Read The Poison Diaries Online
Authors: Maryrose Wood,The Duchess Of Northumberland
I know it very well, in fact. My colleagues are there, my companions. My subjects, if you will.
I am sorry! I did not mean to offend.
Only a fool takes offense at the truth, Jessamine. They are awful, of that there is no question. But they are also very charming. Purveyors of unspeakable suffering and indescribable delights. Performers of murders and miracles! You might grow to like them, if you got to know them as I do. But why has your beloved Crabgrass ventured into this garden of horrors, I wonder?
He thinks he can cure me, if the plants there will tell him how.
Clever Weed! He is right.
Will they tell him?
My subjects will do as I wish, of course.
And what will you bid them do?
Hmm. I am not sure yet, actually.
What—would you let me die? Oleander, you are frightening me! Are you killing me? Am I already dead? Hush now. Don’t be afraid, my lovely. We are friends.
Here, have another belladonna berry. It will soothe your nerves.
No, please, I do not want to—
But you must. And they truly are delicious, have another, good girl. Poor thing, look at you, you are all atremble now—see how your petals flutter in the wind? It suits you. I would always have you thus, trembling like this, with that enchanting, irresistible gaze … how fragile and lovely you are, my lovely, lovely lady …
M
OONSEED GUIDES ME
through cascading fountains of silver mist. When my vision clears, I see we have arrived at a familiar sheep meadow, not far from Hulne Abbey.
“You can leave the poison garden,” I say, the torn leaf clutched in my hand.
“Of course.” That smooth voice talks quietly in my ear, though fainter than before. “We are not like other plants, Weed. You already knew that. Otherwise you would not have come to us for help—now look around; do you know where we are?”
“Yes.”
I have lain in this grass with Jessamine,
I think.
Whatever happens to me now, it is for her sake.
The thought gives me strength.
I listen for the voices of the meadow grass, to see if they will offer me comfort. An anxious hum is all I hear. The plants fear for me, but fear more for themselves. What are they afraid of?
“Do you see what is happening there, in that open field?”
I look. A ewe has wandered away from the flock. She secludes herself near a small group of trees. Her belly is swollen, heavy with pregnancy. She paws the ground, lies down briefly, and then climbs to her feet again, restless with discomfort. Her bleat is low and urgent.
“That ewe is about to give birth,” I say. “Is that what you want me to watch?”
“Yes. But we are not the only ones here. Look up.”
I look. High in the branches of a hackberry tree, a raven perches. Its black eyes fix on the ewe, staring hungrily.
The anxious hum of the meadow grass rises into a cry of anguish. Already I fear what is going to happen.
“There is no prey for a raven here,” I say, hoping it is true.
“Not yet. But there will be.” The raven’s cold, merciless eye stays fixed on the laboring ewe. “The raven will devour the lamb as it is being born,” Moonseed says unemotionally. “The ewe will be unable to flee or defend herself, or her babe.”
I think of the journey Jessamine and I took to the castle at Alnwick, and the grief of the mother we saw mourning her child. Sickened, I reach to the ground for a stone to hurl at the bloodthirsty bird. Moonseed interrupts: “Remember: The first task is to do nothing.”
The ewe groans and sinks to the ground. She rolls onto her side. It is time.
Kraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
The raven beats its wings and screams in excitement.
“But she is helpless,” I protest. “Hear her cries;
the lamb is coming—”
“The task is to watch, and do nothing.”
“But why?”
“If you seek the power to avert death, you must also be able to do nothing in the face of death. For no healer can be everywhere, and not every death can be—or should be—prevented. Look, it begins: The birth, and the raven awaits. Look, Weed, look….”
It seems I am still alive—or dead—or in between.
I think Oleander is gone. He has fallen silent, at least. But I am not alone. I am flying again, borne on the wings of a great black bird. Its feathers are odd, though: long, dark, and narrow, like leathery, pointed leaves.
I look down as we fly—below us is Hulne Park. I see the cottage, the courtyard, the footpath, the sheep meadows, the forest. They look miniature, like child’s toys. How marvelous to see everything that is familiar to me from such a strange, impossible vantage.
We arc and rise over the sheep meadows. Now I can see a person also, with a familiar shape and posture,
wearing Father’s old coat. It is Weed.Weed!
I call, but he does not look up. Can he even see me, I wonder? He stands at the edge of a field, facing a copse of hackberry trees. There is a sheep, a ewe, alone in the shade of the branches. She lies on the ground, struggling to rise, but cannot. I wonder if she is injured?
As if reading my mind, my black-feathered steed flies closer, dipping down to get a better view. No, I can see everything now: She is lambing, and not easily, judging from her cries. The babe dangles from its mother, half born, still in the glistening wet sac. Something else is there too, something that also glistens, black and bloodred—
No!
Oh, if I were there, I would fight the wicked bird! I would kill it myself!
Weed! Can you hear me?
Why do you not save the lamb?
In terrible silence I trudge through the silver mist. Moonseed’s voice guides me, and soon I am back in
the poison garden. Moonseed, Dumbcane, Snakeweed, and Larkspur quiver expectantly in the garden beds.
I do not wait to be addressed, for I am sick at heart at what I have been forced to watch, and wish this to be over with quickly. “I have completed the task you sent me to do,” I say flatly, throwing Moonseed’s torn leaf on the ground.
“Poor Weed,” Snakeweed purrs. “You must feel so guilty.”
“I did not kill the lamb. The raven did.”
“But you did nothing to help.”
“No.”
“You watched without flinching. You did not turn away, and you did not intervene.” Dumbcane guffaws. “So there is no difference between you and the raven—except the raven got to eat, ha ha!”
“Truly, you are cold and heartless, just as your beloved Jessamine said!” Larkspur sings out. “A freak with no pity for any life that is not green!”
“I did as you instructed.” I struggle to contain my anger. “Now give me a cure for Jessamine.”
“You have not earned a cure. Not yet.” A small bundle wrapped in leaves and tied with braided grass rolls through the mist toward my feet. I loosen the tie and look within: It is a mixture of leaves, twigs, seedpods, and roots. Some are familiar to me; some are not. “Brew this into a tea,” Dumbcane instructs. “It will ease her suffering for a while.”
“Only a short while, though,” Larkspur says gaily.
“It will keep her alive,” Dumbcane adds, “long enough for you to perform your second task.”
Oleander? Is that you?
I have been here all along, lovely. We have been flying together, you and I.
These are your wings, then, which bear me aloft?
Of course. Do you think I would entrust you to anyone else? Tell me: What do you think of your beloved Crabgrass now? Surely you could not marry a man so cruel and heartless, so lacking in feeling as he is? Why, he did nothing but watch as that evil bird feasted on the poor—
Please, do not say it.
But he did nothing. You admit that.
He must—he must have had his reasons.
He is shockingly ignorant, you know. He only knows what his leafy little friends tell him. And it is so easy to mistake one plant for another. Monkshood root for horseradish. Hemlock for carrots. Tragic errors, but they happen. Frankly, I am surprised he has lasted this long. If you married him, you would doubtless be a widow within a fortnight.
Are you threatening to trick him into eating poison if I marry him?
I merely state a hypothetical probability. Although … if I could be absolutely certain that this absurd engagement were called off, I would be rather more inclined to give Mr. Lamb Killer the cure for your condition. The only thing worse for Weed than you dying would be if you survived, only to reject him. His suffering would be exquisite!
Why do you wish him to suffer?
Call it professional interest. You see, Jessamine, love
is a kind of poison; one of my favorite kinds, in fact. It infects the blood; it takes over the mind; it seizes dominion over the body. It amuses me to think of him pining for you. Aching for what he cannot have. The loneliness in his soul festering like a wound. There is nothing I could do to him that is worse than what you have already done, my lovely. And I assure you, in his case there will be no cure.And what of my suffering? My loneliness?
Immaterial. You will have me.
But I do not want you!
My sweet, sheltered flower, how could you possibly know what you want? If you stay with me, I will keep you wrapped in the pleasantest dreams. You will remember nothing that pains you. You will exist in a state of perpetual delight. I will adore you, Jessamine. I will shield you. I will intoxicate you.
And if I resist, what then? Will you punish me?
You will not be able to resist. That is the beauty of it.
Yes, I will—
Shhhh. Soon you will know what I mean. Come, it is
time to fly. They are trying to take you back from me now, and they will—but only for a brief, little while—
We soar through a storm, my black-winged tormentor and I. I cannot control his flight, I can only hang on his strange, waxy feathers with all my strength and pray that I do not fall. He ascends steeply through the churning gray clouds, faster and faster, as if pursued by some invisible, demonic predator.
Then, with no warning, he plummets. The air is so dense with fog I cannot even see the ground racing up to meet us. I open my mouth to scream, but a cold wind blows my cries inward. My mouth fills with an icy, foultasting rain.
After a moment I hear voices.
“Henbane. Mandrake root. What else was in the tea?”
“Mallow and feverfew.”
The scratch of a pen. “Fascinating. This information is priceless, priceless.”
The cold, hard edge of a metal spoon presses against my lip.
Now I lie in darkness—true, simple darkness, the kind that comes from having one’s eyes shut against the light. The firmness beneath me is not the feathered bed of a raven’s back, but the length and breadth of my own straw-stuffed mattress.
The word emerges from my lips with a will of its own. “Weed—”
“Look! She wakes.”
I open my eyes. The first thing I see is Weed’s face. I seize his arm and dig my fingers into his flesh.
“Do not go back inside that garden,” I beg. “Promise me, Weed. You must not go near it!”
“Jessamine—my darling—you are alive—”
“There is evil there, the Poisons will destroy us all—swear to me, Weed! I will not release you until you swear it!” I clutch him harder. My nails pierce his skin like talons until the blood flows. He cries out in pain, and the spoon that was in his hand clatters to the ground.
“Yes, of course I promise—I swear.”
I let go of him. He cradles his wounded arm and
stares at me as if I have gone mad.
“Better to let me die like the lamb—than to go back there,” I manage to say, before collapsing back on the bed.
30th June
Jessamine is awake. She knows me, and has been able to speak a few words. My heart fills with hope, yet I must remember what the Poisons told me: This is no cure, merely a respite. She could slip away from us again at any time.
Better to let me die like the lamb.
That is what she said.
How did she know about the lamb? She, who lay silent and icy lipped on the bed the whole time I endured that wretched task? While her body fails, what strange journeys does she take in the fevered prison of her mind?
If she were a healing herb or even a blade of grass,
I would hear her very thoughts. But she is flesh—frail and all too mortal. A blank to me.
I wish I could heed her warning about the poison garden. I wish I knew what she fears, and why. But the Poisons say there are two more tasks for me to perform before I have earned her cure, and I cannot flinch now.
Even Mr. Luxton agrees. He was seized with joy when he saw the bundled remedy the Poisons provided. Even as I boiled the water to brew the mixture into a tea for Jessamine, he carefully copied into his book a faithful rendering of every leaf, twig, and seed in the mixture the Poisons had given me.
“If we are to save Jessamine, we must learn everything we can,” he said, blotting the pages. “You must keep up your courage, and go back, as many times as is required. Her salvation lies within the walls of that garden. Her life is in your hands.”
Now she sleeps. I pray this remedy will give her at least one night of peace and badly needed rest. I do not know how many hours she has before her illness
returns in full force. There is no time to waste. I will enter the poison garden at dawn to face the second task the Poisons have set for me.
I fear this task will be even more difficult than the first, for the moonflower vine outside my window is weeping, and will not tell me why.