Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“Speak up, then!” someone shouted from the back.

Prue cleared her throat and spoke louder. “Five days ago, I saw my brother taken by a flock of crows. From a park in St. Johns—the Outside. So I came in here to find him. I’ve asked the people in South Wood for help—they did nothing.” She was gaining confidence. “I asked Owl Rex, the Crown Prince of the Avians, for help—and he was arrested! He told me to come here, to speak to the Mystics. He said they’d be my last hope.”

Iphigenia stepped to Prue’s side. “The crows are in the employ of the Dowager,” the Elder Mystic said. “They have fallen away from the Avians to do her bidding. Once the ivy is similarly under her command, there will be no stopping the swath of destruction that will follow. Every tree will be toppled, every glade consumed. Your crops, houses, and farms will be laid to ruin. The ivy knows no boundaries. It will consume and consume until it is instructed by its commander to cease. And clearly, its commander is nothing short of a madwoman, bent on the complete annihilation of the Wood as we know it.”

The audience emitted a murmur of fear. The Mystic continued:

“It is clear from our meditations with the Council Tree that this is our calling. To gather our army in defense of the Wood. There is no other choice.” Iphigenia paused and took a deep breath. “Mr. Fox,” she called, “would you mind saying a word?”

Sterling, standing at the foot of the stepladder, nodded and climbed to the walkway. He held a tattered and yellowing scroll in his paw. Unfurling it, he began to explain to the crowd, “The Decree of Muster dictates thus: that every man and woman, animal or human, of able body, in the event that the Decree is instated, must take up arms and join the ranks of the militia. For this, he or she will be compensated from the community stores for labor lost.”

“But we have no weapons!” came a voice.

Sterling rolled the scroll tight and patted the pruning shears at his belt. “Then you must use whatever is at hand. Farming implements, cooking utensils—whatever you can find.”

The crowd collectively heaved a worried grumble.

Iphigenia stepped forward. “Go now,” she commanded, “and find your families. Gather your weapons. Meet back at this point in an hour. You have an hour, no more, to do this. Our time is very short. The Governess intends to commit this sacrifice at noon this day. Remember: Our very lives depend on this.”

The crowd of farmers, dismissed, moved into distressed splinters as they each ran home to their cottages, farms, and families.

Prue turned to Iphigenia. “Will you come? Into Wildwood?” she asked.

The Elder Mystic nodded, brushing a few strands of her silvery gray hair from her lined forehead. “Yes,” she said, “I will represent the Order in this journey. The others will stay behind and remain in meditation. However, when I took the robes, I was sworn to do no harm, pledged to a life of nonviolence. Whatever fighting must be done, I will be unable to take part in it. But there are other ways that I may help.”

Prue watched as the crowd continued to dissipate, its individual figures disappearing into the

copses of trees and small hovels that peppered the landscape. “How many,” she asked, “do you think there’ll be?”

Sterling the fox grumbled under his breath. “We’ll be lucky if we have four hundred,” he said.

Iphigenia, her face set, looked at the fox. “It will have to do.”

“That’s it?” Prue asked. The number seemed far too small.

“You saw the crowd,” said Sterling defensively. “Even if we get everyone—all the farmhands and homesteads on the far side of Miller Creek—we won’t get many more than that. This is a quiet country; we’re not accustomed to these upsets.”

Iphigenia sighed. “And yet, the Council Tree has decreed it. We have little choice in the matter.”

“What about—what about—” Prue’s mind whirred desperately for options. “What about other creatures—in the Wood? What about all the animals in Wildwood—wouldn’t they want to ally with us to do this? I mean, their homes are in as much in danger as yours are.”

Iphigenia shook her head. “Impossible,” she said. “The creatures of Wildwood, what we know of them, belong to loosely tied packs and families. It’s truly a wild country. Getting each of those disparate packs to come together would be impossible.”

Prue struck on something. “The bandits,” she said. “What about the bandits?”

Sterling’s eyes widened. “Those bloodthirsty hooligans? Are you kidding? No one in their right mind would ally with those anarchic hoods. We’d all get our throats slit and our purses taken.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Prue objected. “I don’t think that’s true at all. I’ve been there—to the bandit camp.”

“You’ve been to their camp?” asked a surprised Iphigenia. “How on earth did you manage that?”

Prue sighed. “Long story. I was lying on the back of an eagle when I was shot down by a coyote archer. They found me and brought me to their hideout. It’s up a really deep ravine—totally hidden from sight. I wasn’t there long, though, before they’d spotted some coyotes nearby—they were following my scent, you see. So their King, I think they called him, rode me out of the camp and away so as not to lead them right into the hideout. That’s when I was captured by the Governess.”

The fox was momentarily speechless. “They didn’t rough you up, did they? I mean, that’s what they do, right?”

“No, they were very gentlemanly,” said Prue.

“I’d always suspected as much,” said Iphigenia. “That the bandits were a sympathetic crew, however anarchic they might be. One thing is certain: They would be the strongest and most organized of the many tribes and packs of Wildwood. A formidable ally, if we were able to gain it.”