Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

The girl shifted onto her knees and, placing her hands calmly at her sides, closed her eyes. A tuft of grass before her began to waver, as if a breeze had suddenly picked up and was thrumming through its blades. Prue noted, however, that the air around them remained still. As she watched, the individual blades of grass started to quiver and then, to Prue’s amazement, began wrapping themselves around their neighbors. Before long, the grass on the tuft had created a little forest of perfectly braided strands. “That’s incredible,” she whispered.

The acolyte’s brow was wrinkled with concentration as the grass continued to weave together—but the uniformity of the braids slowly grew more chaotic and messy until the woven patterns became indistinguishable and the tuft of grass had knotted itself into a tangle of quivering green wires.

“Phooey!” shouted Iris, her eyes opening. “I always mess that up.”

Her attention withdrawn, the leaves untangled themselves and returned to their previous incarnation: a simple tuft of meadow grass.

A makeshift soccer ball made of twine came bouncing between them. Two acolytes, a boy and a raccoon, apologized as they ran to get it. Iris, belying her age and attention span, immediately forgot Prue and leapt up to chase it, to get to it before her playmates did. She’d run only a few yards, though, before she stopped and turned to look at Prue. She jogged back to where Prue sat and placed a hand on her arm.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “you’re going to find your brother.” And she ran off to join the other robed children.

Prue stared at the young girl as she ran away, thunderstruck by the display of power she’d just seen. You do that, she thought, through meditation? The Mystic had said that she, Prue, was of Woods Magic, or at least partly. Why shouldn’t she then be able to make the grass do her bidding? She briefly stared back down at the tuft of grass and willed it to move. Nothing happened. She gritted her teeth and thought as loudly as she could: Move! I command you! Still nothing. Prue huffed in disappointment. She looked back up at the milling children, the sitting Mystics, and the looming tree. What power! she thought. If anyone could help her, these people could. And what had Iris said before she left? That Prue would find her brother? She was struck by the honesty of the young girl, how plainspoken she’d been—how certain her voice was. She found that she was smiling, a small ray of hope eclipsing the desperation of her predicament, if only for a moment. She watched the acolytes at play, watched a few older robed figures appear from the woods and whistle to them. Hearing the whistle, they all immediately dropped what they’d been doing and gathered in single file. A second whistle came and they began walking toward the whistler, their feet in a loose lockstep. Before long, they’d disappeared beyond the wall of trees.

Prue sighed and trained her eyes back on the Council Tree and the static circle of Mystics encircling it. The light began to fade. Prue hiked her knees to her chest and burrowed her chin into the inside of her elbow. And waited.

The grass at her feet rustled slightly.

“You’re really gonna do this, aren’t you,” said Septimus in disbelief. “I mean, you’re really gonna do this? You’re going to go to war. With these people.”

Curtis, sitting on a rock in front of the campfire, nodded. He was busy scraping a flinty whetstone against the chinked blade of a saber. With each drag of the stone along the blade, the gouges that marred the edge grew shallower and shallower. He’d been given the job by Seamus, and he found it was oddly satisfying. The dusk had lowered over the camp, and the air was tinged blue.

“You’re crazy,” declared Septimus, shaking his head. “You’re nuts. Don’t you have a family at home? Back on the Outside? Like, parents and things?”

Curtis nodded again. “I do, yeah.”

Septimus held out his paws. “Then why, man, why? Why don’t you go home to ’em? Forget about the whole thing? Go back to your life!”

Curtis paused and looked over at the rat. He was perched on an upended chunk of firewood in front of the crackling campfire. “That’s what you’re going to do, I take it,” said Curtis. He held the saber at arm’s length and eyed the blade. Satisfied, he tossed it on the pile of weapons beside him and called to Septimus, “Another one, please.”

The rat hopped down from the log and scrambled over to another pile of weapons: swords, bayonets, and arrowheads. He grabbed a long dagger by the hilt and dragged it over to Curtis. Curtis picked it up and began the process anew: scraping the whetstone carefully over the blade.

Septimus climbed back up onto the log and pondered Curtis’s question. “I don’t know, rightly,” he said. “Haven’t given it that much thought.”

“Don’t you have family?” asked Curtis.

“Nah, not me,” said Septimus, puffing up his chest. “Not I. Single man, me. Untethered.”

“So there’s nothing stopping you, then,” said Curtis. “No reason you can’t join the fight.” He scraped the flesh of his thumb against the blade, feeling the sharpness. “Right?”

Septimus laughed. “Listen to you,” he said. “Mister Big Britches all of a sudden.”

Curtis colored slightly. “All I know, Septimus, is that I came in here to do something. And I don’t feel like I should leave until I at least try to finish what I started, you know? I was this close, Septimus, this close. I had Mac in my arms. I could’ve . . . I could’ve . . .”

Septimus interrupted, “What, just run him out of the warren? Just like that? With all them crows and the Governess standing right in front of you?”

Curtis sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I just want to make good on a promise. That’s all.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of Seamus. He’d ditched his irretrievably torn prison attire for a handsome green velvet hussar’s uniform, which hung a little loosely on his thin frame. “Curtis,” he said, “let’s go.”

“What’s up?” asked Curtis.

“Brendan. He wants to see you.”

“What about?”

Seamus rolled his eyes. “Flower pressing,” he said sarcastically. “What difference does it make? Important business. Come on.”

“Okay,” said Curtis, standing up. “Septimus, see if you can’t, I don’t know, finish things up here.”