The figures, their shiny silver masks obscuring their faces, their long gray cowls covering their heads, said nothing. Instead, they waved the way forward, beneath the boughs of the twin hemlocks. Prue gave a quick look over her shoulder: All that remained of her former retinue was the tall bearded man, the badger, and his bright, baubled rickshaw. “Go ahead,” said Charlie. “Be safe.”

The road became rough here, its cobbles all buckled and broken from years of use with few, if any, repairs. Clumps of grass and moss defaced the surface, and the roots of trees plowed up great sections in lumpy furrows. Prue walked between her two chaperones as they led her down the hill. Having received no response to her last few questions, she decided it would be rude to keep asking more. Perhaps some vow of silence was involved here; she hated the idea that she might be somehow offending their sensibilities.

She couldn’t tell if they were animal or human, male or female. Their shrouding getup all but erased any kind of distinction. One was a little shorter than the other; that was really the only discernible difference between her two chaperones. She turned her attention to the greenery around her, wanting to suss out some kind of guiding information, but she was, as before, unable to coax anything but humming murmurs from the surrounding forest. Still, the hum, the low hum, remained. It pulsated somewhere off in the distance, a sound without a knowable source, and it seemed to be growing louder as they approached. Another sound presented itself, suddenly, to Prue: some kind of needling tick from the two Caliphs at her side. Strange, she thought. It was no sound a human would produce; what’s more, it seemed to be originating in her mind, which would lead her to believe that some kind of vegetation was the source. She didn’t have much time to contemplate what this meant when the three of them arrived at a point in the road where the trees fell away and an immense meadow presented itself, bathed a glowing white by the rising moon.

The scene was eerily familiar: A group of hooded, robed figures stood in a wide circle in the center of the meadow around a gigantic tree. Behind them, making a large

r circle, was a ring of burning torches. The shadows of the robed figures cast by these torches grew distorted and tall, clambering at the tree’s raw and twisted trunk. Prue could now see why the tree was called blighted; it was as if someone had taken a healthy, thriving tree of immense proportions and proceeded to mangle it, deform it, shedding it of its leaves and twisting its hulking trunk into a contorted, knuckly thing. The tree’s bark folded and gaped like ancient flesh and its branches corkscrewed skyward, reaching higher than any other tree in the vicinity. Prue caught her breath; she suddenly realized that this was where the lowing, the distant hum, was coming from. It was coming from the Blighted Tree. It was calling her.

Seeing the approaching three, one of the figures in the circle broke away and walked toward them. He, too, was entirely covered in the gray robes and gray cowl, but his face mask was a shiny, brilliant gold instead of silver. The masks themselves were unremarkable—a neutral human face, nondescript. When the robed figure drew closer, Prue could see the shadows of the man’s eyes, catching the torchlight in the twin cavities of the mask.

“Prue McKeel,” said the figure once he reached them. “I’ve long desired to meet you. This day has been in the making for some time now. Surely, you know this as well.”

A man’s voice, it was slightly muffled by the presence of the gold mask. He nodded to the two figures at Prue’s side, who silently stepped away and walked toward the circle around the tree.

Prue watched them go. “They don’t speak? Is it a vow or something?”

“They choose not to speak,” said the man. Prue felt strangely comfortable in his presence, and his tone of voice was almost fatherly, despite the filter of his mask. “The teachings of the Blighted Tree are enough language for their contemplation. The noise of people is merely a distraction.”

“Why do you talk, then?” She hoped the question didn’t seem rude; the man’s aura invited a certain level of familiarity. In fact, she could swear she’d met the man before, somewhere.

“I’ve ascended beyond acolyte. I’m the Elder Caliph. My name is Elgen. Welcome to the Blighted Glade. Your path has been long, Prue McKeel of the Outside, but it has inevitably led you here. It has been leading you here from the moment you set foot in the Wood.” The lights of the torches gave a sparkling glow to the man’s mask; Prue found it mesmerizing. She could see herself, lit by the pale light, reflected in the mirror of the mask. She looked wobbly, disjointed. “Come,” said Elgen. “I’d like you to speak to the tree. It has long desired to speak to you.”

Prue began to follow the man, transfixed by his strange aura, before she remembered herself. “Do you know where Carol Grod is?”

She’d stopped in her tracks; the man kept walking. She repeated herself. “I need to know where he is.”

Elgen turned. “He is close. Come.”

“What, like, you have him? Here?”

“Come, Prue. Speak to the tree.”

The hum had grown steadily louder in her mind. It made it hard to think straight. She could hear the weird ticking noises coming from the figures in the circle around the tree, though the sounds were quickly being eclipsed by the tree’s all-encompassing low. She rubbed her temples, trying to clear her thoughts. The man continued to speak, gesturing her closer to the ring of Caliphs, the bent hulk of the Blighted Tree. “We’ve been waiting for you. Ever since you were brought here. When the Dowager Governess robbed your family of your brother. We saw you before anyone. We knew your power, your potential. Come closer to the tree.”

“I need to find Carol. Carol Grod. We’ve got to remake Alexei.”

“We know, we know. We only want to help you in this task. You’ve come at an auspicious time, Prue McKeel, Bicycle Maiden, Wildwood Regina. The tree is sending out the Word. It is communicating to its true believers in the language of the Ancients. It is the Calling, Prue. The Blighted Tree needs us.” He waved his hand to the collected congregation. Prue saw them all: silent, standing in the shadow of the tree, the torchlight creating sparks against their cold, silvery face masks.

“Who are they?” she managed. The hum was now everywhere. The sound of her own voice came to her like birdsong beneath a foghorn.

“The true believers. Come closer.”

Prue began walking, as if in a trance, toward the ring.

“A new tree is being born, Prue,” said Elgen. “Deep in the heart of Wildwood. You’ve felt it. It is growing. Like an unborn child in its womb, it is pulling power from its parents. The mother and the father. It will be a difficult birth. Even now, it is sapping the energy from its surroundings. Sadly, the Mother Tree will die in labor. It is as it must be. But the Father Tree will survive. The Father Tree and the newborn will welcome in a new era. We are its midwives, Prue, all of us faithful.”

The humming was so loud now, Prue could barely hear the man’s words, let alone understand them. It came to her in cryptic waves. Ahead, at the tree, she now noticed a new gathering of people: Men and women stood in a line while a hooded acolyte scraped chunks of bark from the Blighted Tree’s wormy trunk. The uncovered people, the men and women in the line, each in turn knelt and opened their mouths, and the acolyte dropped the bits from the trunk onto their tongues. She recognized some of the citizens she’d seen that afternoon at the foyer of the Mansion. Prue watched as each one then stood and was handed a folded robe and a silvery mask.

“We are of the same mind, Prue,” Elgen continued. “We have heard the call as well. To bring the half-dead prince to life.”

HUM.

“It was not just the Mother Tree who decreed this—the Father Tree as well. A champion is needed for the newborn. Alexei will be that champion.”

HUM.

They were growing closer to the tree. The line toward the communion rite was longer now, curling away from the tree and through the encircling acolytes. It became clear to Prue that this was where the Elder Caliph was leading her. “Carol Grod,” she said insistently.

Tags: Colin Meloy Wildwood Chronicles Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net