Under Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 2) - Page 33

“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.

Tags: Colin Meloy Wildwood Chronicles Fantasy
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