by Colin Meloy
A line of tattered banners on pikes led to a large, circular door at the far end of the room, made of a single wide slice of a giant cedar tree. In front of the door stood two rifle-bearing coyotes. It was to this doorway that Curtis was finally dragged, his bound wrists freed with a swik of the Commandant’s sword.
“Hold him fast,” ordered the commander as he stepped forward and spoke to the guards in front of the door. Two coyotes wrangled Curtis to his feet, holding his arms in their clammy paws. One of the door guards nodded to the Commandant and heaved the door open, disappearing within. After a short time, the guard returned and gestured for the commander and his prisoner to enter. Curtis was shoved forward, and he stepped over the threshold into the room.
The light was very dim inside, the only visible sources being a few flickering braziers and what little light was allowed inside via several crude skylights dug into the ceiling leading to the ground above. Dark woody roots snaked across the ceiling and walls; the white tendrils of plant roots dangled above their heads, and the room smelled distinctly of onions. At the far end of the chamber was an elaborate dais, decorated with long vines of ivy and plush cushions of gathered moss. In the center of the dais was a chair unlike any Curtis had seen before: Seemingly hand carved from a single massive tree trunk, it looked as if it had grown from the earth itself. The armrests snaked around the cushioned seat and were capped by carved talons; the legs were clawed at the bottom with what looked to be coyote paws. The seat back towered over the room, and the two posts on either side of the back rose to meet at the top, where the wood had been carved into the ominous shape of a single spiked crown. Curtis stared in wonder at the scene until he heard a voice behind him ask:
“What do you think?” It was a woman’s voice, and Curtis found himself soothed by its sonorous music. “A marvel of craftsmanship, yes? I had it made especially for the room. Took ages.”
Curtis turned and clapped eyes on the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. Her face was ovoid and pale, though her lips shone red like the freshest late summer apples. Her hair was an electric copper-red and it hung in braided tresses, brocaded with mottled eagle feathers. She wore a simple floor-length gown of tawny leather, and a heavy stole was draped over her shoulders. She was discernibly human, yet she struck Curtis as being entirely otherworldly, as if she’d been pulled from the face of some cathedral’s faded, ancient fresco. She towered over her court of coyotes, and they scurried in her wake as she moved toward Curtis.
“It’s very nice,” he said.
“We’ve done our best here,” she continued, waving at her surroundings. “It was difficult at first to gather the basic comforts—those creature comforts—but we managed. It’s miraculous, really, considering that we started from nothing.” She smiled in thought and let her slender hand caress Curtis’s cheek. “An Outsider,” she said thoughtfully. “An Outsider child. How beautiful you are. What’s your name, child?”
“C-Curtis, ma’am,” he stammered. He’d never called anyone ma’am before. It just seemed appropriate now.
“Curtis,” said the woman, retracting her hand, “welcome to our warren. My name is Alexandra, though most call me the Dowager Governess.” She stepped up to the dais and draped herself over the seat of the throne. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? You must have traveled far today. Our stores are meager, but you are welcome to whatever we can offer.”
“Sure,” said Curtis. “I am pretty thirsty.”
“Borya! Carpus!” she said loudly as she snapped her fingers at two loitering coyotes. “A bottle of blackberry wine for our guest. And greens! Dandelion and fern fiddles. And a bowl of the venison stew for the Outsider child Curtis! Quickly!” She flashed a broad smile at Curtis and gestured at the pile of freshly gathered moss that surrounded the throne. “Please, have a seat,” she said.
Curtis, surprised to be treated with such hospitality, settled himself into the deep cushion of the moss.
“We’re simple folk, Curtis,” began the Governess. “We protect our own, and we ask little of the forest. You might call us the wardens of Wildwood. We’ve made this untamed wilderness our own and imposed an order on it that was it was sorely lacking. Our intent is to cultivate a beautiful flower from this stark and infertile ground. For example, when I arrived here in Wildwood, these coyotes you see were a hardscrabble, desperate lot. Practically anarchistic in their organization, they were constantly at war with one another and reduced to the lowest form of forest dweller: the scavenger. But I brought them to order.”
A coyote attendant appeared at the door and made his way to Curtis, carrying a wide tin plate heaped with fresh greens, a bowl of stew, and a wooden mug of a dark purple liquid. He set it in front of Curtis. The attendant then produced a corked bottle from underneath his arm and placed it next to the tray. The Governess nodded, and the coyote bowed deeply and walked from the room.
“Please, eat,” said the Dowager Governess, and Curtis dove into the food, slurping down the venison stew with relish. He took a healthy gulp from the wooden mug, and his face flushed as the warm liquid rolled down the back of his throat.
The Governess was watching him intently. “You remind me of a boy I knew,” she said thoughtfully. “He must’ve been not much older than you. How old are you, Curtis?”
“I’ll be twelve in November,” said Curtis between bites.
“Twelve,” she repeated. “He was just a few years older, this boy. His birthday would’ve been in July. He was born in the full throat of summer.” Her eyes trailed off to stare at some fixed point over Curtis’s shoulder. Curtis paused in his chewing and looked behind him; there was nothing there.
The Governess smiled and, remembering herself, looked back at Curtis. “How is the food?” she asked.
He had a mouth full of greens, and he had to quickly swallow them to answer. He pulled an errant fiddlehead from between his teeth and set it down on the plate. “Oh, very good,” he responded finally. “Though these ferns are a little weird. I didn’t know you could eat them.” He dipped his spoon back into the hearty stew and brought it, full, to his mouth.
The Governess laughed and then, turning serious, said, “But Curtis, I’m very curious as to what brought you into these woods. You Outside folk haven’t thought to visit for such a long, long time.”
Curtis paused mid-slurp, set his spoon down, and swallowed. It hadn’t occurred to him in the chaos of his capture what explanation he should give for his presence in the woods. He decided it would be best not to give away Prue’s mission until he had a better sense of the Governess’s intentions. “I was just out walking, actually, and I wandered into the trees. I got lost, and that’s when your . . . your coyotes found me.” He could only hope that the soldiers hadn’t seen Prue.
“Just out walking?” asked the Governess, arching an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” said Curtis. “I’ll be totally honest with you: I was skipping school. I was skipping school and thought I’d go on a little adventure. You’re not going to report me to the principal, are you?”
Alexandra threw her head back and laughed. “Oh no, dear Curtis,” she said between fits, “I’d never report you. Then I wouldn’t have the pleasure of your company!” She reached down and picked up the bottle of wine. Pulling the cork from the top, she poured more of the dusky liquid into Curtis’s cup. “Please, drink more. You must be so parched.”
“Thank you, Miss Dowag—” He fumbled over her title and corrected himself: “Alexandra, ma’am. I will have a little more. It’s really good.” It was sweet and strong, and when he drank it, he felt his stomach radiate warmth to the rest of his body. He took another large swig. “I’ve never really drunk wine before—I mean, I’ve had a little Manischewitz at Passover, but it’s nothing like this.” He took another drink.
“So you were out walking. In these woods,” repeated the Governess.
Curtis swallowed the wine and picked up a pile of dandelion greens and shoved it in his mouth. He nodded.
“But Curtis, my dear,” said Alexandra. “That is simply not possible.”
Curtis munched his greens and stared at the Governess.
“Literally impossible,” she said, turning serious. “You see, Outsider child Curtis, there is a thing called Woods Magic that protects this wood from the curiosity of the outside world. It is the thing that separates our kind from yours. Every being in this forest has the Woods Magic running through their veins. If one of your kind, an Outsider, was to find his way into these woods—I think you charmingly refer to it as the ‘Impassable Wilderness’—they would find themselves immediately and irretrievably caught in the Periphery Bind, a maze in which every turn is a dead end. The forest becomes like a hall of mirrors, its image repeated in illusion into the horizon, you see, and at every turn one would find oneself exactly where one had started. If you were lucky, the woods would spit you out somewhere back to the outside world, though it is just as likely that you would forever be lost, wandering the forest’s infinite reflection until you either died or went mad.”
Curtis slowly finished crunching the dandelion greens and swallowed them with a loud gulp.
“No, my sweet Curtis,” the Governess said, thoughtfully toying with one of the eagle feathers pinned in her hair, “the only way you would have been able to cross the border and travel in these woods would be if you were born of the Magic yourself.”
Curtis stared at the Governess, a chill running up his spine.
“Or,” she continued, “if you were accompanied by someone of Woods Magic.”
The Dowager Governess looked directly into Curtis’s eyes, the steel blue of her irises flashing in the light of the flickering fires, and smiled.
The sun was setting, and Prue grew sleepy as the mail van trundled bumpily down the Long Road, occasionally swerving to avoid the felled tree branches and muddy potholes that littered the road. The conversation quieted, and Richard had stubbed his cigar in the ashtray and was whistling to himself. Prue rested her head against the door and stared out the window, watching the woods change from a knot of dense scrub and gaunt trees to wide groves of massive, ancient cedar and fir trees, their wizened limbs reaching out over the road.
“The Old Woods,” said Richard as they passed under the canopy of the giant trees. “We’re getting closer.”
Prue smiled and nodded at Richard, and a great wave of tiredness overcame her, and she felt herself drifting off to sleep, the rattle of the van lulling her into a deep slumber. She woke suddenly when she felt the van shudder to a stop. It was dark now, and she didn’t know how long she’d slept. In the crooked light projected from the van’s headlights, Prue thought she saw birds, though her vision was too foggy from sleep to be sure. Richard heaved the emergency brake with both hands and let the van idle as he turned to Prue and said, “Checkpoint. You might have to get out of the van.” He pushed open his door and stepped outside onto the road.
Prue rubbed her eyes clear and squinted through the dirty windshield. A strange flickering was occurring just outside the edge of the headlights, and she strained to make sense of it when suddenly a pair of scaly talons alighted on the hood in front of her. She shrieked with surprise and fell back in her seat. A gigantic golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos—she recognized it immediately from The Sibley Guide) craned his head down and looked curiously into the cab of the van. Abruptly, the headlight glare behind him was teeming with birds of every feather: thrushes, herons, eagles, and owls, some flying in and out of the headlights, some landing on the ground, some scrambling for a grip with their claws on the van’s hood. Prue pushed herself farther back into the seat as the eagle on the hood continued his probe of the cab. Richard appeared in the midst of the squall, making his way into the shine of the headlights. He was brandishing a small book, opened and held at arm’s length. The eagle on the van’s hood turned from the windshield and hopped into the air to land on a branch in front of Richard, his powerful wings fanning in quick, mighty beats.
“You’ll find it’s all in order, General,” said Richard to the eagle, who was intently studying the booklet in Richard’s hand. Satisfied, he flew back to his former perch on the hood of the van. He upset a flurry of nuthatches as he landed and turned his steely eyes again to Prue.
“And who is your companion, Postmaster?” asked the eagle.
Richard smiled and laughed. “Well, I was going to get to that, sir,” he said, walking to the driver’s-side window. He tapped at the glass and gestured for Prue to get out. “An Outsider child, sir. A girl. I found her on the road.”
Prue opened her door and stepped out onto the gravel. She was immediately met by a host of smaller birds, finches and jays, who flew around her head and shoulders in frantic circles, skimming her hair and picking at her peacoat.
“An Outsider?” asked the eagle, incredulous. He flew to the other side of the van and, landing, let out a loud squawk that sent the smaller birds flying into the trees. He looked intently at Prue and said, “Incredible. How did you find your way, girl?”
“I . . . walked,” responded Prue, aghast. She’d never been so close to an eagle before. It was stunning.
“You walked?” asked the eagle. “Ridiculous. What’s your business in Wildwood?”
Prue was speechless. The eagle craned his head forward until his beak was inches from her face.
“She’s looking for her brother,” interjected Richard. “And her friend, come to think of it.”
“The Outsider girl can answer for herself!” squawked the eagle, not taking his eyes off Prue.
“It’s t-true,” stammered Prue finally. “My brother, Mac. He was taken by crows and, as far as I can tell, taken somewhere in these woods. So I came here to find him. And on the way, I was followed by my friend Curtis, and he was captured by a group of coyotes.”
The eagle stared at Prue in silence for a moment. “Crows, you say,” he said. “And coyotes.” He cast a meaningful look at his fellow birds and shuffled his talons along the hood of the van.
“Right,” said Prue, gathering her courage. “Any help in finding Mac and Curtis would be much appreciated. Sir.”
Evidently satisfied, the eagle ruffled his feathers and looked behind him at Richard. “Where were you planning on taking her, Postmaster?”
“To the Governor-Regent,” answered Richard. “That’s the best option I could think of.”
The eagle snorted and looked back at Prue. “The Governor-Regent,” repeated the eagle, an acid tone creeping into his voice. “I’m sure he’ll be very helpful. I hope you’re not in too much of a hurry to find your brother and your friend, Outsider. If I recall correctly, Request for Aid in Search of Human Abduction by Crow is a standard H1 sub 6 slash 45E document, to be signed in triplicate by all reigning Metro Commissioners.”
The flurry of birds surrounding the eagle began to titter with laughter. Prue didn’t get the joke. Richard smiled nervously and said, “I’m sure he’ll be very sympathetic, General. Unless you have a better idea.”
“No, no,” said the eagle, “I suppose that is the best tack. Besides, her story, if it is true, may lend credence to our plea when the Crown Prince visits South Wood.”
“The Crown Prince,” said Richard, in surprise. “In South Wood?”
“Himself,” replied the eagle. “The birds are sick of waiting for your commissioners to act while the safety of the Principality is at risk. Our ambassadors have been ignored, if not altogether shunned; our entreaties for aid and alliance brushed off. If the Crown Prince can’t achieve results, then it is one eagle’s humble opinion that the Wildwood Protocols be considered null and void. There is a gathering storm in Wildwood. I have seen it. We can’t sit back any longer and wait for these barbarians to overrun us.”
“Understood, General,” said Richard. “Now if I’m cleared to go . . .” He gestured at the van. “I have a lot of mail to deliver.”
The General raised his wings to their full span and pushed himself aloft from the van’s hood. With only a few robust win
g beats he was in the air, alighting on a tree limb overhead. “Yes, Postmaster,” said the eagle, “you are free to go. Let other Long Road couriers know, however: We will continue to detain travelers on the road until the safety of the Principality is assured.” The rest of the birds circled in the air above the van before disappearing into the dark of the tree line. “And you, Outsider girl,” continued the eagle, “to you I say good luck. I hope you find what you’ve lost.” With that, the eagle unfurled his wings and vanished into the trees, producing a gust of wind that shook the branches and rustled the leaves.
After the birds were gone, Richard smiled at Prue from across the van and mimed a relieved wipe of his forehead. “Well!” he said, opening the driver’s-side door and climbing in. “That checkpoint is getting more challenging every day. Get in. Let’s get going before they change their minds.”
Prue, a little stunned, returned to the passenger seat. Richard revved the van’s engine and started driving, arduously grinding the gears into place.
“What was that all about?” asked Prue.
“Oh, it’s complicated, Port-Land Prue,” said Richard. “We’re passing through the Avian Principality, a kingdom of birds. It’s a sovereign country between South Wood and Wildwood; they’ve been pressuring the Governor-Regent to allow them to move into Wildwood to defend themselves against attacks that have been made on their borders.”
“What’s stopping them? Why do they need the Governor-Regent’s permission?” asked Prue.
“What he said: a thing called the Wildwood Protocols, which basically states that any signatory of the treaty is forbidden from expanding into Wildwood—and that includes military excursions,” Richard explained. “Which is ridiculous, if you think on it. Why anyone would want to move into Wildwood is beyond me. The place is wild. Overgrown. Treacherous. Unruly. You couldn’t pay your citizens to try and settle in that place.”