The Night Gardener (3 page)

“Be that as it may,” Molly said in her most polite voice, “it’s where we need to be. The Windsors were expectin’ us last week.”

“Then they can wait a little longer.” The man summoned up some phlegm from his throat and spat it on the ground. “My advice: go back to whatever country you came from. The sourwoods is no place for anyone.” He shuffled across the road and into the trees, a trail of bleating sheep behind him.

Molly sighed. That was the third shepherd that hour.

“What do you think they all mean by
sourwoods
?” Kip asked when the flock had passed and they were moving again.

Molly did not know, and so she made something up. “You dinna know about the sourwoods?” she said, pretending to be astonished. “Why, it’s a whole forest of nothin’ but lemon trees and lemon blossoms and lemon moss and lemon weeds. They say that when summer comes and the fruit is ripe, just breathin’ the air will make your whole face pucker.” She said things like this to let her brother know she wasn’t worried.

But she
was
worried.

She and Kip had been riding almost nonstop for four days through rain and cold, led by a horse that barely tolerated them—due in part to the fact that Molly did not know the creature’s name
(she had told her brother it was Galileo, but the horse seemed to disagree). She had somehow imagined that English roads would be broad and level, but these roads were even worse than those back home. The mud was black and greedy, holding on to whatever touched it—including their back wheel, which had lost three spokes only the day before. What little food there had been in the back of the cart had long since been eaten, and now only a rancid, fishy odor remained.

“Are you cold?” she said, noticing her brother shiver under his coat.

He shook his head, which she could now see was damp. “I’m hot.”

Molly’s heart fell. Kip had been sick for weeks and showed little sign of getting better. He needed clean clothes. He needed a bed and a bath and a proper meal. He needed a home.

Kip stifled a cough against his sleeve. “Maybe all these folks is right,” he said. “Maybe we should turn back to town … or go back home.”

Molly couldn’t allow herself to wish for that. She and Kip were an ocean away from the place they called home. She put a hand on his forehead, which was warm. “To hear you talk, a person’d think Ma an’ Da raised a pair of quitters. We’ll find the place soon enough—directions or not—and there’ll be hot food and a warm bed and honest work.”

They rode on, growing ever more lost, until midafternoon, when
they came across someone unexpected. First they heard her song—a sonorous drone that crept around the bend, slow and seductive. The music became louder as they approached, and they could soon make out a voice singing. It was an old manikin woman, not much taller than Kip, seated in the middle of a crossroads, singing to herself. The woman was clearly some sort of vagrant, for she carried upon her shoulders a huge pack bound with twine. The pack contained a clutter of random objects—hats, blankets, and lamps—as well as more interesting things like books, birdcages, and lightning rods. It reminded Molly of a snail’s shell. The woman was hunched over a strange instrument almost the size of her body. The instrument had a crank at one end, and when she turned the handle, deep notes came out that Molly thought might be what it would sound like if honeybees could sing.

Molly slowed the cart and observed the woman from a safe distance. She was singing about an old man and a tree; her voice was surprisingly sweet. Molly had seen beggars playing instruments like this before in the market at home. A “hurdy-gurdy,” they called it.

“You think she’s a witch?” Kip whispered to his sister.

Molly smiled. “If that’s a witch, she ain’t much of one … hardly a wart on her! Only one way to know for sure, though.” She flicked the reins, and their horse moved a little closer. “Pardon me, mum?” she called out to the woman. “My brother here’d like to know if you’re a witch or not.”

The manikin woman continued playing, her fingers darting
along the keys. “I fear my answer will disappoint,” she said, not looking up.

“So you
ain’t
a witch, then?” Kip called, apparently wanting to be completely clear on this point.

The woman set down her instrument and peered at him, eyebrows raised. “Not everything old and ugly is wicked. I daresay that with enough years your lovely sister will look no better than I do … and it’ll be
her
that’s frightening children that come by!” She punctuated this with a suspiciously witchlike cackle. The woman struggled to her feet—which seemed a difficult task with so heavy a pack—and offered a neat curtsy. “The name’s Hester Kettle. I’m the storyteller in these parts. I travel here and about, trading my songs for lodgings and food and odd things.” She wiggled a shoulder, jangling the forks and wind chimes that hung from her pack.

Molly hadn’t known there was such a job as storyteller, but it sounded like fine work. Telling stories was one of the things she herself did best. She had told stories to sneak her brother out of the orphanage. She had told stories to get a horse. And if she encountered any questions at her new job, she would tell stories once more. Still, there was something about this woman that made her uneasy. “And pray, mum,” Molly said, “what’s a storyteller doin’ all the way out here? On foot, no less?”

The woman shrugged, sucking something from her teeth. “I’m on foot because I’ve got no horse. As to why I’m here: new stories are rare in these parts. It’s not every morning we get strangers come
through the hollow. And two foreigner children with nary a parent between them riding due south on a stolen fish cart?” She clucked her tongue. “Why, that’s a story if I ever heard one.”

Molly caught her breath. It took everything in her not to look at her brother. “Wh-wh-who says the cart was stolen?”

The woman grinned at her. “That look on your face says it twice over, dearie.”

“You take that back!” Kip said, surprising Molly. “We’re no thieves. My sister bought the cart from a fisherman who had no use for it. He was joining the navy to fight giant squids.” He beamed at his sister. “Ain’t that right, Molls?”

Molly nodded vaguely. “More or less.” She stared at the woman, silently pleading with her to drop the subject.

The old woman whistled. “
Giant squids
, you say? Seems the truth is more compelling than the lie.” She nodded to Molly. “I apologize for accusing you in front of your brother. And let me congratulate you,” she added, “for picking such a fine name for your vessel.” She winked. “I’ve a feeling it suits you.”

The woman was talking about the letters painted on their wagon. The side had once read
ST
.
JONAH’S COD SHOPPE
in gold script, but the paint had mostly worn off so that only the letters
S
,
C
,
O
, and
P
remained. “It’s just a random jumble,” Molly said. She didn’t like this conversation. Something about the way the woman looked at her—looked
into
her—made her wary. “If you don’t mind, mum, my brother and me are expected somewhere this morning.”

The woman stepped near, blocking their path. “You’re headed to the Windsor home, is that right?”

Molly tried not to look startled. “Do you know ’em?” she said.

“Not really. I did meet Master Windsor once, when he was no older than you. That was near thirty years back. Right before they shipped him off to live with relations in the city, poor thing.” The old woman shook her head. “When he moved back here last autumn, family in tow … well, let’s just say that surprised a few folks.”

Molly didn’t think there was anything strange in returning to the place where one grew up. Only a few weeks here, and she would give anything to be back home in County Donegal—famine or not. “We’re a little turned around at the moment,” Molly said. “We asked some farmers what roads to take, but they were a bit shy with the answer.”

Hester Kettle nodded, looking out into the forest behind her. “Folks here think they’re doing you a good turn by not telling you the way. None of them wants to be the one who steered two innocent babes to the sourwoods, foreigners though you may be.”

“And what’s so bad about the sourwoods?” Molly asked.

“Why, everyone in Cellar Hollow knows to keep clear of that place. Children are warned off by their parents, who were warned by their own parents, and so on as far back as any soul can remember.”

“So you
don’t
know,” Molly said.

“Firsthand accounts are rare, but most folks claim to know someone who knew someone fool enough to venture across the river into those woods.” The woman hesitated for a long moment, her fingers
playing at the edge of her patchwork cloak. “They say the sourwoods changes folks … brings out something horrible in them. And then there’s
the other thing
. Tragic, really.”

Kip leaned forward. “Wh-wh-what’s the other thing?” he asked.

Molly clenched her jaw. The last thing she needed was this old loon filling her brother’s head with frightening nonsense. She caught Hester’s eye. The old woman seemed to weigh Molly’s glare and then smiled at Kip. “Just rumor and hokum, luv. Why, half of it’s stories I made up just to earn a meal. You’ll be fine.”

Molly nodded a silent thank-you. Whatever the rumors about this place were, it didn’t matter. This job was their only chance to be safe and together. Who else would take in two Irish children with no guardians or references? Besides, if it were so bad, why would Master Windsor have moved his family there? “So, you’d be willin’ to point us the way, then?” Molly asked.

Hester rubbed her chin as if thinking it over. “I would. But I might ask a small favor in return.”

“We got no money,” Molly said.

Hester waved her off. “Nothing so large as that, dearie. I only ask that you come around and tell me a story or two about what you find there. Ever since the Windsors moved back, the hollow’s been all abuzz with curiosity. A woman of my trade could eat for a month on that information.”

“That, I can do,” Molly said.

The old woman stepped aside and pointed down a path to the
left. “Ain’t three miles as the crow flies. Follow the sound of the river, and if you hit a fork, take the way that looks overgrown—sourwoods is the road less traveled by far. When you come to an old bridge, well, you’re right on top of it.”

Molly still wasn’t sure whether the woman was being completely honest, but she decided that some directions were better than none. She thanked Hester Kettle, snapped the reins, and rode past her onto the rougher path. She and her brother descended into a gorge, and behind them she could hear the woman resume her singing. The haunting melody carried through the air, growing more and more faint. Molly wondered about what might be awaiting her and her brother at the house in the sourwoods, and what sort of story she might bring back for the strange old woman.

She wished, silently, that it would be a happy one.

ip held tight to his bench as his sister drove them down ever-rougher roads. Despite all the old witch-lady’s warnings, he still didn’t know what to expect inside the sourwoods. At first the landscape remained largely unchanged—tangled forests abuzz with the life of early spring—but as they traveled deeper into the hollow, a prickling sense of dread came over him. Galileo must have felt it, too, for the horse became increasingly reluctant to go on. Kip glanced up at his sister, who watched the road with a stoic expression. “Have you noticed how quiet it’s got?” he whispered.

Molly had apparently been too busy driving to notice. “And what of it?” she said, tugging the reins to keep them clear of a ravine.

“There’s no birds, no insects, just the woods …” Kip swallowed, eyes searching the silent trees. “Like the whole forest is waitin’ for us.”

To this, his sister gave no answer.

Kip knew she was taking him to a house called Windsor. She had been hired by a man in some kind of office in town. But what sort of place that might be, she would not tell him. He suspected that this
was because she herself did not know—though he would never say that aloud.