The Poison Diaries (10 page)

It is a little more than an hour’s walk to Alnwick, a modest distance to experienced wanderers like Weed and myself. But there is a storm brewing low in the eastern sky, blowing in from the sea. We set off early at a brisk pace, in the hopes of returning home before it breaks. When we arrive at the crossroads, Weed stops.

“North, south, east, west,” he says quietly. “Four directions in which to run away. But now all I feel is how much I would like to stay at Hulne Abbey, with you.”

“I am glad,” I say. The depth of my joy is almost too much to express.

“It seems I have put down roots,” Weed adds as we turn down the southern road.

The closer we get to Alnwick, the more fellow travelers we encounter.

“It must be market day,” I observe, pulling my cloak around my head. “Too bad we cannot stay.”

“Why not?”

I shrug. “Father always taught me to avoid mingling with the townspeople. When I was young, he worried that they might trick me into revealing some of his hard-earned knowledge. Now I suppose he worries that they might think me a witch.”

We cut quickly through the crowds, picking our way over cobblestone streets to Bailiffgate, through which the road to the castle passes.

“Father took me into the keep once or twice, many years ago, not long after Mama died and there was no one to watch me at Hulne Abbey,” I explain. “He comes to use the duke’s library.”

“Why is he permitted to do that?”

“It is in payment for his services. Years ago the duke offered him the old chapel to live in and a yearly income, if the people of Alnwick might have free use
of his medical skills. Father replied that, since the chapel was only a ruin, he had no qualms about taking it off the duke’s hands, as long as he would be permitted to plant gardens all around, but he would rather have the run of the library than a salary. Oh, Weed, there it is—look.”

The road has led us to the bottom of a wildflowerstrewn hill. Above and before us is the ancient, terrifying grandeur of Alnwick Castle.

“Yes,” Weed murmurs, his eyes still fixed on the ground. “It is beautiful—very beautiful indeed.”

According to Father’s instructions, the fever remedy is to be delivered to “Mrs. S. Flume, Cook.” We gain entry by showing the guard the parcel and our letter of introduction from Father, which has the duke’s seal on it. Nodding, the guard directs us to the kitchen entrance, which is to the left and down a steep stone stairway.

Underground, it is like a colony of ants, with servants racing back and forth through a maze of tunnels
that lead to every corner of the castle. The servants push wheeled carts through the tunnels at a breakneck pace; Weed and I must press ourselves flat against the wall to avoid being run over. The only light in the tunnels comes from above, through small circular windows made of thick glass set directly in the ground above our heads, like portholes in a capsized ship.

“Pardon me,” I shout above the clatter of wheels and dishes to a passing serving man. “We have a parcel for Mrs. Flume. It is urgent.”

The man can barely hear us. “Who d’ ye want?”

“Mrs. S. Flume!”

“Susannah Flume, did you say? She’s not here, she’s …”

His explanation gets lost in the din. Through gestures I signal that I cannot understand, and he motions for us to follow him. He leads us down long tunnels, past the smoky, blazing hot kitchen. Sweaty, bare-armed cooks and scullery maids chop, peel, stir, and keep themselves from passing out by drinking endless pints of small ale.

We keep going, through more winding tunnels and up a narrow stair that releases us back into the sunlight. We clamber down a grassy slope dotted with sheep until we reach the spot where an arched stone bridge spans the river Aln. Halfway across the bridge a great stone lion, the emblem of the duke’s family, stands guard.

“There’s the woman you seek,” the man says. “That child of hers couldn’t even get a proper burial—anyone dies these days, they say it’s the plague.” He gestures ahead. “That’s all the funeral the poor thing’ll have.”

On the bank of the river, a small group of people surround a weeping woman. At her feet is a large basket of wildflowers, picked from the abundance of the meadow. One by one, the mourners toss the flower stalks into the water. They float sadly on the current until they disappear around the curve of the river.

One of the party, a girl in a rough linen apron, approaches us.

“Are you relatives?” she asks in a quivering voice.

“I am Jessamine Luxton,” I say quickly. “My father
is Thomas Luxton, the apothecary. A fever remedy was sent for; we came to deliver it.”

“You are good to come, Miss Luxton, and you, too, sir.” The girl curtsies to Weed. “You are very kind to come all this way. Tell your father—tell him we’re very grateful.” She can say no more, and someone leads her away.

Weed looks at me blankly, uncomprehending.

“We are too late,” I say, my eyes filling with tears.

The man who led us here nods. “Aye, miss. The child died this morning.”

“I am so sorry. Father only got word yesterday.”

“The fever came on too fast. Poor bairn.”

A fresh group of mourners arrives over the bridge, bearing more baskets of flowers.

Weed falls to his knees. “No!” he cries, reaching for the baskets. “No!”

The man lays a rough hand on Weed’s shoulder. “God gives ’em and God takes ’em away,” he says comfortingly. “Even a short time on this earth is a blessing, I reckon—but for those of us what get left behind,
sometimes it feels too hard to bear, don’t I know it, son.”

“Such needless killing,” Weed murmurs as he touches one of the blooms. “They have no power to help anyone now.” He covers his face with his hands.

Everyone thinks he is despondent over the dead child, but I see the way one hand lingers on the basket. My grief curdles into icy rage.

“What kind of freak are you?” I hiss in his ear. Then I turn and race back over the bridge. I cannot take the shortcut beneath the castle this time, for I know I will never find my way through those tunnels alone. I must run the long way around, through the muddy pastures that surround the outer bailey until I find my way back to the road.

I am through Bailiffgate and halfway down Market Street again before Weed catches up with me. He chases after me, calling my name, begging me to stop and listen. But I plug my ears with anger and hurt. I am furious at him, and at myself for my confusion, too—
This is Weed you run from, the same Weed you care for
so much—how could you be so drawn to one so heartless? Yes, despite everything you still long for him to hold you, kiss you, even now you long for it—

He catches me and seizes my arm. His grip is hard. I cry out in pain.

“Forgive me—you must forgive me, Jessamine! Try to understand. I know I seem cold, or freakish—but I do not know how to feel what you feel—you will have to teach me—”

“I think you have no feelings at all!” I cry. “Not real ones, anyway. The suffering of a daisy reduces you to tears. But a child—a dead child—dear God, Weed, you are monstrous!”

He flinches as if slapped.

“I am not monstrous,” he whispers hoarsely. “But I am different from you, Jessamine. Different from everyone. I see things—I hear things—”

“So do I! I see you knowing things you cannot possibly know. I hear you speaking when no one is near. I feel you keeping secrets from me, even as you hold me in your arms.” I try and fail to pull away from him. “I
cannot bear it anymore! Tell me what you are, Weed, or be gone from my life.”

He releases his grip and stands before me. A gust of wind catches his hair, and the first raindrops begin to fall from darkening skies. “All right,” he says after a moment. “I will tell you what you wish to know. Tomorrow at daybreak I will take you to the meadows. There you shall know everything.”

He glances up at the gray sky. “And then you will truly hate me for a monster,” he adds, as he walks ahead of me, into the storm.

W
E LEAVE THE COTTAGE SILENTLY,
by dawn’s light. Father is still asleep. If he rises to find us gone, will he think something ill?

The thought comes to me unbidden:
It does not matter what Father thinks.

Weed does not say where he leads me, but except for the early hour, the walk is our familiar one. We arrive at a not-too-distant meadow and lower ourselves onto the dew-soaked grass. Indifferent to the wet, Weed stretches out on his back, his whole form pressed against the earth.

I take my place next to him. Goose bumps rise on my flesh from the cold earth, and from my anticipation, too. What horrifying truth does he intend to show me? Ought I to be afraid? Perhaps, but my sense of excitement far outweighs any fear.

Finally Weed speaks.

“As we walked here, did you see the grass?” he says. “The trees? The dandelions? The fields of oilseed?”

“I did.”

“Can you hear them?”

I think he means the soft, oceanic rushing, the wind in the grass, the fluttering of leaves. “Yes,” I reply. “When there is a breeze, I hear them.”

“But do you hear them in words?”

“No, of course not.”

“I do,” he says quietly. “I hear everything they say.”

“I do not understand—”

He holds a hand up, to silence me, and raises himself up on one elbow. “Look over there, in the shade beneath the hedgerow. Do you see the mat of broad leaves against the ground, the fresh green spike that
will soon be covered with flowers?”

“It is foxglove,” I say, also rising. “Father sends me out to gather the leaves sometimes. They are useful to him in his work, and the wild ones are better than what we might grow in the garden.”

“They do not like to be tamed, that is true.” He cocks his head as if listening. “And they are very vain about their flowers when in bloom.” He flinches a little, as if being scolded. “But they have every right to be, as they have just reminded me.”

Is Weed playing a game with me? I turn so that I can see his face. “What are the foxgloves saying now?”

He meets my gaze with reluctance. “They say they know you. You have spent many hours lying near them, in the arms of the meadow grass. They say they hope I am not jealous. And they think you are very pretty. Too pretty.” He listens again. “They are being rude now. It seems they are the jealous ones. You should not pick their leaves any time soon; they would be sure to give you a rash.”

He is mad,
I think in despair.
This is his monstrous
secret. Unless—unless what he says is true—and if it is, dear God, what would Father make of such a power—to gain knowledge directly from nature itself?
But I cannot imagine any further. Instead, I will myself to respond calmly, as if conversing with clumps of leaves were a perfectly normal thing to do.

“Is it the same for all the plants?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

“Each one is different,” he explains hesitantly. “If I concentrate I can hear most of them—sometimes only in cries and moans, or as a constant buzz of chatter. But it is the plants that have special powers to cure whom I hear most clearly. They have always sought me out, for as long as I can remember.”

“Sought you out?” I exclaim. “How can a plant seek you out?”

“They speak to me. They have to—for if no one of human birth knew of their powers, how could they make use of them? They need me,” he explains simply. “They chose me because I can hear them—or perhaps I can hear them because they chose me; I have never
truly understood how it came to pass. But it did.”

The silence between us grows heavy with the weight of Weed’s revelation. I do not know what to think, or to say—can such a tale possibly be true?

After a moment he continues. “I was perhaps four or five before I realized that not everyone could hear what I heard. At first I was thought a strange, silent child with too much imagination. Later people started to think I was possessed, even dangerous. I learned to hide my gift. But it is difficult. Maddening, often. The voices are always there: humming, talking, singing, teasing, warning. There are times when I must get away from it, or I fear I will lose my mind.” He smiles wryly. “The plants themselves gave me a cure for that: They taught me to bury myself when I need to regain my strength. It is what they do—return to the ground, rest, and begin again.”

Suddenly I understand. “As you did when you first came here, by hiding in the cellar?” I ask.

“Yes.” He rolls on his back, facing the sky. “One of the many times I ran away from the friar, I made my
way to the docks and stowed away on a ship. I thought that if I went far out to the middle of the sea, I would be free of all those voices. But I was wrong. Even the oceans are full of growing things, did you know that? Some are so tiny you can scarcely see them, but they mass together in great blankets of green that float on top of the waves. They droned like bees, all the time. It was deafening. It nearly drove me mad.” Abruptly he sits up. “Jessamine, do you believe me?”

I waver. What he describes is impossible, beyond belief—but have I not also sometimes thought I heard whispers in the rustling of leaves, or felt the calm strength of the trees in the forest? And he is Weed. He is not like anyone else, and what is impossible for others need not be impossible for him.

“I do believe you,” I say.

He gazes at me steadily, probingly. To be one of a kind, to be ceaselessly addressed by voices that no one else can hear—I thought I understood loneliness, but now I realize I can scarcely begin to imagine the depth of his.

“And what of the plants in the poison garden?” I ask suddenly. “They are different, aren’t they? Is that why they sickened you?”

He pauses and looks away. “Yes. They are powerful. Heartless. They wish to possess.”

“Possess what?”

“Me. You. Everyone. That is their nature.” A crease of disquiet snakes across his brow. “Your father plays with fire to gather them together like that. They are too clever. They form alliances. They develop—ambitions.”

He looks so solemn I wish to soothe his fears. “You worry too much, I am sure,” I say lightly. “After all, they are still rooted in the ground, are they not? They cannot pull themselves up and march around wreaking havoc, like an invading army.”