Colin Meloy - Wildwood: The Wildwood Chronicles, Book I

W ILD W OOD

THE WILDWOOD CHRONICLES, BOOK 1

COLIN MELOY

Illustrations by

CARSON ELLIS

COLIN MELOY once wrote Ray Bradbury a letter, informing him that he considered himself an author too. He was ten. Since then, Colin has gone on to be the singer and songwriter for the band the Decemberists, where he channels all of his weird ideas into weird songs. This is his first time channeling those ideas into a novel.

As a kid, CARSON ELLIS loved exploring the woods, drawing, and nursing wounded animals back to health. As an adult, little has changedexcept she is now the acclaimed illustrator of several books for children, including Lemony Snickets The Composer Is Dead , Dillweeds Revenge by Florence Parry Heide, and The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart.

Colin and Carson live with their son, Hank, in Portland, Oregon, quite near the Impassable Wilderness.

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CHAPTER 1
A Murder of Crows

H ow five crows managed to lift a twenty-pound baby boy into the air was beyond Prue, but that was certainly the least of her worries. In fact, if she were to list her worries right then and there as she sat spellbound on the park bench and watched her little brother, Mac, carried aloft in the talons of these five black crows, puzzling out just how this feat was being done would likely come in dead last. First on the list: Her baby brother, her responsibility, was being abducted by birds. A close second: What did they plan on doing with him?

And it had been such a nice day.

True, it had been a little gray when Prue woke up that morning, but what September day in Portland wasnt? She had drawn up the blinds in her bedroom and had paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the tree branches outside her window, framed as they were by a sky of dusty white-gray. It was Saturday, and the smell of coffee and breakfast was drifting up from downstairs. Her parents would be in their normal Saturday positions: Dad with his nose in the paper, occasionally hefting a lukewarm mug of coffee to his lips; Mom peering through tortoiseshell bifocals at the woolly mass of a knitting project of unknown determination. Her brother, all of one year old, would be sitting in his high chair, exploring the farthest frontiers of unintelligible babble: Doose! Doose! Sure enough, her vision was proven correct when she came downstairs to the nook off the kitchen. Her father mumbled a greeting, her mothers eyes smiled from above her glasses, and her brother shrieked, Pooo! Prue made herself a bowl of granola. Ive got bacon on, darling, said her mother, returning her attention to the amoeba of yarn in her hands (was it a sweater? A tea cozy? A noose?).

Mother, Prue had said, now pouring rice milk over her cereal, I told you. Im a vegetarian. Ergo: no bacon. She had read that word, ergo , in a novel shed been reading. That was the first time she had used it. She wasnt sure if shed used it right, but it felt good. She sat down at the kitchen table and winked at Mac. Her father briefly peered over the top of his paper to give her a smile.

Whats on the docket today? said her father. Remember, youre watching Mac.

Mmmm, I dunno, Pru e responded. Figured wed hang around somewhere. Rough up some old ladies. Maybe stick up a hardware store. Pawn the loot. Beats going to a crafts fair.

Her father snorted.

Dont forget to drop off the library books. Theyre in the basket by the front door, said her mother, her knitting needles clacking. We should be back for dinner, but you know how long these things can run.

Gotcha, said Prue.

Mac shouted, Pooooo! wildly brandished a spoon, and sneezed.

And we think your brother might have a cold, said her father. So make sure hes bundled up, whatever you do.

(The crows lifted her brother higher into the overcast sky, and suddenly Prue enumerated another worry: But he might have a cold! )

That had been their morning. Truly, an unremarkable one. Prue finished her granola, skimmed the comics, helped her dad ink in a few gimmes in his crossword puzzle, and was off to hook up the red Radio Flyer wagon to the back of her single-speed bicycle. An even coat of gray remained in the sky, but it didnt seem to threaten rain, so Prue stuffed Mac into a lined corduroy jumper, wrapped him in a stratum of quilted chintz, and placed him, still babbling, into the wagon. She loosed one arm from this cocoon of clothing and handed him his favorite toy: a wooden snake. He shook it appreciatively.

Prue slipped her black flats into the toe clips and pedaled the bike into motion. The wagon bounced noisily behind her, Mac shrieking happily with every jolt. They tore through the neighborhood of tidy clapboard houses, Prue nearly upsetting Macs wagon with every hurdled curb and missed rain puddle. The bike tires gave a satisfied shhhhhh as they carved the wet pavement.

The morning flew by, giving way to a warm afternoon. After several random errands (a pair of Levis, not quite the right color, needed returning; the recent arrivals bin at Vinyl Resting Place required perusing; a plate of veggie tostadas was messily shared at the taqueria), she found herself whiling time outside the coffee shop on the main street while Mac quietly napped in the red wagon. She sipped steamed milk and watched through the window as the caf employees awkwardly installed a secondhand elk head trophy on the wall. Traffic hummed on Lombard Street, the first intrusions of the neighborhoods polite rush hour. A few passersby cooed at the sleeping baby in the wagon and Prue flashed them sarcastic smiles, a little annoyed to be someones picture of sibling camaraderie. She doodled mindlessly in her sketchbook: the leaf-clogged gutter drain in front of the caf, a hazy sketch of Macs quiet face with extra attention paid to the little dribble of snot emerging from his left nostril. The afternoon began to fade. Mac, waking, shook her from her trance. Right, she said, putting her brother on her knee while he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Lets keep moving. Library? Mac pouted, uncomprehending.

Library it is, said Prue.

She skidded to a halt in front of the St. Johns branch library and vaulted from her bike seat. Dont go anywhere, she said to Mac as she grabbed the short stack of books from the wagon. She jogged into the foyer and stood before the book return slot, shuffling the books in her hand. She stopped at one, The Sibley Guide to Birds , and sighed. Shed had it for nearly three months now, braving overdue notices and threatening notes from librarians before shed finally consented to return it. Prue mournfully flipped through the pages of the book. Shed spent hours copying the beautiful illustrations of the birds into her sketchbook, whispering their fantastic, exotic names like quiet incantations: the western tanager. The whip-poor-will. Vauxs swift . The names conjured the images of lofty climes and faraway places, of quiet prairie dawns and misty treetop aeries. Her gaze drifted from the book to the darkness of the return slot and back. She winced, muttered, Oh well, and shoved the book into the opening of her peacoat. She would brave the librarians wrath for one more week.