“Satisfied?” shouted the tortoise once both Charlie’s and Prue’s arms were full.
The two staggered with their loads over to a long table and dumped the binders on the surface. They quickly set about arranging them in some semblance of order and began their search. The binders were filled with manila folders, three-hole punched, and were labeled on the top right corner in an orderly script with the names of the convicted.
It was a sad odyssey, searching through the records of the long-exiled convicts of South Wood, and strange. Charlie, who’d never so much as left his garage, where he’d worked on salvaged automobile parts and old cassette machines, fell into his role as co-researcher with gusto. Both he and Neil tore through the manila folders and translated much of the language for Prue when it proved too arcane.
“‘WW’: I assume that means Wildwood,” she said, leafing through the pages.
“Must be,” responded Charlie, peering over at her stack. “I’m seeing a lot of that too. Pretty common, looks like. Do you think Carol ended up in Wildwood?”
“He’s from the Outside, like me,” said Prue. “I’m not sure if there’s a particular punishment for Outsiders.”
“Don’t know that there’s been many Outsiders in the Wood. You’re the first I ever met,” said Charlie.
“And what’s this?” asked Prue, returning to her folders. “Something about the Crag—‘imprisonment on the Crag,’ it says. Some poor guy named Lucky. Doesn’t sound lucky.”
Neil nodded. “You never heard of that? I guess, how would you?”
“What is it?”
Charlie put in, “My mother used to warn me when I was a kid—I think a lot of folks in South Wood got the same warning. ‘If you don’t shape up, I’ll put you on the Crag.’ Get you into order quick, that would. It’s off somewhere, in the middle of the ocean. A rock in the ocean where they built a prison. If you end up on the Crag, it’s over.”
“Suppose Carol ended up there?” wondered Prue.
“Could be,” said Charlie, licking his finger and flipping through more of the pages. “But that’s imprisonment, not exile.” He paused for a moment in his searching, watching as the tortoise returned, muttering, to his desk. “You say this guy was an Outsider?”
“Yeah,” said Prue.
“There was talk—when I was a kid—I remember asking about the Outside, the place beyond the boundary. There was rumor about that world and what went on. Didn’t ever sound like the sorta place I’d want to visit, but we’d all get worried that some Outsider was gonna come in and terrorize the Wood, you know. But I remember my parents telling me, ‘Nah, quiet down. The Periphery would stop ’em.’ And they said that if ever they caught an Outsider, say he somehow got walked through—you know, like escorted by a Woodian—well, they’d throw him in there, into the Periphery, and he’d live out his days stuck in a kind of nowhere forever. Wonder if they’d do that sort of thing to your Carol Grod.”
Prue was struck by the idea. “How would we ever find him then?”
“We wouldn’t, I don’t guess,” said Charlie. “So our best bet is just to hope that didn’t happen.”
“Not much of a strategy,” said Prue, and she continued shuffling papers. Before long, she came across a folder that bore the name ESBEN CLAMPETT written in the selfsame black script. Opening it, she was bemused to find its contents missing.
“Someone’s taken Esben’s too,” she said, showing it to Charlie and Neil. “This is not helpful.”
“Do you suppose they were after the information themselves?” asked the badger.
“Yeah. Either that or they didn’t want me finding out.”
Charlie continued his search; only a few moments passed before he let out a little yelp. “Here’s your man, Carol Grod!” He held up the folder—Carol’s name was there, written on the top corner.
The tortoise at the desk must’ve overheard the exclamation. “Empty,” he said. “You’ll see.”
Charlie smirked at the grumpy tortoise; as if to appease his own curiosity, he opened the folder and peered inside. “Yep,” he said. “Gone.” He paused, cocking an eyebrow, before saying, “Though not quite.”
“What’s up?” asked Prue.
The bearded man reached into the folder and retrieved a small, folded-up piece of paper. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger; the name PRUE had been written on the surface. He tossed it across the table.
Unfolding the paper, Prue read the following message, scrawled in a delicate hand:
We are of the same mind. Come to the Tree.
Tonight.
Prue flipped it around and showed it to her partners in sleuthery, who each squinted to read the writing. “Lots of trees around here,” Neil said.
“Who did you say had come here this morning?” Prue called out to the tortoise. “The one who asked for this same file?”
“Couldn’t tell,” responded the turtle, bent over his work. “He was hooded. One of them Caliphs.”
“Ah,” said Neil, sitting back in his chair. “I know which tree it means.”
Rachel and Elsie sat together on the bench, watching the activity that was unfolding across the room. A gang of Chapeaux Noirs were attending to the harried form of Joffrey Unthank like he was the subject of some trashy reality show in which a poor, downtrodden soul gets the makeover of a lifetime and they were the disdainful, metropolitan hairdressers tasked to bring off this impossible feat. Clippers whirred, scissors clacked, and Joffrey’s dirt-smeared skin was toweled off bit by bit, revealing the bright whiteness below.
Elsie felt at her own scalp. “I could use a haircut,” she said. “You could use one too,” she said to her sister.
Rachel scoffed. “I’m growing it out.”
“What, to the floor?” The long, thin black strands were already touching the middle of her back.
“I don’t know,” said Rachel. “Whatever.”
Elsie thought for a moment. “I’m growing mine out, too.”
Looking at her sister sideways, Rachel said, “You’ll just get a Jewfro.”
“That’s what I want. A Jewfro.” Elsie wasn’t sure what that was.
Rachel smiled. It was the first time Elsie had seen her smile all week, it felt like. She chalked it up to this recent turn of events. They were closer now to getting Carol and Martha back than they’d ever been, and all of them, the Unadoptables here in the Chapeaux Noirs’ lair, shared a kind of surge of excitement at the prospect, Rachel in particular. Elsie didn’t quite know why, but Rachel was the one most bent on getting the two of them back safely. She thought maybe it was because she’d been there when the stevedores captured them, with the Unthank Home burning in the background. At Martha’s urging, Rachel had abandoned Carol’s side and let the stevedores capture her instead. And why? Because Rachel had a gift: She could pass through the boundary of the Impassable Wilderness without getting caught in the magic. Martha had wanted to protect her from falling into the stevedores’ hands. Elsie had this gift too. She didn’t know what it meant or why she and her sister were blessed with this ability but not the other kids. It was all so confusing.
“Clippy clippy, snippy snippy, tra la, tra lee,” came the voice from inside the huddle of black-clad men. It was Unthank’s chirpy singing voice. He’d been singing all afternoon, providing the soundtrack to his dramatic makeover. Rachel glowered.
“I don’t know how this is going to work,” she said. “He’s so obviously lost it completely.”
“What happened to him?” asked Elsie, smoothing Intrepid Tina’s hair.
“I guess he saw his life kind of fall apart. I suppose that’s what happens,” said her sister. “People just go crazy.”
“What about Miss Mudrak?”
“Who knows? Maybe she’s gone crazy, too, somewhere.”
Elsie thought for a moment before saying, “Do you think I’m crazy?”
Rachel looked down at her sister. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so. Why would you be crazy?”
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“Well, my life is really weird and is sort of falling apart.”
“Yeah, well, you’re tough. You can take it.”
“I can?”
“Of course you can, Els.” Rachel paused before saying, “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“No,” said Elsie. “You’re just crazy in the normal ways.”
Rachel made a face at her sister. “I take that back. I think you’re totally crazy.”
The two girls laughed, and Rachel pushed her shoulder into Elsie’s. As they were sharing this rare moment of levity, Michael approached them.
“Hey, you two,” he said. “You guys should come over here. We need to learn these vent plans.”
“Right,” said Rachel. “C’mon, Els.”
“What about him?” asked Elsie, nodding toward the singing Unthank.
Michael frowned. “He’ll get it together,” he said. “He has to.” As if punctuating what Michael had said, Unthank let out a loud, harried yelp and then began reciting what sounded like the technical manual to some obscure apparatus. “Come on,” said Michael, and the three of them made their way to the table in the center of the room.
Nico was briefing the children on the ductwork of Titan Tower, carefully drawing in a navigable route in red ink on the plans. It was complex: a snaking line that moved in and out of the little corridors on the blueprints at fixed points. The route had to be amended several times, apparently, as there were dead ends that had been scratched out and new routes appended like a particularly challenging maze in an activity book. He’d finally arrived at a usable path, but it was going to require the children to become fluent in the ductwork’s crazy patterns and movements.
“Okay,” said Nico, breathing deeply. “You’ll enter here, through the subterranean ducts. There’s a security gate in the ventilation here. Should be disabled when you get to it. Crossing through that, you’ll be in the system.”
“Who’s disabling the security gate?” asked Michael.
Nico made eye contact with Michael, as if to say, You know who. He looked over at the crowd of Chapeaux Noirs swarming Joffrey Unthank. “After he’s disabled the tower’s security system.”
Joffrey was now loudly quoting warranty information over the hum of his barber’s clippers. “FAILURE to HEED the INSTRUCTIONS will result in VOID of WARRANTY. Tra la! Tra la! USE ONLY as DIRECTED!”
“After he’s disabled the security system,” repeated Michael. “And how’s he going to do that?”
“By going inside the front gates, just like he’s always done.”
“DO not UNDER any CIRCUMSTANCES use THIS PRODUCT as a HEAT SOURCE! Tra la!” came the shouting voice. The black-bereted men around him swore as they tried to keep their subject in his seat.
“He’s one of their fellow Titans,” said Nico, swallowing hard. “Now, once you’ve—”
Michael interrupted him. “Wait, wait, wait. He was one of their fellow Titans. He’s been kicked out, hasn’t he?”
“Our sources suggest he’s just been suspended,” answered Nico. “They’ve absorbed his Division into Shipping. So it shouldn’t be that big of a hurdle. He shows up, tells them he’s ready to come back into the fold. They let him in.”
“Excuse me, gentlesmen,” sang Unthank in a faux-Slavic accent on the other side of the room. “We must get back on the chicken!” He then began laughing uproariously. “Tra la! Tra la!”
Michael stared at Nico.
Nico looked back down at the plans.
“You were saying?” prompted Elsie.
“Right,” said Nico. “You’ll need to pick a team—the smallest of the kids. Judging from the plans, they’ll all need to be about your height, Elsie. The shafts get fairly narrow at points.”
“Wait a second,” said Rachel. “Elsie’s not going. Not without me.”
“You wouldn’t fit,” said Nico. “And Elsie’s here. We’ll still need a few more of your kids. She can get them up to speed.”
Rachel looked down at her sister, wide-eyed. “I can do it, Rach,” said Elsie. “I can fit.”
“I want to be there,” said Rachel. “I want to be close.”
“We’ll get you close,” said Nico. “You can be on the demolitions team, if you’d like.”
“I would like.”
“A teenager?” asked a voice from behind them. It was Jacques, who’d just left the circle around Joffrey. He frowned at Rachel, studying her, before saying, “You know, your typical Chapeau trains for months before his first deployment.”
“Come on, Jacques,” replied Nico. “Trust me. She’s a natural-born saboteur. She’s got the guts for it.”
“What about him?” asked Michael, still staring at Unthank. “I don’t understand how he’s going to pull off his part of the plan.”
Jacques seemed to ignore this question. Instead, he addressed the entire room in a booming, proud voice. “Comrades, Unadoptables, I would like to introduce you to our old friend Joffrey Unthank. Those of you who have met him before, I kindly suggest you reacquaint yourself and look upon a man reborn.” With that, he turned around and waved his hands, a magician revealing his final trick of the evening. The black turtlenecks parted and there sat Joffrey Unthank, his hair shorn to its usual cropped length, his face cleaned of the grime and filth. His blankets had been cast aside and his argyle sweater-vest and pleated slacks had been laundered and pressed. He looked, to Elsie’s estimation, as close a facsimile of the man who had been her employer and captor as you could imagine.
Jacques, the master of ceremonies, addressed the man. “Joffrey Unthank,” he said, “introduce yourself.”
Joffrey stood, somewhat unsteadily, and looked at the man who’d spoken. Finally, he said, “My name is Joffrey. Joffrey Unthank. Former Titan of Industry. Machine Parts.”
“Very good,” said Jacques, proud of his protégé. “Permit me this illusion. I am a stevedore, and I am standing guard at the front gate of Titan Tower. I will say this to you: ‘Mr. Unthank, what are you doing here?’” He adopted a low, gravelly voice for his stevedore impression.
Unthank paused, an actor calculating his lines. Finally, he spoke. “I’ve come to see my old friend Bradley Wigman.” That was it.
Jacques frowned. “And . . . ,” he said in the stevedore voice.
“I’m sorry for my transgressions. I would like to come back, to be a part of the Quin—the Quartet once more.”
“Very well,” said Jacques, smiling. “You may come in.”
“The Quin-Quar,” continued Joffrey, unabated, his voice becoming a singsong again. “The Quin-Quar and the humidor, billabore, dillabore. Tra la!” His formerly rigid posture dropped and his head slumped comically to one side. His feet began to shuffle in a kind of clownish dance.
“That’s enough, Joffrey,” said Jacques.
But Joffrey continued: “It was a Quintet, now it’s a Quartet, soon to be a trio and a duo and a solo and what comes after that? Tra la tra la!” sang the silly man, dancing his steps.
“Are you kidding me?” said Michael. “That’s how you’re getting in?”
“Yes,” said Jacques, rounding on the teenager. “If you have a better idea for bypassing a guarded, fortified wall and an encrypted security system that requires handprint and retinal identification, I’m happy to entertain it. For now, this is the best option we have.” He then walked over to Joffrey and grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him directly in the eye.
“Listen to me, Joffrey,” he said. “Listen close. I know you’re in there. We need your help. We can’t do this without you. If you want to bring Wigman down, if you want to rattle his chains, you’ve got to pull it together and help. It’s the only way.”
Joffrey had stopped dancing and was listening closely to what the man had to say. “Yes, Jack,” he whispered after a time.
“Why don’t you and me go find a place to talk, quiet. Titan to Titan,” said Jacques.
“Yes, Jack,” said Joffrey.
Jacques threw his spindly arm
over Unthank’s shoulder and led him, silently, through the crowd of watching saboteurs, past the table with the plans, and through the iron-belted door to the hallway, which, once they’d passed out of sight, slammed shut behind them.
Elsie watched this all proceed, quietly. The whole room retained a kind of wondering silence before Nico broke it by saying, “Okay, back to the plans.”
CHAPTER 11
Into Wildwood
Zita the May Queen sat quietly at the kitchen table and stirred her oatmeal. Her father sat in his usual spot, just to her right, his fingers threaded through the handle of his coffee mug. He was reading the paper, as he often did in the mornings, and grumbled beneath his white-flecked mustache as if he were conducting a moderated dialogue with the morning’s news. Zita brought her spoon to her mouth, blew the steam from the oatmeal, then set it back down into the bowl.
“No school today,” she said.
“Hmmm,” said her father.
“Headmaster said we should celebrate the return of the Bicycle Maiden.”
“Hmmm.”
“I was thinking I’d go over to Kendra’s. She’s doing flower pressing. The trilliums are in bloom.”
“Mm-hmmm.”
Zita stirred the oatmeal some more, the cream making a tight spiral into the center of the bowl. “I was wondering . . .” She paused here, measuring her words. “If I could take the motorcycle.”
Her father looked up from the paper. His mustache twitched a little. “What do you need that for?”
“All the good flowers are farther off,” said Zita, sitting up straight. “We can’t get to them by foot. It’ll take all day.”
“It needs a tune-up. I’ve barely started the thing since . . .” He paused, clearing his throat. “And it’ll need gas.”
“I’ll fill it,” said Zita. “And you can help me with the tune-up. Would you?”
Her father looked at the grandfather clock on the wall, the clock that chimed midnight when the spirit of the Verdant Empress visited, and nodded. “Seems like a good project.”
Zita smiled. She was thrilled to see her father emerge from his quiet, stormy stupor. They cleared the table quietly, father and daughter, and washed the dishes in the sink. They went out to the garage where the old motorcycle sat, its mismatched sidecar a receptacle for whatever junk in the garage had not found a proper home. Zita and her father collected this stuff, a pile of blankets, a spare tire, and a box of spent candles, and set it on the nearby workbench. Her father undid a tethered pouch, revealing a set of worn tools, and the two of them, together, began tinkering with the engine of the machine. Soon enough, the thing had been started and was growling in a healthy way, spewing its usual vapor into the atmosphere. Zita’s father wiped his hands clean of grease, watching his daughter, now astride the bike, shrug a silver-sparkle helmet over her head and a pair of riding goggles over her eyes.