by Colin Meloy
It surprised Prue very much, but nevertheless there it was: The camp did, in fact, have a library. She had stumbled on it, some five days into her quarantine among the bandits, while wandering the labyrinthine walkways and rope bridges that made up this precarious cliff-face encampment. It occupied a tall, narrow cave and was made up of about five makeshift bookshelves. The librarian, a heavyset, kindly-faced man with dark skin, sat at a wooden table and read. A potbelly stove had been installed next to him, and he occasionally broke from his book to stuff the thing with logs. When he saw Prue enter, he lit up.
“Ain’t you the Outsider?” he asked.
“I guess so,” Prue responded. “Though I prefer Prue.”
“Well, Prue,” said the librarian, “welcome to the Bandit Library. Browse at your leisure.”
“Where did these books come from?” asked Prue.
“Oh, you know,” said the librarian. “Here and there. We don’t typically rob folks for their books, but occasionally a volume will catch a lad’s eye. You get the idea. Though a lot have been furnished legally. When we’ve got enough scratch up, there’s a bookseller comes through, and we can get some new material that way.” He paused, frowning. “Though it’s been a time since we got new stock. Hard times for all. Even librarians.” Remembering himself, he looked back to Prue. “Anything in particular you be looking for?”
“Oh no, just wandering,” said Prue. She ambled over to the short row of bookshelves and began studying the spines. She’d always been most comfortable in libraries ever since she was a small child, and even though this one did not resemble any library she’d been in previously, it still managed to inspire a kind of solace in her. The books sat on their shelves in lazy patterns, some stacked on their backs, others neatly filed in a line. Some looked fairly new, with bright lettering on glossy paperback stock, while others looked as if they’d survived generations and generations of readers, their leather-bound covers worn down in places to reveal wooden boards beneath. Prue began studying the titles and found she didn’t recognize a single one: The Rule of Trees, Mr. Slipshod’s Arcania, Ten Badger-Friendly Activities in South Wood, A Woodian in the Outside. This latter volume, a well-thumbed paperback, caught Prue’s attention, and she pulled it from the shelf. To her best guess, it looked as if it’d been published decades before, judging from the black-and-white photograph on the cover: An older gentleman in a gabardine suit and a porkpie hat stood smiling in front of a clearly Portlandian city street. A few cars could be seen in the background, and they looked to be models one would see in a movie from the 1950s. Intrigued, Prue flipped it open to a random page and read:
quite different from what one comes to expect in the more affluent burgs of our own South Wood. It would seem that many of the residents of these central districts don’t so much rely on their arborous neighbors as use them for decoration. I stopped a young man on a bicycle and put to him: Why does the Outsider, in general, choose to remove so many of the healthy, thriving native vegetation in favor of more of these obscene concrete structures? Well, dear reader, I can scarce begin to describe his confused stare; he merely named the thing a “parking structure,” a title which I came to understand as meaning a windowless building, some many stories tall, explicitly used for the parking of automobiles. I thanked the young man for this information and hurried on my way, my poor stomach growling for its afternoon chocolate mousse, which, you’ll kindly remember, I’d refrained from allowing it since its “troubles” the night before.
Prue set the book back on the shelf and was just about to reach for another volume, this one enticingly titled The Lost Letters: Lewis and Clark in Wildwood, when a noise disrupted her from her browsing.
“Prue!” It was Curtis’s voice.
Prue turned to see her friend, his face flushed and smiling, standing at the opening to the cave. They’d parted ways early that morning when Curtis had left for Bandit Training. She’d not been allowed to go along, not having taken the oath, but it didn’t bother her. She had listened to the other kids in the barracks moan at the morning bugle and had quietly thanked heaven for the opportunity to sleep in a little. They’d arranged to meet back at the barracks for afternoon recess; since her arrival, it was how their days had typically been shaped.
“They let us out early,” explained Curtis, waving to the librarian, “and I heard you were here. Figures, bookworm.”
“This is amazing,” said Prue. “This whole library here—and it’s all books written and published in the Wood. I mean, look at this.” She pulled the last title she’d been eyeing from the shelf. “Lewis and Clark! They were here!”
Curtis grabbed the book from her hand and looked at it momentarily before setting it back on the shelf. “Yeah, whatever,” he said. “C’mon, they’re running the ravine!”
“They’re what?”
“Running the ravine,” explained an impatient Curtis. “It’s a race. Happens every Thursday. Trainees do it; it’s like an obstacle course. It’s starting!”
Curtis grabbed Prue’s hand, and they darted from the library. Prue gave the librarian a last, quick wave before she was dragged out into the light of the day. Back out in the hazy sunlight, she had to squint until her eyes adjusted. An early morning snow squall had left a thin carpet of white on the many wooden structures of the bandit camp and the shallow nicks and gullies in the jagged rock of the cliff face. The wind blew brittle, and Prue turned up the collar of her peacoat as she followed Curtis up a zigzagging flight of stairs.
Atop a circular tower built into the rock at the western end of the encampment, about a dozen young bandits-in-training had amassed; Brendan stood in the middle of the group. By the time Prue and Curtis had hiked the staircase that wrapped the tower, the Bandit King had nearly finished with his instruction.
“You’re late, bandit,” said Brendan curtly.
Curtis, out of breath, spoke haltingly. “I had to get Prue; I wanted her to see this.”
“What, see you get your butt handed to you?” This came from a girl a few years older than Prue and Curtis, who was leaning against the crude wooden rampart of the tower. She wore her blond hair back in a leather clip and had on a grenadier’s coat, crisscrossed in the center by twin sashes.
“No, Aisling,” said Curtis defensively. “Though I’d consider looking out for stray tree limbs, if I was you.”
This seemed to curb the girl’s attitude; the rest of the trainees laughed softly under their breath, braving Aisling’s glare. Brendan cut them off: “I’ll repeat the rules for the new arrivals. Green flag is posted at the East Tower. Follow the waymarks. No fighting allowed. Let’s keep it clean. Otherwise, it’s every bandit for themselves. First one to grab the flag is the winner. Clear?”
“Yes, Brendan,” said Curtis.
“And, as host to our young guest, it would be unbecoming if I didn’t extend an invitation for her to join the race as well,” said Brendan, turning to Prue.
“What?” asked Prue. The eyes of the crowd were on her. “No, I couldn’t.”
“A week off kitchen duty if you win,” put in one of the trainees, a younger boy in a frayed top hat.
Having not yet experienced kitchen duty, it was hard for Prue to judge whether this was reason enough to engage in what looked like a life-threatening activity. She hemmed uncertainly.
Curtis’s eyes had lit up. “C’mon, Prue!”
“Listen, I appreciate the invitation,” said Prue, “but I don’t really think I’m up for it. It’s been a while since I did any real sprinting, and I feel like I’d just hold people up. I’d prefer to spectate, if that’s okay.”
“Fair enough,” said Brendan.
“Yeah, fair enough,” repeated Curtis. “That totally makes sense. I mean, I didn’t really think you meant it when you said you were a natural-born bandit or anything.”
Prue said nothing; Curtis took it as an invitation to move in. “I mean, I realize it’s tough being an Outsider. It’s easy to get soft when you’ve been away from
Wildwood for a bit.”
Prue crossed her arms, refusing to bite.
“You might be a half-breed and all,” said Curtis, “but I’m not sure which side of the half has all the guts, if you get me.”
Finally, Prue broke. “OKAY!” she shouted. “I’ll run your little race. I’m not afraid.”
The congregation on the tower top burst into laughter. Brendan slapped Prue on the back. “Good on ya, Bicycle Maiden. But let me warn ye: The wood on these platforms is awful slippery this afternoon. You take one wrong step and you’ll be flung halfway to who-knows-where in the flick of a sparrow wing. Now mind me: The course is waymarked by red flags; some in plain sight, others not so easy to spot, ’specially with this new fall of snow. It takes a bit of intuition to run this one, I’d say, but intuition is a bandit’s first and only friend sometimes. Got me?”
Prue nodded, suddenly worried. She tested the wooden floor with her boots; the rubber squeaked and skidded a small smear on the snow.
“Okay,” announced Brendan, now addressing the rest of the gathered bandits. “When the sun rises to its noontime height, I’ll give the starting word.” Pulling a dagger from his belt, he held it in such a way that the blade cast a dark shadow on the ground at his feet. Prue watched interestedly; she couldn’t quite figure out how he could manage to tell time in such a rudimentary fashion, but nevertheless, within moments he said, “Noon. Prepare yourselves: The race begins.”
The Council Tree, it was said, was the first tree in the Wood. In fact, many believed that it was the first seedling to sprout when the world was still awash with fire; likewise, it stood strong when the world was covered in ice. And when the great flood had come, the giant ice dam having broken, and the Columbia basin was covered in water, the tree had survived and prospered. It was the lone steward to the explosion of life that occurred around it: a deluge of species, all imbued with magic. Magic that, it was believed, sprang from the woody muscle of the tree itself. Iphigenia never failed to meditate on the tree’s origins when she prepared for a council, though much of the story was still shrouded in mystery and myth. Even the tree couldn’t speak to its actual beginnings, the events having happened so long ago as to have burrowed themselves too far in the tree’s memory for extraction. Complicating matters, the tree did not speak in words, like much of the younger flora of the Wood; rather, it spoke in impressions and images, metaphors and symbols, its ability to communicate having predated language. It was Iphigenia’s task, as Elder Mystic, to interpret these sense-images and relay the message the tree wished known.
Arriving at the clearing, she saw the solemn figures of the other ten Mystics surrounding the tree. She greeted them warmly. They, like her, spoke of unquiet dreams in the night, though none were able to describe them; the images had been too fleeting and abstract. Their inability to recall the dreams seemed to parallel their understandings of the Council Tree’s way of communication; this, to Iphigenia, was further evidence that the dreams had been sent by the tree. She looked from the gathered Mystics to the Council Tree’s giant, gnarled limbs. They were like skeletal limbs, the branches, all bereft of leaves.
What do you want? she asked. The tree was giving away nothing.
Why have you called us?
There came a sound of laughter; Iphigenia looked over to see a group of younger acolytes—Yearlings, as they were called—on recess from their training, playing in the snow. They were throwing snowballs at one another, dodging and weaving in a hail of these white missiles. The sun, breaking through the gaps in the cloud, had reached its highest point. The Elder Mystic turned to the other ten and said, “Let’s begin.”
At the starting call, the bandits-in-training, with Prue McKeel in unsure pursuit, took off down the circular staircase around the West Tower. Prue, in the crush, was nearly pitched off the side of the staircase but was caught by a friendly arm. She looked over to see Curtis, smiling. “C’mon now,” he said. “You’re off to a rough start.” Once she’d been righted, he let go and sprinted the rest of the stairs, skipping steps as he went. Prue took a deep breath and ran after.
The racing scrum had arrived at a platform, its outside members searching the area for a waymark. Prue shoved her way into the crowd and began searching as well. Someone hollered, “There it is! On the other side!” Sure enough, across the span of the gap could be seen a red flag, snapping in the breeze, affixed to a wooden stake. A group peeled off from the whole, running toward a zip line farther along the platform. Others, including Curtis, sprinted for a rope bridge in the other direction. Prue, not wanting to be seen aping her friend’s choices, followed the group to the zip line. There was some illicit shoving happening, which allowed Prue to make it to the front of the crowd. Just as she was reaching for the handle assembly, she felt a push from behind.
“Out of the way, Outsider,” came a voice. It was the girl, Aisling. Before Prue had gained her bearings, Aisling was on the zip line and lifting her legs to cross.
“That was mine!” shouted Prue, and she, despite her best judgment, grabbed onto the girl’s legs as she left the platform.
The cable sagged under the weight; Aisling screamed. Prue stared, terrified, at the great maw of darkness below them as they crossed the chasm at a wicked speed. Arriving at the far side, Prue let go of the girl’s legs and found herself, tumbling to stand, the first to reach the waymark. She slapped the post and looked to her right; Curtis, in a pack of scrabbling bandit trainees, was just making his way down a staircase from the rope bridge. Prue hardly had time to revel in her initial success before she was searching the chasm for a sign of another waymark. She couldn’t find it; she heard the other kids approaching, and her desperation grew. “Where is it?” she hissed to herself.
“Try looking down!” This was Curtis, who, from above, was able to see that the red flag was on a small platform at the bottom of an iron ladder, directly below them. He ably leapt past her and managed a neat slide to the bottom of the ladder, his legs acting as brakes on either pole. The crowd followed him, one after another, and it was this way that Prue found herself dead last in the race.
The racers then sprinted a winding walkway that snaked through a section of jagged rocks emerging from the cliff side like giant teeth. Prue tried to keep pace as best she could, but the young bandits-in-training were clearly more cut out for this sort of activity than she was. She’d been slacking in PE lately; a sympathetic gym teacher had been letting her do equipment inventory during class, and she was dearly out of shape. Groups of bandits, children and adults, were starting to appear from the little cracks and openings in the rock along the course, cheering on the racers.
“There!” shouted a runner; across a smaller break in the rock, spanned by a short rope bridge, was another fluttering red banner. Two boys had broken away from the pack in the sprint and had managed to cross the bridge before the others; they stood grinning by the waymark. Each pulled a knife from their jacket and proceeded to saw away at the ropes holding the bridge in place.
“Hey!” shouted a girl near Prue. “That’s not legit!”
“Anything goes!” shouted one of the cutters. One rope broke away.
“Every bandit for themselves!” shouted the other as the bridge came unanchored and fell with a noisy clatter against the rock.
While most of the pack pondered the crevice, perhaps ten feet wide, Curtis came rushing through. “On your left!” he yelled, and without giving it a second look, he leapt the small gap, landing with an OOF! on the other side. Taking his lead, several other racers backed up and made the jump as well. A few trainees flagged, winded, unable to make the leap. Prue was not to be deterred; if a schoolmate whom she’d personally witnessed being held back in elementary school gym for not being able to do a single pull-up was able to do it, so could she. Thus energized, she took a running jump.
Her foot slipped as she left the ground, and she, cartwheeling, plummeted into the crevice.
Iphigenia saw a hole. A black hole; a fissure. After a ti
me, she recognized it as the hole she’d seen in her dream: a split in the hillside, it led down into the deep, unfathomable dark. In her mind’s eye, her vision was blinded; and yet she still sensed the things that lived and breathed and grew inside the void. Creatures small and large who had existed there for untold centuries. The dark beckoned her. She followed.
In the black of her vision, a light glimmered. A glowing grain of sand. She held out her hands to it, touched it. Three rings folding into one another, cycling and spinning about a central axis. Light flooded in; her vision was returned. She realized that this thing, this glowing, radiant thing, was the clockwork cog from her dream.
Iphigenia then saw that the golden object was in the center of a larger pattern, and suddenly her perspective shifted: She was no longer the watcher, the observer, of this object, but was now commanding the center of a luminescent mandala. She sat, cross-legged, with the object held in line with her heart. Orbiting this center were four objects. Iphigenia, in her mind’s eye, immediately recognized three of them: They were the Three Trees of the Wood. The Council Tree, with its warm-grained woody trunk, stood to her left; to her right was the Blighted Tree, its limbs crooked and wizened. Above her was the Ossuary Tree, the tree to which all Mystics ascended at death. A soft light pulsed from its canopy. Below her was a thing she did not recognize; it, too, was a tree, but its identity was a mystery to the Elder Mystic. A length of bright golden filigree connected each of these objects in the mandala, one to the other, a sign of the interconnectedness of the Wood. And at its core, Iphigenia realized, was this thing she held in her hand. Like in her dream, she uncupped her palms. But the cog was gone; in its place she saw that she was holding a living, beating heart.
The heart of a boy.