Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“Mint tea!” shouted the owl, swiveling his head to the side of the chair. A sudden flapping of wings behind them suggested the order had been received. He turned to look back at his guest, the beads of his eyes burrowing into Prue’s. “A girl. An Outsider girl. Quite fascinating. I’m told you . . . you simply walked in?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Prue.

“I’ve flown over your Outside city many times, but I can’t say that I’ve had any interest in stopping. Do you enjoy nesting there? Is it comfortable?” asked Owl Rex.

“I guess so,” said Prue. “I was born there and my parents live there, so I guess I don’t really have a choice. It’s a pretty nice place.” She paused, thinking, before continuing: “Most people—and animals—I’ve met were pretty surprised I was here. You don’t seem to be that weirded out by it.”

“Oh, Prue, if you live to be as old as I, you’ll see many, many strange and wonderful things. And the more strange and wonderful things you see, the less likely you are to be, as you say, ‘weirded out’ by them.” Owl lifted one of his dappled wings and lightly pecked at the underside with his beak before returning it to his side.

Prue, in the conversation’s pause, hazarded the question she’d been dying to ask since she’d arrived at the house: “Mr. Rex, do you know what the crows have done with my brother?”

The owl sighed. “I am very, very saddened to tell you that I do not. If it is true, as you say, that the crows are responsible for your brother’s abduction, then I have as much authority to find and prosecute his kidnappers as I would if the salamanders were to blame.”

Prue didn’t quite follow.

“You see,” continued the Crown Prince, “the crows—the entire subspecies, mind you—defected from the Principality some months ago. They had always been a troubled lot, prone to mischief and petty thievery, and seemed to suffer under the delusion that they somehow stood above their avian brethren. A separatist streak developed. Naturally, we fought them on the issue many times over many years, but that did not stop them from leaving our Principality en masse one afternoon in July. And I’m disheartened to say that we’ve heard very little from them since.”

The rhythmic flutter of wings from behind the chair alerted Prue to the arrival of her tea, and she graciously accepted the cup and saucer from the claws of the two attending sparrows. A tea tray was brought and placed delicately on a small table next to her chair; one of the sparrows hefted a teapot and poured the dark liquid into Prue’s proffered cup. Thanking the bird, she despondently stirred a lump of sugar into the translucent brown liquid, crestfallen that yet another potential lead had been stamped out.

Owl Rex, detecting her despair, spoke up. “But that’s not to say we aren’t eminently concerned

about their whereabouts. Rather, their tomfoolery is a bit of a thorn in our side at present. You see, over the last several months the isolated settlements to the north—at the border of Wildwood—have been threatened on numerous occasions by roving bands of what our citizen birds describe as ‘coyote soldiers.’ Coyotes—the most infamously disorganized, ragtag creatures in the forest, mind you—who have somehow pulled themselves together enough to form a cohesive military force. If I weren’t so dedicated to the well-being of my subjects, I would be the first to dismiss such reports as absolutely implausible. But I have heard the stories, Prue, I have seen the anguished families, their nests destroyed, their home trees cut down, their foraging grounds despoiled. They cannot be ignored.

“Now, our emissaries have appealed to the Mansion over and over that we be allowed to defend our subjects and the strength of our border by retaliating against these bands of coyotes—but they have always been stonewalled. I have come myself to entreat that the amendments to the Wildwood Protocol that prohibit us from military action within Wildwood be suspended until our borders are made safe again. And here come reports of crows, ungrateful, meddling crows, carrying away an Outsider child and depositing him within the borders of Wildwood, clearly illegal activity that reflects very poorly on the Avians in general. I am as angered and disappointed with this situation as you, Prue. Since the Mansion doesn’t recognize the breakaway status of the crows, their actions have the potential of completely derailing our case.” He paused, searching for words. “The Mansion has, for years now, been looking for ways to curtail the freedoms of the Avians. It worries me that this may give them even more reason.”

“Why?” asked Prue.

The owl shrugged. “Distrust. Intolerance. Fear. They dislike our ways.”

This was baffling to Prue. The birds she’d met so far in this strange place seemed very kind and accommodating.

Owl Rex abruptly raised his wings and, with a few brisk flaps, carried himself to the stack of wood by the fireplace; the fire was now smoldering. He gripped a fresh log in his talons and threw it onto the coals, and the fire started anew. He returned to his seat, adjusted his cap, and continued.

“Gone are the days when the Mansion could be seen as a place of wise counsel and just governance. It is now a den of political opportunists and would-be despots, each grabbing desperately for every possible shard of power. It is the void that has remained since the coup.”

“The coup?” asked Prue. She had been stirring her tea the entire time, transfixed by the owl’s story. She caught herself and laid the spoon down on the saucer with a tiny clink.

The Crown Prince nodded gravely. “All this requires a bit of explanation. The coup in which the Dowager Governess, the widow of the deceased Governor-Regent Grigor Svik, was deposed and exiled to Wildwood.”

“Grigor Svik—Lars’s dad?” asked Prue.

“Uncle,” replied Owl Rex. “And what a ruler he was. A gracious man, a kind man. As understanding of other species as one could hope. He and I were great friends. When we assumed our respective seats of power, we agreed on the sovereignty of the Avian Principality and the country of North Wood, countries that had existed for centuries but had not yet been recognized by their neighbors. We allowed free and safe passage for all subjects between these nations. And, most importantly, we authored the Wildwood Protocols—that very treaty I am now attempting to undo—which set aside the vast, untamed country of Wildwood as free and wild space, safe from the industrial barons who would seek to spoil it for their own ends. When Grigor died, I was . . . bereft.” The Crown Prince lowered his head.

Prue shifted in her seat uncomfortably. “How did he die?” she asked softly.

Owl Rex composed himself, staring into the flames of the fire. “Heartbreak, I suppose. He and his wife, Alexandra, had a son, an only child. His name was Alexei. They adored him. From an early age he had been groomed to assume the governorship after his father, so it was a crushing blow to the country as well as the family when he was thrown from a horse, shortly after his fifteenth birthday. He did not survive the fall. Grigor and Alexandra, naturally, were devastated. After a private funeral, Grigor went to his bed in the Mansion and never left it.

“Alexandra handled these two unfathomable tragedies as well as could be expected, and she assumed the governorship, gaining the title Dowager Governess—but her grief was eating her from the inside out, and she became distant and withdrawn to those who knew her best. She isolated herself in the Mansion and kept very strange company: soothsayers, gypsies, and practitioners of the black arts. Her aides were powerless to stop her. Finally, she called the two most renowned toy makers in South Wood and, behind the Mansion walls, commanded them to create a mechanical replica of her dead son, Alexei.

“In a secluded Mansion garret, the two toy crafters slaved over their creation for months until they presented to the Governess the final product, and it was seen to be a very remarkable facsimile of the late young governor-in-waiting. It was, however, still a toy. It required winding at regular intervals and did little more than walk stiffly around, making metallic clicks and buzzes.”

“Creepy!” interjected Prue. “I mean, how could she think that would replace her son?”

Owl Rex nodded soberly, saying, “She had other plans. Using magics learned from her attendant dark mystics, she placed Alexei’s full set of teeth—which she had salvaged from his corpse—into the mouth of the automaton. Weaving a powerful spell into the machinery, she brought forth the deceased soul of Alexei into this mechanical child.”

Prue gasped. The fire crackled in the hearth. A clock on the mantel gently chimed the hour.

Curtis had never been so elated in his life. The surrounding forest took on an unearthly glow and the air tasted like ambrosia and he was being buoyed along on the shoulders of a multitude of cheering coyote soldiers, their overjoyed cries occasionally conjoining to chant, “CURTIS! CURTIS! CURTIS!” This rowdy parade marched through the woods, the soldiers’ crackling torches illuminating the way.