendra’s eating the Spongiform tomorrow.”

“Really? She’s so young!” Zita could hear a little disappointment in her father’s tired voice; she knew that it was his goal to receive this communion. He only needed to prove himself within the organization.

“Well, her dad’s been involved in the Synod for a while now,” said Zita. “She got a little help on the way.”

“Good for Kendra,” said her father, heaving a sigh. “Well, I’m bushed, dear. Gonna head in for the night.”

“Okay, Dad. Sleep well.”

“Don’t be up too late.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.” She waited until he had closed his door behind him, listened for the shuffling of his bare feet. Before long, the seesaw of his snoring was emanating through his bedroom door, and Zita snuck a glance over her book at the cascade of gray sackcloth he’d hung on the coatrack. A shiny green mask, its chin exposed beneath the cloth, glinted in the candlelight.

She had to fold and pin the hem of the robe up a few inches above her ankles to keep it from dragging along the ground as she walked; the mask’s eerily cold inner surface clung to her skin and seemed to amplify her labored, excited breathing. The night lay on thick, thick with fog, and she hurried through the glow of the gaslights. The clock tower, sitting vigil over the empty town square, chimed the hour as she passed through the shadow it cast by the gas lamp’s light.

In the pocket of her robe sat two objects: a small white pebble and an eagle’s feather.

For ceremonial effect, she’d worn her unwashed white dress beneath the robe—the same dress she’d worn for her coronation as May Queen. She’d even set what little remained of the desiccated wreath of flowers, her crown, over her head, hidden beneath the shroud of the gray hood. She thought it was fitting, wearing this costume. She thought the final conjuration would feel more like a completed circle this way.

The cobbled street she was following, an artery off the square, was suddenly filled with a company of Watch members. Their masks were black, befitting their rank, and they carried black truncheons, which they swung idly by their sides as they walked. Zita counted seven of them. She stood to one side of the road and bowed as they passed; they seemed to size her up, this green-masked Caliph, but apparently thought little of her appearance on the street after curfew. It was allowed, after all. The edicts stated that anyone who’d earned his or her robes could be out on official business past curfew. She was thankful they hadn’t stopped her to ask what that business was; she’d had a hazy excuse but wasn’t sure if it’d pass muster.

No matter; the gang disappeared around the corner behind her, on their way to prowl the square for other curfew breakers. One thing was certain: The village had become much safer since the Synod took over—there was no denying that. Before, in the weeks leading up to the takeover, people tended to impose their own curfews on themselves and their families. It simply wasn’t safe to stroll the streets after dark.

But here, in her cocoon of gray cloth and green mask, Zita felt empowered. What’s more, she knew that her arduous work, her job as gofer to a disembodied spirit, was coming to a close. Now she would see the fruits of her labors. She would see the woman reborn. She would give that woman a child to love.

The lights of the village grew distant; she found herself on a quiet, dark road that led out into the surrounding forest. It wormed its way around the landscape, having been laid in deference to the older trees in the wood so that they would not be disturbed. Even so, with the passing of centuries, the old oaks and walnuts had expanded their territory and buckled the cobbles such that there were ripples like mountain ranges erupting here and there and Zita had to watch her steps carefully.

Finally, she arrived at the spot. She’d known the way fairly well; it was a place she and her father frequented, making the trek every Sunday afternoon. A metal gate stood guard over the entrance; it hung permanently open, having been shoved aside by a ripple in the cobblestones. A wrought-iron arch bridged the distance between the two sides of the gate. Zita pulled a flashlight from her robe and flashed it over the words that had been ornately spelled out there: SOUTH WOOD CEMETERY.