Prue stared. “What’s she going to do?”
Iphigenia shook her head sorrowfully. “Something more terrible than you can imagine: She means to feed the child to the ivy. The blood will revive the slumbering plant and make it subject to the Governess’s will. Gaining that, she means to wipe out everything, every plant and animal in the Wood.”
“She’s—she’s going to kill him?” Prue could feel the color drain from her face. Her knees began to wobble. She hadn’t known what to expect, but this was certainly the worst she could imagine. “No,” she said, leaning into the Mystic for support. “She . . . can’t.”
Iphigenia nodded, her knobby fingers pressing deeply into Prue’s palms. “Such is the madness of this woman,” said the Mystic. The other Mystics, their golden robes rustling the meadow’s grass, approached and stood behind Iphigenia.
“This is our task,” said Iphigenia slowly, looking at each of her fellow Mystics in turn. “We must stop this aberration from happening.”
The Mystics each nodded gravely.
Iphigenia continued, “The trial before us, however, may be impossible. While there are protocols in place for such an event, rarely in the history of North Wood have we faced the need to muster an army. Nonetheless, this is what we must do now. And quickly.” Here she addressed her fellow Mystics directly: “When the sun rises to its highest point on this day, this autumnal equinox, the child dies. We have little time.” She turned and spoke to one of the Mystics, a slender doe. “Hydrangea,” she said, “call the constabulary. We must ring the bell.”
The doe nodded and loped away from the gathered Mystics.
“You have an army?” asked Prue.
“No, not as such,” Iphigenia replied. “The North Wood charter decrees that all citizens of North Wood are duty bound to militia service, should the need arise. We are a peaceable people, my girl, but even we, in the course of our history, have been called to defend our community.” She knitted her brow and frowned. “Though I can’t rightly speak to the condition of our volunteer militia at present. Nine generations have gone and passed since we’ve had any need for an army. This is all very distressing.” She sighed and glanced back at the massive tree in the center of the darkened meadow. “But if it is the will of the tree, then we must abide.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” said Prue.
“If we are successful in stopping the Governess, your brother being saved would be a fortunate consequence of our actions, dear Prue,” said the Mystic. “We will involve ourselves for the sake of the Wood. For the sake of our home.” She looked to the space where the trail broke an opening into the bordering trees. “Look: The constables approach. Let’s walk to them. We have little time to waste.”
The campfires were fed wood until the flames licked at the overhanging boughs, illuminating a throng of activity among the bandits—bindles being packed, provisions stowed, and arrows refeathered. A line of men and women stood inspecting ancient-looking rifles; another line carefully poured black gunpowder into leather pouches. Curtis quickly finished up the last of the weapons he’d been tasked to sharpen and was about to help load a brace of rifles into an awaiting cart when Brendan called him over.
“Yes?” asked Curtis as he approached.
“A newly christened bandit of your stripe, we’ll need to outfit you right.” Brendan brushed Curtis’s coat. “That’ll get tarnished over time—though ye’ve got a good start to it. How’re your boots?”
“Fine, I think,” said Curtis, shifting his feet as a way of inspection.
“Good, ’cause we ain’t got any more boots,” said Brendan. He paused before saying, “Trying to remember—you were more of a tactical-ops man in that battle we fought, when you was with the coyotes, weren’t you?”
Curtis blushed at the mention. “Not really,” he said. “I wasn’t supposed to fight at all, actually. I kind of fell into it. Literally. I mean, I was up in this tree—”
Brendan interrupted: “Got it—no time for battle stories, boyo. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Now: What’ll it be? Pistol or cutlass?”
Curtis chewed on the options for a moment. The question had brought that old quandary fresh to the surface: He was going to have to fight. The battle he’d fought with the Governess leapt back to his mind, and it seemed to him that he’d been incredibly lucky; it didn’t strike him as likely that that sort of luck would hold out again. The cannon fire, the dead tree trunk falling into the howitzer crew—he saw it in his mind’s eye as if it were a dream.
A wry smile had cracked across Brendan’s face. “I get ya,” he said, reading Curtis’s silence. “Both it is.” He turned and walked into a nearby tent and returned holding a rugged leather belt. An ivory-handled pistol and a long, curved saber jutted from a holster and sheath attached to the belt. He threw it to Curtis, who gingerly caught it in his arms.
“You’re a hard man, Curtis,” said Brendan. “A hard man. Go see Damian for munitions. And keep your head high! Remember: You’re a bandit now.”
Curtis, unsure of himself, gave a quick salute.
“And don’t salute,” reproached Brendan. “This ain’t the army.”
“Okay,” said Curtis, his arm falling awkwardly to his side. “Thanks, Brendan.”
He began walking toward the munitions tent, carefully dodging the insistent traffic of busy bandits: a leap to avoid a barrel-chested man with an armload of cutlasses, a pinwheel to avoid tripping two bandits carrying a wooden crate. Passing one campfire, he felt the familiar tug of Septimus grabbing hold of his pant leg and climbing to his shoulder perch.
“You really like it up there, don’t you?” asked Curtis, when he felt the weight of the rat on his left epaulet.
“It’s nice, yeah,” responded Septimus. “I like the view. Besides, I prefer being up above things. It’s every rat for himself down there on the ground. Had my tail stepped on twice already tonight.”
“They’re not used to having a rat in the camp,” said Curtis.
“Guess not,” said Septimus. “Hey: Where’d you run off to there? Looked ominous.”
“I’m a bandit now, Septimus. Officially. Took the oath.”
“Wow, kid, wow,” said the rat. “I mean, impressive. How does it feel?”
Curtis shrugged. “I don’t know. Guess I feel the same.”
“They could use all the manpower they can get. I count just under a hundred. Ninety-seven bandits. With you? Ninety-seven and a half.” He chortled at his own joke. When he saw it elicited no response from his host, he continued, “Whatever. Come tomorrow night, there ain’t going to be any bandits. Zero.”
“Septimus,” said Curtis sternly. “What did I say?”
“Right: No bad-mouthing the bandits. Got it.”
They arrived at the munitions tent, a large canvas structure nestled up against the ravine wall. A grizzled-looking bandit, Damian, with a cheek full of tattooed tears, stood at the front flap, doling out bullets and powder to a line of waiting men and women. The line moved quickly, each bandit peeling away when they’d received their allotment. Curtis was nearly at the front when a ruckus broke out between Damian and the bandit in front of Curtis.
“Sorry, Aisling, that’s what ye get,” Damian was saying stoically.
“C’mon! I mean, I’m fourteen!” said Aisling, a girl. She wore her sandy yellow hair back in a ponytail. A brightly colored skirt ruffled above a pair of tall boots; a pin-striped vest covered an ash-stained white blouse.
“Exactly,” Damian rejoined. “You’ll get your pistols at sixteen. Next, please!” He motioned for Curtis to step forward.
As Curtis excused himself and scooted to the front, Aisling clapped her fuming eyes on him. “But,” she sputtered, “he’s no older than I am! And he’s got a pistol AND a cutlass.”
Curtis, taken aback, could only apologize. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t really have anything to do with it.”
Damian eyed him suspiciously. “Where’d you get that stuff?”
“B
rendan,” explained Curtis defensively, “Brendan gave ’em to me. I didn’t ask for them. He just gave them to me.”
Aisling, in disgust, blew a puff of breath at a dangling strand of her hair. “Figures. Brendan. Oh, it’s okay for a boy to have pistols before his sixteenth. But me? No way. Hold all plants, animals, and humans as equals, my shoelace. What a bunch of squirrel scat.”
Damian shrugged his shoulders apologetically before disappearing into the tent and coming out with two pouches of powder and bullets. Seeing this, Aisling gave in with a loud “Hrrumph!” and stalked away to a nearby fire circle. Curtis watched her leave curiously. He was jolted back to attention by the munitions officer.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Kid!” He snapped his fingers just inches from Curtis’s face.
“Oh, sorry,” said Curtis, blinking.
“You know how to use this stuff?” asked Damian impatiently.
“Um,” said Curtis, “not really.”
Damian rolled his eyes. “It’s simple,” he said. “Just watch me closely.” He proceeded to give Curtis a quick demonstration of how to load the pistol and set the flint. Once he’d finished he handed the pistol, unloaded, back to Curtis. “Got it?”
Curtis didn’t really. “I think so,” he lied.
“Good. Next!” He waved Curtis away. Perplexed, Curtis wandered away from the munitions tent, studying the strange, archaic mechanics of the flintlock pistol.
“Careful with that thing,” said Septimus, shying away.
Curtis looked up and saw the girl Aisling sulking on a nearby tree stump, fiddling with what appeared to be a tangled skein of rope in her hands. Walking closer, he saw it was a crude sling. She saw him approach and scowled.
“What do you want?” she asked, before adding, “Outsider.”
Curtis stopped in his tracks as if he’d heard the rattle of a snake.
Aisling looked back down at the sling in her hand. Picking up a pebble, she placed it into the sling’s cradle and fired it haphazardly into the ground. “I just want to do my part,” she said mournfully.
Looking over his shoulder quickly, he said, “Hey, do you want to use this instead? I’ll trade you.” He held out the pistol, handle first.
Aisling eyed him suspiciously. “Really?” she asked.
Curtis nodded. “I’m not much of a gunner, myself,” he said. “I’m more of a, you know, tactical-ops man.”
The girl’s face brightened. “Tactical-ops, huh?” she said, impressed. “Cool.” She took the proffered pistol and bounced it in her palm, as if weighing it. She held the rear end of the barrel to her face and, pinching one eye closed, inspected the sight. “Nice,” she said, offering her appraisal. “Thanks.” She looked up at Curtis. “You want the sling?”
“Sure,” said Curtis. Taking it, he attempted a weapon inspection as well: He stretched out the rope to an arm’s reach and self-consciously stared one eye down the length. “Pretty nice one,” he concluded.
Aisling laughed. “Thanks,” she said, “tactical-ops man.”
Curtis’s face reddened. He tried to cover his embarrassment by holding out his hand and introducing himself. “I’m Curtis,” he said. “You’re . . . Aisling?”
The girl reached up and shook his hand. “Yep, nice to meet you, Curtis,” she said. A spray of freckles bridged her nose from cheek to cheek. “Who’s your friend?”
Septimus bowed low from his shoulder. “The name’s Septimus Rat, ma’am. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“He’s just there, y’know, temporarily,” Curtis explained. “Said I’d give him a lift. We met in the coyote prison.” He did a quick check to make sure the last phrase had registered with Aisling—a girl would undoubtedly be dazzled that he had been a member of the great escape party. He was rewarded when she made a half-impressed face. She then studied him as he awkwardly tried to think of another thing to say. He took a deep sigh and, arms akimbo, took in the busy camp.
“Pretty crazy,” he said, finally, gesturing toward the camp. “All this.”
Aisling nodded and continued to fiddle with the hammer of the pistol.
“Can’t wait to get some coyotes in my sight,” said Curtis, hefting the sling and swinging it casually in one hand. Glancing to make sure Aisling was watching, he reached down and picked up a small rock and set it into the cradle. “All this time, just sitting here.” He began rocking the sling. “I’m pretty ready to get back into—” With an unintended flick of his wrist the missile in the sling went flying. “BATTLE!” he squeaked, watching the rock fly over the bandit camp and into a neat stack of earthenware bowls. They crashed to the ground in a shower of terra-cotta shards, and the entire camp stopped their activities to stare at Curtis.
“Oh God,” he said, blushing deeply, “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to . . .”
Aisling was belly-laughing, rocking on the tree stump.
“Maybe you should stick to tactical-ops,” said Septimus.
Curtis snapped at the rat, “I’ll get the hang of it, just wait.” He was about to fume off when Aisling waved him over.
“That’s good,” the girl said, between fits of laughter. “Things were getting a little too serious around here anyway. Nice work.”
Curtis smiled and shrugged. “I do what I can,” he said.
The sound of a horn penetrated the din of the camp’s activity, its one long sustained note sweeping over the ravine. Curtis looked up to see the bandits snap to attention.
“Guess this is it,” said Aisling, turning solemn. She stood up and fitted the pistol into her belt. Brendan had appeared at the mouth of the ravine, his sword clasped to his side and a long blunderbuss strapped over his shoulder. His left knee was shrouded in a layer of gauze, but it was obvious that his previous strength had returned.
“Ladies and gents,” he shouted to the attendant throng. “Bandits, all. The morning approaches. Fall in. We march on the Ancients’ Grove.”
The bandits wordlessly stepped into two neat rows on the ravine floor and began their march from the camp. Sabers were set into sheaths, their blades newly polished and sharpened; rifles were slung over shoulders. Teary good-byes were exchanged between sweethearts, husbands, and wives. Several of the younger children began to cry, separated from their parents, and were comforted by the few attendants who had been left behind to mind the camp. Aisling and Curtis began to walk toward the marching column.
“Good luck,” said Aisling as she disappeared into the crowd, “tactical-ops man.”
CHAPTER 23
Call to Arms!
“An army?” asked the hare, wiping sleep from his eyes. He’d apparently been woken from a deep slumber; his colander-helmet was set askew on his head and his constabulary uniform was in disarray. “We—we’ve never done that before.”
“What Samuel is trying to say, madam Mystic,” explained the fox, looking equally discomfited, “is that it’s, well, it’s been ages, really, since we’ve had to do that. I mean, we’re a peaceful people, right?”
Iphigenia was trying hard to suppress her frustration. “I understand that, Sterling, but you’ll have to improvise. This is of utmost importance.”
Sterling, the fox, stood and studied the Mystic. Prue, standing next to Iphigenia, grew impatient. Her toes were fidgeting in her shoes. The fox finally continued, “I suppose this would involve ringing the bell.”
Iphigenia rolled her eyes. “Yes, it would, Mr. Fox. And if you wouldn’t mind stepping to it, we have a half-crazed woman and her host of coyotes to stop before they lay the whole Wood to ruin.”
“Well, that’s just the thing, ain’t it,” the fox said. “The bell is in the old fire tower. And, well, the fire tower is locked.”
“So, unlock it,” said the Mystic.
The fox smiled uncomfortably. “No key.” He displayed the open palms of his two paws, as if showing them empty was some condolence.
The speakers were silent for a moment; the Elder Mystic inhaled a long, dramatic breath of air. “Mr
. Fox,” she said, finally, “I am a woman of infinite patience. I have devoted my life to the practice of meditation. I have sat and watched a stone, a single stone, gather moss over the course of three weeks. You, however, are trying this seemingly limitless patience.” The admission seemed to ease her temper, and her tone changed: “If there is a lock, Mr. Fox,” she said calmly, “and there is no key, then the obvious solution is to break the lock. The bell simply must be rung.”
Sterling, suitably cowed, threw his paw to his forehead in a salute. “Yes, ma’am!”
“We will follow,” said the Mystic, waving for Prue to stay by her. “To make sure these things are done to satisfaction.” The first filigree strands of dawn appeared on the horizon, the edge of the clouds touched with a glowing pink. The constables stalked off toward the path, whispering between themselves, and Iphigenia and her entourage—Prue and the other Mystics—fell in after them.
After a brisk walk, they arrived at the fire tower. Standing atop a high hill, it was a rickety wooden affair: a small, domed hovel built at the top of a haphazard maze of cross-bracing beams, circumvallated by a narrow walkway. A stepladder, nailed to the side, led to a small door in the hovel, and it was to this door that Sterling the fox climbed, his pruning shears at the ready.
“See,” he explained to the crowd below as he, with some difficulty, mounted the ladder to the door, “security is of utmost priority in this sort of situation. Hence the lock. Left unlocked, you can expect that the fire bell would be the prized object of every prankster in North Wood.”
Iphigenia, from below, urged the fox onward. “Come on, Sterling, we’ve not got all day.”
“Easier said than done, Madam Mystic,” Sterling said as he brandished his pruning shears and carefully wedged the blades into the keyhole of the lock. “This lock is of the finest South Wood craftsmanship; I myself oversaw its installation. It is very doubtful that I’ll be able to . . . oh.” An audible metallic click sounded. The lock fell to the ground. Sterling blushed.