Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Tie him up and boil ’im in his fat!

Curtis politely tapped his finger on his pant leg and even made a halfhearted attempt to join in on the chorus when it came back around, making his neighbors cackle and lift their mugs to him.

“The boy’s getting a hang of the dog shanty!” howled one.

“There’s a good jackal!” shouted another.

A coyote who had plopped himself down next to Curtis and his array of untouched wine mugs ribbed him clumsily, nearly sending them both falling backward.

Curtis laughed shyly and pushed himself up. “Excuse me, guys,” he said. “Might go get a little air.” The activity in the room was beginning to get a little too clamorous for his taste. He tiptoed around the rows of mugs and the chains of arm-linked coyotes singing in full throat, toward one of the many tunnel entrances leadi

ng from the room. A few torches attached to the wall of the tunnel lit the way, the knobby ground below his feet alive with the winking shadows cast by the partyers. As he followed the curve of the tunnel, the song continued behind him, fading:

Liar! Liar!

Furze and briar!

Bind his feet and hang ’im with a wire!

A shiver running up his spine, Curtis was glad to hear the noise of the manic crowd bleed away as he descended farther into the tunnel. He wasn’t sure where he was going—he was simply following this sudden instinct to find somewhere he could sit by himself and reflect on all that had transpired during the last two days.

Several side tunnels, through which Curtis could see the torch-illumined walls of antechambers and storerooms, broke away from this main corridor, and he took extra care to mentally mark his every turn so as to be able to return to the Governess’s hall. The noise from the party was a distant echo now, the ashy smoke from the central fire a mere hint in the musty air. The plant roots dangling from the earthen roof of the tunnel caressed his head as he went like long, downy fingers. Curtis was overcome by a warm closeness here, the feeling of being cocooned in this labyrinthine warren, and he wondered if this was a place where he could stay. The aching anxiety with which he faced every school day, the quiet loneliness of the playground and the overwhelming authority of his teachers, disappointed coaches, and fretful parents—all seemed to recede like the singing of the coyote soldiers behind him. He had never been so embraced by a group of people in his life; he had always found himself on the outside, desperately striving for the approval of his peers. Alexandra’s suggestion of their relationship—she would be a new mother to him! How many kids were afforded that opportunity?—was thrilling to Curtis, and the idea of their dominion in this strange new world seemed intoxicating.

Whish.

The unmistakable sound of a flutter of wings came from the distant dark of the tunnel.

Whish.

The smile dropped from Curtis’s face, replaced by a puzzled frown.

Again, the noise replayed: a distinct whip of feathered wings, the sound of a bird briefly circling before landing.

He kept walking toward the sound. A bat? No: He had heard bats wheeling above the patio at his house at dusk. They barely made a flutter. But what could a bird possibly be doing in an underground warren? So far, he hadn’t seen any other animal included in the Governess’s forces. He followed the sound through a passageway leading off the tunnel—a small light could be seen at the end. This ceiling here was lower than the main one, and Curtis bowed his head as he walked. The pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel flickered like a movie projector, its tiny gleam occasionally being blotted by the sudden appearance and disappearance of a number of quick black shapes. Curtis narrowed his eyes, the sound of flapping wings now growing in volume.

“Hello?” he called.

The brittle agitation of the wings started at the sound of his voice, and Curtis now guessed there must be hundreds of birds, the noise of their flying, circling, and diving massing together.

Suddenly he felt something sweep over his shoulder, skirting the fabric of his uniform. He instinctively dove out of the way, landing uncomfortably on his saber’s scabbard against the raw dirt of the tunnel wall. A single black feather drifted lazily to the ground where he had been standing.

Curtis righted himself and drew his saber from its sheath.

“Seriously! Who’s there?” he called, unnerved.

And that was when he heard the sound of a baby crying. A sharp, short wail from an infant, bubbling up from below the harried noise of the birds’ wings. His heart froze at the sound.

“Oh man,” whispered Curtis, walking faster down the passageway.

The tunnel opened into a tall chamber—almost egglike in shape—and it was filled to the ceiling with crows. Pitch-black, tar-black crows. Dozens, hundreds, all wheeling and hovering, sparring and cawing. The few lit torches on the wall illuminated their oily black feathers. The apex of the room was crowned with a small opening, through which more crows arrived and departed.

In the center of the room, on the dirt floor, sat a small, simple bassinet made from the mossy boughs of beech saplings. And in this bassinet lay a chubby, burbling baby, his eyes vacillating between fear and amazement at the whirling cloud of crows above his head. He wore a brown corduroy jumper, badly stained with dirt and what appeared to be bird droppings.

Curtis gaped. “Mac?” he stammered.

The child looked at Curtis and cooed. A single crow broke away from the hovering mass and landed on the side of the cradle, a long fat worm writhing in his beak. To Curtis’s disgust, the crow dropped the worm into Mac’s open mouth. Mac munched it contentedly.

“Gross,” whispered Curtis, his stomach churning.