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The ivy flowed across the meadow and loosed itself from the bodies of the sleeping Wildwood Irregulars. They awoke and blinked their eyes, these farmers and bandits and birds, and stared into the glimmering sunset, the glowing moonrise. Elsie was lying flat on her back and enjoying a pleasant dream in which she’d been having a tea party with the actual Intrepid Tina; they’d just sat down and the woman in the pith helmet was telling her that she’d done a good job, a real fine job, and that Elsie was a shining example for her fellow Intrepid Girlz—a model for all the qualities that the group held sanctified: bravery, kindness, and pluck.
Not far from her was her sister, Rachel, who was standing in the midst of the freed grass of the meadow and staring at her hands. She looked up and saw her sister and smiled, as if to say, What is all this, what do you know . . .
But the ivy didn’t stop there; it continued to pull away, and finally the last strands were swallowed back to the mound in the center of the clearing and disappeared into a small hole in the broken wood of the Council Tree’s split trunk. Prue swayed there, her hands still extended, still speaking to the ivy until the last leaf had disappeared; and then she collapsed.
The meadow was full of waking sleepers, all rubbing their eyes as if they’d just woken from some centuries-long slumber. They were foxes and hares and humans and birds; some wore gray robes, some bib overalls. Many carried implements of war; some held the simplest gardening tools. There were children among them and they all flocked to one another, sharing stories of daring that were each more incredible than the last. They’d fought off the attacks of the ivy giants, they said; they’d dodged the blitzing birds and scored a few hits themselves with the sabers and spears they’d been given.
Alexei, having descended the pedestal of the tree, stood some feet off, taking in the air of the living world, this world he’d been brought back into. Zita walked to join him. They stood quietly in the meadow while the figures of the Wildwood Irregulars, all around them, emerged from their sleep.
The Mystics, too, had awoken to the new reality that faced them: The Council Tree, the totem of their practice, had been split in two and now lay collapsed on the floor of the meadow, its great leafy canopy splayed out across the ground. The ivy had caught them in deep meditation, seated in lotus position, and they’d remained there throughout the entire battle. They now stood, slowly, unsteadily, and took in the scene playing out before them.
Prue lay immobile on the top of the broken tree. Curtis, seeing his friend fall after the ivy had been completely contained, scrambled up the trunk and knelt by her side.
He called her name; she didn’t respond. Her face was quiet and still but her cheeks still blossomed with color; when he laid his ear on her chest, he could hear the frantic beat of her heart.
“C’mon, Prue,” he whispered. “Hold on, there.”
He slipped his arms beneath her waist and stood, her slack body draped between his elbows. This way, he slowly stepped down from the top of the broken tree, following the long path made by one of the enormous roots. Arriving at the meadow’s grass, he saw that the Mystics were there to meet him.
“She’s not well,” he said. “She’s not conscious.”
Wordlessly, one of the Mystics, an older woman, reached her arms out to Curtis. He transferred Prue’s limp body to the woman’s arms, and she laid the girl down on the soft turf of the clearing’s floor.
“We know what has to be done,” said the Mystic.
The Mystics carried the girl deep into the forest, far from the old bastions of civilization. They crossed the Cathedral Mountains and wound their way down into the wooded wilds of the old middle province. They traveled for days; the bandit band followed close behind, cantering their horses. They’d insisted on accompanying the Mystics, for fear of newly formed marauders in the woods, emboldened by the sudden change in the landscape and power structure—though in truth, the Mystics needed no entourage; they’d made this pilgrimage yearly and had long resolved themselves to the dangers of the journey. It had been de
cided, long ago, that whatever events might befall them and thwart their path, it was intended by the fabric of the forest and was thus to be accepted as part of the natural plan of the Wood.
In the middle of the forest, not far from the smashed trunk of the Ossuary Tree, a path had been cut into the greenery of the forest floor. Arriving here, the Mystics fell into a line and began following the path, which led in a circuitous route through the trees. It flowed like a circle; with each revolution, the path moved farther inward until the followers of the path found themselves walking a spiral.
In the center of the spiral was a sapling tree. Three branches sprouted from its tiny trunk; two of the branches sported a single leaf. The third branch was naked.
The Mystic in the lead of the procession carried the unconscious girl: the black-haired girl who had pulled in the ivy, who had brought the makers together, who had united the Wood and brought a new peace. The Bicycle Maiden, Wildwood Regina.
The woman Mystic laid Prue’s body at the foot of the young tree. Slipping her arms from beneath the girl’s waist, she stepped away and waited.
The ground churned beneath the girl momentarily, before silently opening up and swallowing the girl’s body whole into the loamy ground.
A few of the bandits had followed the Mystics on their circuitous route along the spiral labyrinth; they sat hidden in the trees, some yards off. Despite their typically steely composure, each of the bandits fought tears at the sight of the girl’s succumbing; one boy wept openly watching his old friend and partner disappear.
Then: Something shook. The forest itself seemed to heave a long breath.
Everyone’s attention was drawn to the newly formed tree in the center of the spiral. They watched as the third branch, the naked branch, of the sapling suddenly sprouted a new, green leaf.
CHAPTER 32
Wildwood Imperium
The borders had been erased and the civilized enclaves pulled down; buildings that had stood for centuries had been laid to rubble. The tree’s grand prophecy had come true: A new era had been ushered in.
It was all Wildwood now.
The birds flew out from their nests and made homes in new parts of the forest, now free of the burdens of boundaries. The farmers of old North Wood set about rebuilding their demolished homes and plowing up their fields, ruined by the invasion of the ivy. It was summer now, after all, and the planting had to get done. Already, the weather had improved mightily and the Mystics were promising a banner year for the harvest. Whatever they’d lost in the deluge of ivy, they were sure to regain in time.
The bandits returned to the fort built by their younger members, Curtis and Septimus, and set about rebuilding the structures and staircases so that a new cadre of bandits could call the place home. Oddly enough, when the ivy had been peeled away from the holding pen, the bandits were surprised to see that its captive had disappeared; apparently, when the viny plant had crowned the tree, the bars of the pen had been bowed apart enough to allow easy escape. They searched the nearby perimeter for Roger Swindon, the villainous bureaucrat-turned-Caliph, but they never found him. Some months later, a bandit ranger team returned to camp with a torn gray robe. It had been found rudely discarded at the opening of an abandoned coyote warren. Its owner was nowhere to be seen. One thing was clear: They had likely not seen the last of the old villain.
The Wildwood bandits’ numbers had winnowed considerably during the long winter, and they’d lost several good members in the battle for the Council Tree. It was suggested that some outreach wouldn’t hurt; waylaid coachmen would now be given the opportunity, after a holdup had transpired, to abandon their servile post and join the illustrious Wildwood bandits.
