Where the Woods Grow Wild

  Where the Woods Grow Wild

  Copyright ©2016 Nate Philbrick

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in reviews.

  The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, places, or events (not likely) are coincidental.

  To readers who aren’t afraid to get lost in the woods once in a while.

  And to Lydia, my first and most enthusiastic reader. Keep using that imagination, little sister.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 · The Woods

  Chapter 2 · Martin Half-Handed

  Chapter 3 · The Servant of Nayadu

  Chapter 4 · From Floodweed to Fanged Fledglings

  Chapter 5 · A Badger Ride

  Chapter 6 · Mad King Prickle

  Chapter 7 · The Dryad Palace

  Chapter 8 · Poisoned Veins

  Chapter 9 · Flight to the Minnowchuck

  Chapter 10 · The Trunder

  Chapter 11 · Predator and Prey

  Chapter 12 · One Dark Step

  Chapter 13 · Brass Rings and Black Wings

  Chapter 14 · Martin

  Chapter 15 · Champion of the Woods

  Chapter 16 · No More Running

  Chapter 17 · The Hardest Words

  Chapter 18 · Home

  1. The Woods

  A quiet pigpen on wash day meant trouble. Martin Colter dumped his last armload of firewood into the bin and listened. Bardun Village’s clock tower bells had announced the change of the hour some time ago, yet no kicking or squealing or yelling was to be heard.

  Martin plucked a splinter from his forearm on his way around the stable to the pigpen behind the Cabbage Cart Inn. Sure enough, the two white pigs, Edgar and Evangeline, romped unattended. Their trough remained empty, the fence gate stood ajar, and drying mud caked Evangeline from hoof to swirly tail. Edgar wheezed and trotted away to take his turn in the puddle. There was no sign of Percy Durbity.

  Martin nudged the gate shut with his foot. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he warned the pigs. “Wash day is wash day. I’ll fetch Percy.” He gave Evangeline a pat on the head before picking his way through a field of buckets and tools to the inn’s back door.

  A smog of dim light and garlic fumes enveloped him as soon as the door clattered shut behind him. He worked his way to the kitchen, wrinkling his nose out of habit. Two piles of pots, kettles, and cauldrons squared off from opposite sides of the room, and the counter space and dish pit quailed between them in the back.

  A gnarly pot the size of a barrel crouched by the bottom of the left pile. Martin checked to make sure it was empty. Then he folded his arms and listened again. A faint scratching noise caught his attention from the cupboard under the counter.

  Martin flung the cupboard open. A mousy boy peeped out at him with round eyes and an open mouth. His knees almost touched his forehead in the cramped space. The boy clutched a quill in one hand and a scrap of greasy paper in the other.

  Martin sighed. “Get out, Percy.”

  The boy nodded frantically and did his best to comply, only to discover he was properly stuck. It took Martin a good bit of prying and pulling to extract him, but eventually Percy popped out like a cork from a bottle. He hopped up, dusted himself off, and looked thoroughly embarrassed.

  “I didn’t think you’d find me in there,” he said. “I guess I ought to find a better hiding spot next time.”

  “No,” said Martin. “You ought to be washing Edgar and Evangeline. They haven’t been fed, either. Just be glad I checked on them before Stump did. What kept you?”

  “I know it’s wash day,” Percy squeaked. “I fully meant to go scrub those dreadful beasts, but, you see, I bought this wonderful quill and some ink with last month’s pay, and I wanted to write a letter to Mother, but the wagon man told me he was leaving for Aldenturf promptly after his supper and wouldn’t wait for anyone, so I had to get it done fast, and—well, mother really wants to know how I’m doing and that I haven’t run off or gotten sick or been eaten, so—”

  “Let me see.” Martin snatched the unfinished letter and ran his finger along the lines. Halfway down, he raised his eyebrows. “‘The Cabbage Cart is a good place to work, and Martin is a good partner, and our boss is good...’” He grabbed the quill out of Percy’s hand. “You’ve got most of it wrong already. Let me fix it.”

  He found a dry island among the grease puddles on the counter to write on. “The Cabbage Cart is a garden short of a literal cabbage, and Martin is an excellent partner. He makes sure I don’t get in trouble, since our boss is a one-eyed radish named Hergelo Stump—”

  Percy broke out in laughter. “I wish I was clever like that.”

  “It’s a truer version than yours,” said Martin, “and it’ll make your mother smile. Now go clean the pigs. You’ll have time to send it later if you work quickly. I’d help, but I’ve just finished with the firewood and my hands are full down here.” He glared at the dirty pots out of the corner of his eye.

  Percy took the letter, stuffed it in his pocket, and scampered out the door, leaving Martin to wage war against layers of grease.

  The monotonous work numbed Martin’s mind, so he wasn’t sure how much time had passed before footsteps clattered down the hall. The runner tripped and hit the floor.

  A moment later, Percy stuck his panting face into the steam clouds. “Mr. Stump sent me to fetch you, Martin.” His eyes watered in the kitchen’s pungent swirls. “You’d best hurry, he’s going all red!”

  “Did you finish the pigs?”

  “I washed Evangeline, but Edgar won’t let me get close. Mr. Stump told me it could wait. I don’t know what he wants, but it must be important!”

  Martin wiped his hands on his shirt. Stump had a knack for pulling Martin away from one task to give him another. He also had a knack for turning red, but he usually bellowed from his upside-down bucket until Martin or Percy showed up. As unpleasant as an audience with Hergelo Stump tended to be, Martin was curious.

  He made his way down the hall with Percy at his heel. They wound farther into the Cabbage Cart’s dungeons until they rounded a corner and entered Stump’s bucket domain. Stump and his makeshift throne filled two thirds of the hall’s width, leaving precious little room for the girl standing beside him.

  She was young, near Martin’s own age, with blond hair and cornflower eyes. She wore a blouse and skirt dyed the mayor’s indigo blue—she was the mayor’s courier. The girl caught Martin’s eye with a confident smile.

  Percy tugged on Martin’s sleeve. “She’s pretty,” he whispered.

  “Shut up, Percy.”

  Hergelo Stump shifted a portion of his weight to glower at Percy with his one good eye. A leather patch covered the other one. “What are you still doing here, little scallion? Get back to the pigs.” A scowl creased his jowls.

  Percy was gone in a flash.

  “And you,” said Stump to Martin. “Tuck in your shirt for the lady.”

  Martin fumbled to do as he was told. He jammed three of his fingers on his belt in the process. The courier averted her gaze with a stiff chin.

  “So, errand-girl,” said Stump, “what business does the mayor have with my employee? Spit it out—he belongs in the kitchen.”

  The courier straightened her shoulders in a most official manner. “Mayor Clarenbald requests Mr. Colter’s services, Mr. Stump, for a matter that cannot wait. Mr. Colter must accompany me immediately.”

  Stump hacked out a laugh. “Not a chance. Too many dishes to scrub before the evening crowd.” He aimed a kick at Martin that almost tippe
d him from his bucket. “Get back to work. I’ll handle her.”

  The courier tapped her foot. “I’m afraid the mayor’s purposes supersede the need for clean kitchenware, Mr. Stump.”

  Stump squinted at her. “What purposes might those be?”

  The courier whipped out a document sealed with wax. She broke the seal under Stump’s nose and cleared her throat to read. “To the respectable Hergelo Stump, owner of the Cabbage Cart Inn, south Bardun Village. I’ve sent my speediest courier—” she curtsied “—to borrow your faithful employee, Mr. Martin Colter, for a matter of significant urgency. I understand the Cabbage Cart relies heavily on his services, but I’m sure you can spare him. Sincerest thanks, Horatio Clarenbald, Mayor of Bardun Village. P.S. Please note that no pay is to be extracted from—”

  Stump yanked the document from her hands. “Now, see here...” He examined the paper and wax with a frown so contorted, his lips wrapped halfway around his chin.

  The courier waited with her hands behind her back.

  After a few choice mutterings and a shake of his head, Stump shoved the document in her general direction. “Fine then, take him. Mark my words, scrub, those pots aren’t going anywhere. Hurry back.”

  The courier re-folded her notice from the mayor. “Please, Mr. Colter, come with me.”

  Martin followed her down the hall, through the inn’s empty common room, and out the front door. After spending so much time in the dank kitchens, he had to blink against the daylight. He welcomed the clean air and fresh smells. The courier led him across the cobblestone street before speaking.

  “Mr. Stump was right,” she said. “You should always tuck in your shirt when in the presence of a lady.”

  Martin grinned. “That was brilliant, Elodie.”

  Elodie bounced on her toes. “Wasn’t it, though? You have no idea how much fun it was to sneak around Clarenbald’s study and write the notice. I would’ve rescued you sooner, but I had to wait for the mayor to leave for his afternoon tea. You were right, by the way. It does smell like hot onions—the inn, not the tea.”

  “So,” said Martin, “what urgent business must I tend to for the mayor?”

  Elodie resumed her air of importance. “According to one of the maids, the summer clover is finally blooming in the fields. You must escort me there, because clover buds are my favorite, and I want to lie down in them and stare at the sky, and I work for the mayor so I can do whatever I want.”

  “Won’t he realize you’re missing?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You underestimate how long he takes to have tea. Besides, I’m a courier, so anyone who saw me leave won’t think twice about it.”

  Martin offered his arm. “Very well. I accept your request.”

  Elodie slipped her hand through his elbow. “As long as you don’t get in too much trouble with old Stump.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Martin. “He only kicks Percy.”

  Elodie stifled a laugh. “That poor little mouse needs to learn not to stand too close to the bucket when he’s called for.”

  They strolled down the street. Elodie talked about her day running errands for the mayor. Most of her story revolved around a live fish from the pond and the apron pocket of an unlucky maid. Then Martin told Elodie about Percy’s letter and how he had fixed it for him. Elodie found that part especially amusing.

  “A letter to your own mother wouldn’t hurt, you know. Imagine how she must feel when Mrs. Durbity gets a letter every few months and she gets nothing.”

  “My mother knows what the Cabbage Cart is like,” said Martin. “What else do I have to tell her about? Besides, the crone she looks after is rich enough to own three wagons, but my mother hasn’t made the trip a single time since she left.”

  “She probably can’t fathom why you stayed here in the first place.”

  “I’m sure she’s figured it out by now,” he mumbled.

  Elodie shook her head, but Martin caught her smile nonetheless.

  The Cabbage Cart was one of the last buildings on the south side of town, so Martin and Elodie soon left the street for a narrow spit of dirt road that cut through grass fields. Stone walls abandoned to moss and laurel bushes hemmed the road on either side, and tufts of grass rivaled wagon ruts for control of the road itself.

  Elodie got into a game of hopping from one patch of grass to the next without her feet touching the dirt. Martin picked grass sprigs and lobbed them at her hair. He stuck four of them before she noticed.

  Elodie turned on him with a click of her tongue. “Honestly, are you trying to turn me into a haystack? Those are hard to pick out, you know.”

  The road curved around a holly grove and an old farmhouse. There, they squeezed through a gap in the wall and came out in the fields. Just as Elodie had said, clover buds sprinkled the fields in yellow. Elodie kicked off her shoes and ran around for a while. Then she flung herself in the clover and spread her arms out. She closed her eyes and breathed deep through her nose.

  “Doesn’t it smell divine out here?”

  Martin folded his hands under his head beside her, forgetting about the Cabbage Cart along with anything else unpleasant. Now and again one of them shared a random thought out loud, or tossed clover in the other’s face, or pointed out the smell of dirty pots on Martin’s clothes. For the most part, however, they enjoyed the sun and each other’s company in silence.

  That silence didn’t last long, shattered by the telltale squeal of a pig.

  “Oh, no,” Martin groaned. He sat up. “Percy.”

  “That didn’t sound like Percy,” said Elodie.

  “No, I meant—oh, why must Percy be Percy?”

  They heard another squeal. A faint shout followed it.

  Martin reluctantly rose from the grass. For a moment, all was still. Then a white canon ball burst from the gap in the wall and zoomed straight at them.

  Martin waved his hands. “Edgar, stop!”

  Edgar did not stop. He wheezed and huffed his way across the field in a mad bid for porcine freedom. Before Martin could react, his feet flew up and he landed on his back with the wind knocked out of him. Elodie rolled with laughter. Nothing remained of Edgar except a parting snort and a path torn through the clover.

  Martin groaned again and picked himself up. By that time, a breathless and crestfallen Percy Durbity doubled over beside them.

  “That pig,” the boy said between gulps of air. “That hog. That wretched swine! I tried to wash him, but he didn’t like it, and I left the gate open by mistake, and now...” He threw his hands in the air. “This is all my fault, and Mr. Stump will kick me harder than ever if he finds out. Please, Martin, you have to help me get Edgar. I’m not big or strong enough, but you are.”

  Martin struggled to keep his tongue in check. Of all the people to ruin an otherwise splendid evening, Percy was the most annoying, without a doubt.

  “You should help him, Martin,” said Elodie.

  “But…” All the excuses he thought of sounded pathetic. “Fine, but don’t blame me if Edgar comes back on a spit.”

  “Get going, then. You won’t find him after dark. Percy can’t take many more kicks before turning into Stump’s permanent footstool. I should head back, but I’ll see you tomorrow.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  Martin watched her go until Percy tapped his arm.

  “I’m awful sorry,” he said. “I know you were on an important job for Mayor Clarenbald. Edgar runs real fast when he sees soap. Faster than me, I’m afraid.”

  Martin turned to follow Edgar’s escape trail. “Let’s get this over with.”

  * * *

  The swathe Edgar had left in his wake allowed Martin and Percy to jog across the field toward the woods. Martin kept his ears open for snorts or wheezes, hoping the pig had tuckered out, but he gave up that hope by the time the forest shade fell over them. Martin and Percy pulled up in front of the oak wall.

  “He went in,” said Martin.

  “I’ve never been this far fr
om town,” said Percy. “Look, you can only see the top of the clock tower from here.”

  “In a few hours we won’t be able to see anything, so let’s be quick. I don’t want to get fired, and you don’t want to get kicked, but both will happen if we don’t find Edgar.”

  Martin stepped past the first few trees, but Percy stayed put.

  “Hurry up,” said Martin.

  “I don’t think I should,” said Percy. “This is the forest, you know. I can’t go in there.” His eyes trailed up the tall trunks, getting bigger the higher he looked. “This is scary.”

  “They’re just trees, Percy.”

  Percy shook his head. “Mother left me a list of things I ought to do and ought not to do, and right between ‘you ought to wash your feet twice a day’ and ‘you ought to smile at people and say hello’—that’s a hard one—she wrote ‘you ought not to go in the forest, not ever.’ Sometimes I get it all confused and say hello to my feet twice a day, but I know for sure I ought not to disobey Mother.”

  “Then I’ll find Edgar by myself. You owe me.”

  “Thanks, Martin, you’re the best. Someday I’ll be brave enough to go in, but right now, nuh-uh.” Percy eyed the forest one last time. “I’m gonna finish the rest of my work extra fast today so I can send my letter.”

  Percy waved and skipped toward the road, leaving Martin alone under the oaks. Without Percy’s chatter, the silence felt heavy.

  Martin ventured into the woods. The wide, twisted trunks closed behind him like giant doors. Edgar’s trail of hoof prints led him in a winding pattern until a swift river crossed his path. More prints dug up the mud in a wide berth by the bank. Then a fresh trail split from the mess and followed the current down to a stout bridge which arched over the river.

  “You could have at least had the decency to swim across and spare us the hassle of washing you,” said Martin.

  Halfway across the bridge, however, Edgar’s muddy trail disappeared. Martin leaned over the aging rail, but no pigs floated downstream. Martin rubbed his neck, trying to figure things out. One way or another, Edgar hadn’t made it to the other side. Perhaps the pig had doubled back and slipped past him.