The Poison Diaries (6 page)

He nods, and shoves more potato in his mouth.

“H
OW OLD ARE YOU, WEED?”
I ask when I bring down his breakfast: a bowl of porridge, a boiled egg, two apples and two strips of bacon, tea, and a cup of fresh milk. Now that he has made his peace with eating grains and fruit, he eats a great deal. I thought he was younger than I am when I first saw him bundled up in those rags, but now, as he gains color and flesh, I suspect he may be my age, at least.

He tucks the napkin under his chin and shrugs. “How old is the grass?”

His breakfast tray rests on a plank of wood we prop across the coal bin; he sits on the stool, and I perch on the bottommost stair. “Your question has no answer,” I say in return. “The grass dies every winter
and comes back every spring. It has no age in years; it is both newborn and everlasting.”

“That must be how old I am, then.” He lifts his fork and recites, “Thank you for all I am about to receive.”

“So you are as old as grass, and as young as grass?” I tease. He does not smile.

“The truth is I do not know,” he says after a moment. “Found in a basket by a drunken friar is not much of a birthday.”

“From now on, then, the loveliest day of spring can be your birthday,” I say impulsively. “And you can be my age. Sixteen now, seventeen next month. That means you are older than I am, for I do not turn seventeen until autumn.”

“Sixteen,” he repeats. “All right.”

He eats, and I watch. After a few minutes he offers me a slice of apple.

“Thank you.” I take it between two fingers and lift it to my lips.

“Eh!” he cries. “First you must say it—”

“Thank you for all I am about to receive,” I say
obligingly, and pop the apple slice in my mouth.

It takes him only a short while to finish every bite on the tray. “Come.” I hold out my hand. “The sky is the most wonderful shade of blue. You must come upstairs with me, and we will take a walk in the meadow.”

He drops his fork. “I like it down here,” he replies.

“But you must come see! The tulips are in bloom, and there are rowan trees growing from the ruins.”

“I like the quiet,” he says softly.

“It is quiet outdoors, too. All one hears are the pleasant sounds of the world going about its business: the wind blowing, and the sheep bleating, and the meadow grass rustling in the wind.” I lean forward so my face is close to his, and whisper, “If you prefer it to be quiet, I will not say a word, I promise.”

He pays no attention to me. Instead he gazes up at the cellar door, which I had left ajar when I came downstairs, as I needed both hands to hold the breakfast tray. A barely perceptible current of air wafts down to us.

Weed closes his eyes and breathes in the clean scent of spring. Then he cocks his head, as if listening.

“All right,” he agrees. “It is time.”

Father’s old shirt is loose on Weed but otherwise suits him well. The trousers are too long, so I help him roll them up at the leg. There is no need for a coat today; the sun soaks into our skin until it feels as if the warmth radiates from our very bones.

We walk slowly. In my mind, I explain every detail of my world to him: how the fishpond, now drained and covered with a heavy wooden board, once served as a place to store live fish until they were to be eaten. How, as summer comes, the clematis vines will climb and weave all over the ruined walls inside the courtyard and turn them into flowering monuments, blanketed in deep purple and crimson.

I could point out the marigolds that must be moved into a sunnier spot this year, and the patch of bee balm that has grown too big and needs to be divided. Too, I could show him the path up the slope that leads to
Father’s locked apothecary garden, where we may not enter, though I suppose we could go look through the gate if Weed is curious.

But I promised to be quiet, so I do not speak of these things. Would he even care about them? I do not know; whatever opinions he has are hidden away behind the locked gates of his own silent lips.

Once we cross the courtyard and pass through the outer wall, the view of the countryside opens up before us. There are sheep meadows on either side, cresting over the softly rolling hills like waves. In the distance lies the deep green mystery of the forest.

As we proceed along the path, Weed’s eyes rove over the landscape as if they would devour it. We pass a copse of trees, so intimately arranged they seem to be leaning in to whisper secrets to one another.

Even as I think it, Weed pauses, then smiles.

“Look at the trees,” he says.

“Like silly old gossips,” I reply. He looks at me quizzically, and we continue in silence until our tranquil walk is disturbed by a ruckus in the hedgerow up ahead.

A stoat has seized a rabbit by the back of the neck. The rabbit, fat and helpless, emits a desperate squeal as they roll together, the rabbit trying to shake off the stoat, the stoat hanging fiercely onto the rabbit’s back.

The stoat’s long, flexible body reminds me of a snake, the way it curves and twists to hold tightly to its prey as they thrash in the dirt. The rabbit is nearly twice the size of its attacker, but the stoat has locked its teeth with vicious purpose. It hangs on by the scruff, just as a mother cat would do to carry her kittens to safety.

But the stoat intends something else. It will not let go until the rabbit’s spine has snapped and its terrified eyes go glassy with death.

Easy prey.
The words come to mind unbidden.

“The stoat should say grace,” Weed observes, and walks on.

The tone of his voice makes me shiver—yet, of course, the stoat must eat. I remember Father’s words:
That is the way of things…. Nature always gets her prize in the end.

Keeping my eyes fixed ahead of me, I follow Weed and do not look back. After ten paces, I can barely hear the dying squeals of the rabbit. Twenty paces more and I cannot hear any of it—
the tearing of sinew, the snap of bone, the ecstatic wet sounds of the stoat gorging itself—

Now all is still. There is only the rustling of the grass, the bleating of the sheep, and the soft, even tread of Weed’s feet upon the path.

Weed strides along until we reach a large circle of stones. He stops and looks around with a puzzled expression.

“What is this place?” he demands.

I know the answer, but I am reluctant to speak of such unpleasant things during Weed’s first exploration of Hulne Park. I take a breath and reply: “There was a hospital here once, many centuries ago. It was run by the monks, who knew a great deal about healing the sick. This stone circle is what is left of the place where the hospital disposed of its waste.” I pause. “The
drains from the operating rooms emptied here.”

“Drains? For blood, you mean?”

“Yes, for the blood of the patients who were operated on.” I look down at the grassy depression before us. “This is where they buried the leeches that had sucked on diseased flesh, and the limbs that were removed because of infection or injury.”

To my relief, Weed seems unperturbed.

“Sometimes Father likes to look about and see if anything unusual grows from the earth,” I add.

“I see,” Weed says. “It is quiet here.”

I find it no quieter than any other pile of rocks in a field, but if the particular silence of this place pleases Weed, then I am pleased as well.

“We can go back now,” he says, turning around. “I have walked enough for one day.”

I do not want our excursion to end, not yet. When we nearly reach the cottage I point straight ahead. “There is another garden that way. We cannot go in it, but I can show you where it is.”

“All right,” he says with a touch of wariness.

I lead him down the path that curves off to the left of the cottage, sloping briefly downhill and then climbing up the northernmost slope of the old monastery lands.

I look over my shoulder. Weed is lagging behind.

“Shall we turn back?”

There is a strange, haunted expression on his face. “We are almost there,” he murmurs. It is not a question.

“Yes,” I agree. “This is the apothecary garden. It is Father’s special garden.”

I gesture ahead as we come around the crest of the path. There is the tall black gate, the heavy chain, the iron lock. Behind the gate, the forbidden plants sway in the breeze, as if beckoning us inside—
slip through the gate, you can do it—come inside now—

Weed looks stricken. He clasps both hands to his head, covering his ears.

“What is wrong?” I cry. “What do you hear?”

He shakes his head and lets out a sharp cry of pain.
I am afraid; what on earth is happening to him?

“Enough; we will go home,” I say, pulling him away from the gate. “You must be exhausted; it is too much for your first day out. Can you make it to the cottage?”

He nods and lets me wrap a supportive arm around his back as he rests his arm upon my shoulder. In this way we make slow progress. With each step we take away from the gate he regains strength.

I am distraught to see him suffer, but there is something thrilling about the way he leans upon me as we make our way home. Even after we enter the cottage and he is nearly himself again, the weight and warmth of Weed’s touch seems to linger on my skin.

I bring Weed some fresh water to drink, which revives him fully. Then I quickly prepare the evening meal.

When the food is ready, I call Father from his study. I am excited, for this will be the first time the three of us will share a dinner together.

“It is good to see you out and about, Weed,” Father says as I finish lighting the candles and take my seat.

“My time beneath the ground is over,” Weed replies simply. “I have come up now.”

Father nods in approval. “There is room in the storeroom to make a bed for you; that is where you must sleep from now on.”

“And there is a window there, too,” I interject. “Every morning you will awaken to the sun.”

Weed looks at me with gratitude. “Thank you for what I am about to receive,” he says in a loud, strong voice. Father raises an eyebrow but does not comment, and I ladle the food onto each plate.

We eat. Father and I often share dinner in silence, but with Weed at the table the lack of conversation seems awkward. Father seems to feel so, too.

“Well,” he remarks. “How did you two spend this lovely day?”

Weed’s mouth is already full of food. “We took a walk, Father,” I answer for us both. “To the stone circle and back.”

“I imagine Jessamine explained the significance of the stone circle?”

Weed nods.

“We saw a stoat killing a rabbit,” I interject. “It was quite vicious. And the rabbit made the most horrible sound—”

Father seems to not hear me; all his attention is fixed on Weed. “It must have been pleasant for you to be outdoors, after all those days in the cellar. Did you see any plants of interest?”

“They are all of interest,” Weed says politely.

Father smiles. “Indeed. And what did you think of our gardens?”

Weed scarcely pauses before answering. “The gardens are very well tended. The soil is black and loamy and full of worms. The radishes were planted at just the right time; they will grow well. There is a clump of bee balm that will fare better if it is cut back and divided into two—no, three plants, that will give the most blooms, I think. And the marigold wants more sun and should be moved.”

I can hardly swallow for surprise; it is uncanny how Weed noticed every detail during our walk.

Father pushes his food around his plate with the fork. “It seems Mr. Pratt was right about one thing; you do know a great deal about plants,” he says finally. “Did you happen to pass by the apothecary garden?”

“The one that infests the northern slope?” Weed says calmly, shoving a chunk of lamb chop into his mouth. “The one that stinks of death?”

I nearly gasp—I know Father will be furious at this rude reply. Ought I to say something about the sudden illness that afflicted Weed when we approached the locked gate? Will Weed mention it?

But Father merely stares at Weed. If he is angry, he hides it well. He nods in the affirmative.

“That garden is locked, sir.” Weed’s voice is mild, but there is a trace of iron beneath.

“Yes, it is locked,” Father says after a long pause, “and for good reason. Though I confess, I would be curious to know if you are familiar with the plants
that grow within its walls. Over the years I have collected a great many unusual specimens.”

Is Father going to relent?
My fear is just as quickly replaced by hope.
Is he going to invite us into the apothecary garden at last?

Weed gazes steadily at Father, his green eyes murky as a stagnant pool. “It is locked,” he says, in an echo of Father’s words, “and for good reason.”

The vein on Father’s forehead throbs onc–twice—then brusquely he stands and pushes his chair away from the table.

“This was a fine dinner, Jessamine. Thank you for preparing it. Now I must get back to my work, as I know you must get back to yours.” His voice is controlled, but the fingers of his right hand twitch as he speaks. “I bid you both good night.”

Without waiting for a reply, Father exits the room. The meal he has just praised lies half eaten on his plate.

“Father never lingers at the table; that is his way,” I explain to Weed, to hide my embarrassment
at Father’s abrupt exit. “But you may stay and eat as much as you like.”