The Poison Diaries (16 page)

T
HE EARLY MORNING IS COLD
and dark as Mr. Luxton leads me to the poison garden. We walk in silence except for the jingle of his keys.

Silence for him, at least. I choose not to hear the sobs, the warnings, the cries of fear that accompany our journey. Every blossom, tree, and blade of grass in Northumberland seeks to prevent me from arriving at the very place I am hell-bent on going.

“If Jessamine wakes, do not tell her where I am,” I say as Mr. Luxton and I reach the gate. “She would be distressed if she knew I had returned here.”

“I doubt she will wake soon. She slept fitfully, and called out during the night.” Once more he slips the key into the iron lock. Then he turns to me. “I have come to believe that you possess a kind of genius about these plants, Weed. What I must painstakingly accomplish with years of study, you seem to perceive in a flash—like Isaac Newton and his apple! Be resolute. Learn what you can. I will be waiting.”

I step through the gate, and the mist envelops me once more.

“Welcome back, lamb killer.” Snakeweed’s voice coils around me, and I shiver with disgust.

“Don’t be offended, Master Weed; I am sure she means it as a compliment.” Dumbcane chuckles. “Your second task may suit you better than the first. Tell him, Larkspur.”

That piping voice trills, “Oh, it is a very heroic task. You must defend the weak against the strong. Are you willing?”

“I am.”

“Tear off one of my stalks, then, and I will tell you
what to do. Choose the one with the prettiest flowers, please! I do so love to be admired….”

I do as the plant tells me, and follow its singsong instructions to walk through the shrouded air. Finally I burst through the silver fog into blinding sunlight. I stand on the footpath that leads to the crossroads, the one that winds like a ribbon through the fields and hills of Hulne Park.

“You have memories of this place, don’t you?” Larkspur asks.

I nod. “In happier times, Jessamine and I walked here every day.”

“But did you not once see a killing here?” The childlike voice is suddenly harsh. “Did you not once stand by and do nothing? ‘The stoat should say grace.’ I believe that was all the noble Master Weed had to say on the subject.”

I startle at the accusation, but then my cheeks burn with shame. “A stoat killed a rabbit here,” I admit. “I remember. At the time I thought only plants could suffer so keenly. Not animals. Not humans. Now I know differently.”

“Really? How?”

“Because of the suffering I have seen. And because I am human,” I answer in a choked voice. “Because I, too, suffer—when I watch Jessamine in pain—I suffer keenly, too.”

“How interesting!” Larkspur’s high laugh fills my ear. “I wonder: If such a thing happened again, how would you behave now?”

As if commanded by the tall wand of blue blossoms, a stoat emerges from beneath the hedge. Sniffing and jumpy, it is on the hunt. It skitters and zigzags along the edge of the path in search of its prey.

I see the rabbit before the stoat does. Fat and oblivious, it chews a patch of clover and hunkers low to the ground. The stoat is instantly alert. It crouches, preparing to leap at the back of the rabbit’s neck.

It is exactly as it happened before—except this time I am ready. A broken branch I snatch from the ground waits in my hand. Before the stoat can pounce, I strike it hard, once to the back of the head. A single shudder runs through its long body, and then it lies still.

Whether or not the rabbit is grateful I cannot say. It looks at me blinkingly for a moment, then hops away to safety.

“That was heroic, indeed!” Larkspur exclaims. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I did not. But the rabbit lives. Are you satisfied?” Disgusted, I let the bloodied stick drop to the dirt.

“Too bad. I thought you might have enjoyed it, a little. But you must walk a little farther now, ten paces up the path. I have something else to show you, something very dear, and now very sad, too.”

Grudgingly I walk ten stride lengths up the path, to a dense growth of forsythia. Beneath the shrub, nestled among leaves of ivy, a litter of newborn stoat kittens lies cuddled in a pulsing, ivory-colored heap.

“Poor mama stoat,” Larkspur remarks. “With no mother to nurse them they cannot survive, of course. It will be a slow, pitiful, mewling death, of cold, and hunger, and thirst.”

I tremble with fury and frustration. “But was
that not the task you set me? To defend the helpless against the strong?”

“Indeed it was, Master Weed. But who is to say who is helpless, and who is strong?” The strength of the evil child’s voice is fading now. “If you seek the power to alter fate, you must also bear responsibility for the consequences. For you cannot change the fate of only one being; all fates are intertwined.”

“I performed the task,” I protest. “I did what you bid me do.”

“You defended the weak from the strong.” Larkspur speaks as if from far away. “But who will defend these poor weak infants against you?”

When I return, the Poisons are waiting for me.

“That didn’t take long. But I wish to ask you, Master Weed: Why did you not kill the stoat kittens as well?” Snakeweed’s voice cuts like a blade. “It would have been a more merciful death than leaving them to starve by the road.”

“Heartless Snakeweed! You think killing is the
solution to everything. And since when have you cared about being merciful?” Dumbcane’s bass voice rumbles the earth beneath my feet. “Well done, lamb-killer Weed. Mighty stoat-killer Weed! Your second task is complete, and your reward awaits. Or, in the heat of all your killing, have you forgotten about saving the life of your sweet Jessamine? She is weak, so weak, poor girl. Not long for your world, I’m afraid.”

“Give me the cure.”
How I wish I could pull them all up by the roots and tear them to shreds,
I think, and then,
No—that is what they want—to make me think as they do, with no reverence for life, no pity, no mercy—

Moonseed uncurls a large flat leaf, and presents another bundle of herbs and leaves.

“Will this cure her?” I ask.

“No. Not yet.”

“Will it rouse her again, even for a short time?”

“On the contrary—it will plunge her into a deep sleep, almost unto death,” Moonseed explains. “Her heart will scarcely beat. No power on earth
will be able to wake her. But you must give her this mixture nevertheless, if she is to have any chance of surviving.”

The thought of giving Jessamine a medicine that will bring her one step closer to death fills me with dread. “Why must I?” I demand.

“She nears the end of her strength. This will conserve what life is left in her. It will give you more time.”

“And you need time.” Snakeweed’s voice seethes with scorn. “Time to perform your third, and final, task.”

“Final it shall be, for I grow weary of your evil games.” Bitterly I take the packet of herbs and begin walking in the direction of the gate.

“A word to the wise, Master Weed,” Dumbcane calls after me. “Next time you want to kill something, use a little poison. It’s so much easier—and less messy—than bashing in heads with a stick.”

His laughter increases and grows out of control, until it becomes a rolling, rumbling, sickening sound,
like the fall of an avalanche. “Use a little poison, why don’t you? Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Mr. Luxton hovers near me as, with trembling hands, I spoon the mixture between Jessamine’s lips. As the potion trickles down her throat, she shudders and gasps, as if this would be her last breath. Before our eyes, she sinks into a blue-tinged stillness it would be all too easy to mistake for death.

“Fascinating,” Mr. Luxton says, gazing at his daughter’s lifeless form. “Does she feel any pain, I wonder? Is she aware of us at all, or has she been sent into some mysterious, twilight sleep, in which she has no knowledge of the passage of time?”

“I hope she feels no pain,” I say softly. My heart breaks as I look at her.
Will I ever hear her voice again?
I think.
Will we ever again walk together through the fields and forests?
And her lips—how alive they were, once! How still and cold they are now.

I tuck the blankets snugly around her. Her chest barely rises. The pulse I seek in her wrist is slow and
so faint as to be nearly imperceptible. I knew nothing of love before meeting Jessamine, and now I am left to wonder: Is this how it works? A teardrop’s worth of happiness dissolved in an ocean of loss?

I would do anything to save her, no matter how base or cruel. I know that now. The Poisons have taught me that. For the love of her, I did the one thing my beloved—my betrothed!—made me swear not to do. And now she lies before me, all but dead.

“You must try again, Weed,” Mr. Luxton urges. “You must go back to the garden. You must learn everything you can, so we can save her from this curséd, nameless disease….”

He talks on and on in this insistent way, as he scribbles away in his book of cures. Gazing down at the lifeless mask that now stands in for my dear Jessamine’s face, I fear it has all been a mistake. I should never have listened to the Poisons, or gone to them for help.

But now it is too late. I have no choice but to finish what I have started, for I do not know how to rouse
her from this trance. Only the Poisons know. Her life may have been in my hands, once. Now it is in theirs.

Welcome back, Jessamine. It was very quiet and lonely here while you were gone. How do you feel now? Rested?

No. I feel very weak, very tired. Everything is slow and strange. I feel as if I am made of lead.

Poor, afflicted child. You are so pale, and so very close to death—see how the light shines through you? My gossamer girl. It is most becoming.

Oleander, are you poisoning me? Is that why I am so ill?

I rule over the Poisons, lovely. I do not administer them.

But I have been sick before in my life, yet this is the first time illness has brought me to your realm. Might that mean that poison is involved?

Clever! Like father, like daughter. I am impressed.

What is wrong with me, then? You must know!

Oh, I do, lovely. I do.

Then why will you not tell me? Or tell Weed, so that he might save me?

It is not my place to say. If you wish, I will take you somewhere where all your questions may find their own answers.

Where?

Someplace far away. Someplace you have always wanted to visit.

Will I be safe there?

As safe as you are anywhere, my sweet…

Careful, Weed!

Careful!

Beware …

Take care …

The warning whispers of the plants follow me everywhere. The flowers sing high, a wail of terror. The hedgerows bark stern orders:
Retreat!
The trees of the forest chant in a deep-throated chorus of foreboding:
beware … beware … beware …

But I cannot listen. I will not. I slip through the
gate of the poison garden—there is no point in keeping it locked anymore, for evil is everywhere now.

“We were not sure you would return,” Dumbcane booms. “We thought that perhaps it had all become too unpleasant. Too compromising.”

“Then you misjudge me.” My voice is flat with rage. “I have no pride or virtue left to protect. I would trade my life for Jessamine’s, if you would accept it. Tell me what I must do to save her, and I will do it.”

“How romantic,” Snakeweed snaps. “You speak so nobly, Master Weed, but there is nothing noble about what you must do to save your beloved.”

“Indeed, the third task is the worst of all,” Moonseed says, in his melodious way. “Can you guess what it is?”

“Yes, guess!” Larkspur cries. “A guessing game; that will be amusing!”

Is there no end to their toying with me? I swallow my rage and reply. “The first two tasks resulted in death. Death wrought by inaction, and death wrought by wrongheaded justice. I know the third task will
bring death as well—and you say it is the worst of all.” My voice is hollow, as if it comes from someplace far away. “The worst death of all—is the slaughter of the innocent.”

“He is clever, so very clever!” Larkspur quivers with delight. “I think he is as clever as our prince—”

“Hush, child,” Snakeweed snarls, and then addresses me. “Well done, Master Weed. You must slaughter the innocent. For if you dare demand the power to cure, you must also embrace the power to kill. That is the lesson of the poison garden.”

“You are mad to bid me do this!” My temper is unleashed now, and I have no control of my words. “If there is one thing I have learned, from loving Jessamine and even from the evil tasks you have made me do, it is that all forms of life are worthy of compassion. There is no life without death, true, but needless killing is an abomination.”

One of Dumbcane’s thick, broad leaves falls and drifts to the ground. “Stand at the crossroads. Slaughter the innocent. Only then can your beloved
be saved. So commands the Prince of Poisons.”

My breath comes fast, my heart pounds. I reach down to pick up the leaf, and in doing so I know I am beaten.

“Who is this prince?” I ask in defeat. “Is he the one I have done so much evil to please?”

“You need not ask who he is,” Snakeweed croons. “If you earn his regard, he will reveal himself.”

This time I take Dumbcane’s advice. My murder weapon is in a small vial in my pocket, a lethal tincture of leaves from the poison garden mixed with a small amount of whiskey I steal from Mr. Luxton’s cabinet.

I stand at the crossroads as I have been told to do. People go by, farmers, merchants, women and children, beggars and pilgrims. They are on their way to the sea, to market, to Alnwick.

Who among them will be my victim? Is it truly up to me to choose?

If only I
could
choose.
I think of all the persecutors
I have known in my life. Not only Tobias Pratt, but so many others who reviled me as a witch, a freak, an outcast.
If one of them would walk by, perhaps I could bring myself to kill,
I think.
But they would hardly be innocent.