The Poison Diaries

by Wood, Maryrose

  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.”

  Weed nods. He has already devoured every scrap of his own food, but he reaches his hand across the table until it floats above Father’s plate. It hovers there briefly, then delicately drops and seizes a lamb chop by the bone.

  “A fine dinner, Jessamine.” Once more he echoes Father’s words. “This was a fine dinner. Thank you.”

  He eats the remains of Father’s meal. I watch, filled with an unfamiliar feeling of contentment and think: Jessamine, Jessamine, Jessamine.

  It is the first time he has spoken my name.

  7

  22nd April

  So much to do, there is scarcely time to write anything down. The garden grows as never before, and I must work my hardest to keep up.

  I am glad Weed is here to help.

  APRIL IS A MIRACLE, every year—between morning and evening I notice the garden change, as buds burst open, petals unfurl, and last year’s woody brown stalks grow tall with new green shoots. But in all of Northumberland, nothing grows as tall and handsome as Weed.

  In scarcely more than a month, he has gained four inches. Now he stands taller than I do, and looks to be getting taller still. When he wears Father’s trousers he no longer has to roll them up at the bottom. His limbs are slim and strong, like the branches of a willow.

  His black hair is still wild, for that is the way it naturally grows. His dark eyebrows curve in two brooding crescents above his shockingly green eyes.

  His mouth is changeable—sometimes wide and grinning, sometimes soft and full.

  His teeth are white as snowdrops. His complexion, once so pale, is now tinged golden from the sun.

  If I thought for a heartbeat that, even deep within the private corners of his own mind, Weed dissected and scrutinized me in just this way, piece by piece—eye, lip, nose, cheek—I would be mortified beyond all hope of recovery. But I mean no disrespect by it. It is because I am so used to observing and recording everything I see: the weather, the plants, the changes in the garden. Depicting that which interests me has become second nature, and nothing is as interesting to me as the time I spend with Weed. Thus I cannot help but try (and fail miserably, I fear!) to describe him in detail—as if he were some unusual plant Father might have brought home in his satchel.

  I write about him by candlelight, while I am upstairs in my bedchamber and he lies sleeping in the storeroom below. The more I struggle to describe this unique being, the more it feels as if he were right here, next to me—is it foolish to be lonely for him when I know I will see him in the morning?

  Sometimes it feels as if morning will never come.

  Weed and I take long walks together nearly every day, once all our chores are done. He seems to know everything about how to make the garden thrive, though sometimes I find his advice curious. This morning he suggested that the rue plants would grow better if they were moved as far as possible from the lavender. When I asked why, he just laughed and said, “I do not know; perhaps they have had an argument.” But I have learned to trust his advice, and the work is quick and enjoyable because of him.

  When we walk he leads us far from the cottage. We wander until he announces, for no particular reason that I can see, that it is time to stop. Then he lies on his back on the ground and listens—to the birds, I suppose, or to the sound of the wind whistling through the leaves. Whole afternoons pass in this way.

  Today is no different. We lie here, near to each other but not touching, and somehow my heart manages to feel full to bursting and light as air, all at the same time.

  “You must think I am mad,” he says, rolling on his side to look at me.

  “Why would I think that?”

  He does not answer right away, but the notion of madness causes my mind to recollect the strange accusations made by that awful Mr. Pratt on the day Weed first came to live with us. “I did not believe a word of Pratt’s story, Weed,” I say to reassure him. “I hope you have no fear on that account. I do not know what happened at the madhouse, but even a blind person could see that Tobias Pratt is not an honorable man.”

  Weed smiles. “All I meant was, mad to spend so much time just lying on the ground, listening.”

  “Oh!” I blush with embarrassment at the way I misunderstood his meaning. “I like resting here, too. It feels peaceful.”

  “And the music,” he murmurs, settling back to face the sky. “The grass—the wind—makes such a beautiful song.”

  “I will sing to you,” I say impulsively. If there were anyone present other than Weed I would never make such an offer, for I hardly know any songs. But there is an old ballad that Mama used to sing to me, and I can remember most of the tune, I think.

  “Please do,” Weed encourages, closing his eyes.

  Propping myself up on an elbow, I take a breath and begin. It is a sad, strange song about a shepherd boy who lies sleeping in a meadow and is kissed by a passing girl to wake him, so his flock does not wander off. But she cannot rouse him, for the shepherd boy is not sleeping at all—he is dead.

  I let the last note fade away. The moment is unexpectedly tender; the feeling both excites and frightens me. Without lifting himself from the ground, Weed turns his head until his gaze meets mine. His eyes are luminous, the same vivid green as the grass we now lie in.

  I reach toward him, not because I choose to but because my limbs seem to have developed a will of their own. I long to touch his cheek, but I dare not. Instead, I pluck a yellow-headed dandelion from the tall grass next to his shoulder and offer it to him with mock gravity.

  “Tell me, shepherd boy: How did you like my song?”

  At the sight of the flower he jumps up, as if in a fury. He clenches his fists in front of his face and turns away.

  “Enough,” he says, in a voice full of bitterness and pain. “Let us go home.”

  Weed’s mysterious grief hangs on us like a fog. As we walk home I ask more than once if he is angry about the song, or the flower, or Tobias Pratt. He says he is fine. I beg him to tell me if I have done something wrong. Again he assures me I have not. But he cannot smile, either, and will not look at me—oh, it is like a knife in my heart!

  When we arrive at the cottage, Father is hurriedly packing his medical bag.

  “A messenger just came, with an urgent summons. I must leave at once.” H
e sounds deeply displeased.

  “Are you going to London again?” I blurt.

  Father continues throwing items into his satchel. “No. The patient is right here in Hulne Park, at the lumber mill. There was an accident—a man’s foot is badly mangled. The idiots think I can save it by sprinkling a few rose petals on the poor fellow’s head.” He slams the bag shut. “For this I must interrupt my research? Even if I had the skill of Hippocrates, what then? Could the wisdom of the ages stop a careless oaf from dropping an ax on his foot?”

  Weed sucks in a long, raspy breath and runs out of the cottage. Moments later he comes back. His face is ashen, and he holds a small bundle of stems and leaves. Wordlessly he offers them to Father.

  Father stares at the plants, bewildered. “Rue? Tansy? Chamomile? These are common roadside plants. What is all this for?”

  “Make a poultice. It will prevent infection so the wound can heal,” he says in a low voice. “For pain … use the poppy, mixed with valerian. No doubt the man is afraid; lavender and chamomile will soothe him.” His voice drops to a whisper. “And—if it has to come off—”

  “If the foot has to come off, it is the surgeon’s problem, and whiskey is the only medicine those butchers use,” Father growls. “Whiskey, and strong leather straps.”

  “No whiskey—use some belladonna—not too much. Mix it with seeds of hemlock and black henbane. It will make him sleep.”

  “Sleep!” Father cries. “Through an amputation? Impossible; it has been centuries since that formula was lost—”

  “Two berries only! I know you have some. The man will sleep for a night and a day, and awaken when the worst is over.”

  Father drops his bag and steps very close to Weed. They are nearly the same height, but Father has twice his bulk. My mouth goes dry; what will Father do?

  “How do you know these things?” Father hisses through his teeth. “Tell me, ‘Doctor’ Weed—where did you steal your secret formulas from, eh?” His hands rise; for a moment I fear he will seize Weed and shake him.