The Poison Diaries

by Wood, Maryrose

  She is so ill! It fills me with anger, though I cannot say at whom I am angry, and grief, though she is not dead. I find myself amazed at the passion that has taken root inside me. I have never had a strong affection for any human creature before, but now, all at once, there is one whom I am certain I could not bear to lose.

  She rolls in her bed, feverish, moaning, and calling out strange words. Her hands grab at the sheets until her nails cut into her palms. The skin on her knuckles cracks and bleeds.

  Sometimes she stares out the window and cries out, “No, no, no,” but if I draw the shutters, the darkness frightens her more. She makes raw sounds, sharp like a crow. I do not know if she can tell I am there. I spoon water and medicine to her lips. I sit. I watch. My tears fall like rain.

  Today I will enter the poison garden, as Jessamine’s father has asked me to, in the hopes of finding a cure. If only he knew the dark mission he sends me on!

  But he is right—the plants in his locked garden possess great power. If there is a cure for her, it may well lie within those walls.

  His request shocked me. Has Mr. Luxton guessed my “gift”? No, for it would take a madman to suspect the truth, and Luxton is the opposite of mad. For him there are no visions, no miracles, no curses, no witchcraft. There are only discoveries. Things unknown that can be made known. At least he will not suspect me of some dark magic, as Tobias Pratt did.

  I do not know what will become of me, once I enter that place. I only know that Jessamine is failing, and the healing plants cannot, or will not, help me. I have begged them, on my knees in the dirt. They offer nothing! The plants whisper mysterious warnings to me. They keen with grief and then fall silent. Their refusal leaves me no choice.

  They too are afraid of the poison garden. Something has happened inside those tall gates, where so many deadly herbs have been gathered in one spot. Some new, dangerous power has gathered itself and been loosed upon the world. It is strange to say, but I can only think it is something unnatural.

  Earlier, even before dawn, I sat by the bed and told Jessamine what I intended to do. I asked her permission, for I know she did not wish me to go into that horrible place again. I asked her forgiveness for breaking my promise, but I do not think she heard me.

  It is time. I dread the poison garden. I dread what might happen to me inside those tall gates. The plants in there are dangerous. They are far cleverer than I am; I know that. They will try to trick me, perhaps destroy me. But deep in my soul, I believe they will know what is wrong with her.

  I would give my life to save Jessamine. I may have to.

  Look. Look how beautiful I am.

  I am in Mama’s wedding dress. Now it is made of cream-colored rose petals that caress me as I walk. Every step I take is perfumed.

  When I am tired of taking steps, I float. I can float anywhere, go anywhere, be anywhere. I am borne on the wind like a tuft of dandelion, a feather, a speck.

  A ghost.

  I wonder if I am dead?

  Before, when I was well and fully alive, I used to long to know what might be happening inside the castle at Alnwick, or in a big, faraway city like London, or in the vast Canadian wilderness across the sea, or even in that awful war in France. My whole life, Hulne Park has been my world and prison. I thought it would be so wonderful to see something else, though I had no real hope of doing so.

  Now I can travel to all those places, and more. I am untethered! Time, distance, even Father’s forbidding gaze—none of these pose any obstacle to me anymore.

  So where shall I go? If I were to gain entry to the castle I know I would not spend all my time in the library, as Father does. There would be so much else to see! The grand staterooms and the dining hall, the scullery and the parapets, the armory full of weapons that were used to push back the Scots—

  Curious. It feels as if there is still someone else here, hovering, close by. I do not know who he is, but it is nice not to be alone.

  If he wishes to become friends, perhaps we will fly together.

  Mr. Luxton brings me to the gate of the poison garden and unlocks it. Already I hear the cruel voices calling to me, luring me to quicksand.

  “Be careful, Weed.” He pockets the ring of keys. “I would not have you fall ill as well.”

  I shrug. “It does not matter. I have no choice but to go in.”

  “I wish you would let me accompany you.” Agitated, he stands between me and the gate. “There are many specimens in there, rare and deadly—you ought not be left alone with them.”

  “No.” My voice is rough with impatience. “I must go alone, or not at all. I cannot explain.”

  “As you wish.” He turns and lets the chain slip free of the lock. The padlock falls to the ground, but his hand lingers on the latch. “Once Jessamine is saved, perhaps you will be willing to tell me why.”

  “Once Jessamine is saved,” I repeat dumbly. My heart pounds. The coven of sirens within calls my name, soft and sickly sweet—

  Weed … Weed …

  “Remember,” he warns. “Do not touch anything. If you feel ill, call for me at once. I will wait here for you at the entrance—”

  Weed …

  “I must go in now,” I say. “Step aside; I beg you.”

  Luxton still bars my way. “You do love her, don’t you, Weed? My daughter’s life is in your hands! I must know your true heart.”

  “Of course I love her.” My anger rises; I have no time to stand here talking. My Jessamine is dying and the beings that could save her summon me. I cannot keep them waiting any longer.

  “Good luck to you, then.” Looking grim, Luxton pushes open the gate.

  Hello? There you are—I knew there was someone here. Why are you hiding?

  I have come to welcome you, but I did not wish to alarm you. I thought you might find it strange if I appeared too suddenly.

  Everything is strange to me. I was well; then I became sick, and now I am—I do not know what I am. I can fly, though.

  It is lovely to have wings. Mine are large and black, like a raven’s. Yours are gossamer; they catch the light quite beautifully.

  We have wings? How wonderful! But who are you? And what is this misty realm? Is it heaven, or hell? Are we alive or dead?

  So many questions! I will answer as best I can: I am alive, though not quite in the way you are used to. You are neither alive nor dead, but something in between. This misty realm is my home. Heaven and hell have no meaning to me; you will have to decide for yourself what place this more nearly resembles.

  You still did not say who you are.

  Among my own kind I am a prince.

  A prince! I am embarrassed now; I have never met anyone of title but the Duke of Northumberland, and I was much too awkward and shy to speak to him directly.

  Nonsense; you are the embodiment of grace and charm, and as full of beauty as a rosebud at dawn.

  That is a pretty compliment, thank you. Forgive my ignorance: What realm do you have dominion over, Your Majesty?

  You have visited there yourself, Jessamine, though you did not stay long. Do you not recognize me?

  I am sorry, I do not. But I am not myself at the moment. I feel as if I have forgotten many things, important things—and how did you know my name?

  There is no need to apologize. We have all the time in the world to get to know each other. I am Oleander, the Prince of Poisons.

  The gate to the poison garden closes behind me with a loud clang, as final as death.

  The last time I set foot here, I clenched my mind against the voices. On that day Jessamine walked next to me and served as my anchor, my guide, my light.

  Now I do more than surrender—willfully I lose myself in the dark realm of the Poisons. I let the mist swirl around me until all trace of human existence is gone. It feels like I am falling, and I do not know how or if I will ever find my way back.

  I look around at the poison garden, so familiar, yet so changed. Everything I see appears as if through a fine silver curt
ain. The plants are sharp and bare as skeletons.

  “He has come!” a child’s voice trills. “We called him and called him, and now he is here.”

  I remember the cacophony of voices from my earlier visit here, and wonder if I have heard that piping squeal before. I sink to one knee so I may better address its source. “Who are you?” I ask the tall stalks with their delicate blue flowers.

  “I am Larkspur, Master Weed. I have tried to speak to you many times, but you have been terribly rude. Always ignoring me. I know it is because I am poisonous. If I were dull and harmless and empty-headed as a daisy you would like me better, probably. I find it very unfair! For I cannot help being what I am.”

  “Just as you cannot help being what you are, Master Weed.” The voice booms like thunder.

  I rise and seek the source of this new presence, but the voice addresses the other plant. “Don’t mope, Larkspur. It’s no day for throwing tantrums. We have a visitor, after all, and when was the last time that happened? Four years past? Or was it forty?”

  “Are you thinking of the old healer woman, Dumbcane?” It is a third voice, smooth and melodious, and comes from a woody vine with large flat leaves and tiny, grapelike fruits. “I remember her. She came here once, full of clever questions, and we never saw her again.”

  The broad-leaved plant called Dumbcane laughs and replies, “That’s because they burned her at the stake, Moonseed.”

  “Be careful what you ask to know, Master Weed, for knowledge can be dangerous. So sayeth Moonseed.”

  “True—but the people who are afraid of knowledge are more dangerous still.” The seductive voice comes from close behind me. Startled, I turn.

  “I am Snakeweed,” the delicate, lacy shrub croons. “Not every poison is bitter, Master Weed. Remember that.”

  “I bet he already knows,” chirps Larkspur. “I bet he knows plenty about poison—”

  “Quiet, sprout,” Dumbcane says. “Now make your request, Master Weed. You must have a reason for coming here. Everyone does.”

  “Some are so unhappy they wish to die,” Moonseed says dreamily.

  “Others are so unhappy they wish to kill.” Snakeweed’s voice holds a sneer.

  “And some are so unhappy they wish to forget who they are, and what the source of their misery is, and even who it was they once wished to kill.” Larkspur laughs in delight.

  “I come seeking a cure,” I begin. “Not for myself. For a young lady. Jessamine Luxton is her name. She lies in her sickbed, feverish and weak. I do not know what ails her. Will you help me?”

  “And what about your usual friends? The chamomile? The peppermint? The feverfew? I suppose they are of no use to you today.” Snakeweed’s yellow flowers tremble with fury. “You prefer them to us—until you need something only we can give. Then you crawl to us, like ivy.”

  “Poison ivy, you mean!” Larkspur’s giggle pierces my ears.

  “What you say may be true,” I confess. “But I must find a cure for her, and I do not care where it comes from.”

  “Your kind do not come to us for cures,” Snakeweed snarls. “You come seeking power over life and death, for life and death are what we have to offer.”

  “And our assistance comes at a price,” Moonseed adds.

  “I offer you everything I have.” Knowing I have nothing, I add, “And anything you ask for, I will give.”

  Dumbcane laughs, deep and mocking. “No need to be dramatic. All we ask is that you perform a few simple tasks. Merely to prove your resolve.”

  “Even if what you bid me do is impossible, I will find a way,” I declare.

  “How righteous he sounds, and how brave!” Larkspur’s giggle rises to nearly a shriek. “Lucky for you, the first task is an easy task. The hardest part is doing nothing.”

  “Tear a leaf from me, Master Weed,” Moonseed instructs, “and I will guide you.”

  “With pleasure,” I say, and rip the leaf with as much brutality as I can.

  You must not eat those, Prince Oleander. They are dangerous.

  Do you mean these delicious berries, plump and black as ebony pearls? You are mistaken, Jessamine. Look, I eat them all day as if they were sweets. Would you like to try one?

  Father always warned me—

  Ten will kill a live person. They can do no harm to a dead one.

  And what of a person who is someplace in between?

  That is hard to say. Perhaps they will make you well. Perhaps they will make you worse. There is only one way to find out. Here.

  They look so tempting, it is hard to resist.

  No need to resist, allow me—

  But—oh! So sweet! I thought it would be tart.

  I am glad you like them, lovely. Careful, you would not want to drip the juice on that exquisite garment. Why, you look as if you are dressed to be married, Jessamine! Surely you are too young to do something so permanent?

  I am recently betrothed to a boy named Weed.

  How unfortunate. The name, I mean. Straggling, intrusive Weed: He loves you, I suppose? And you love him, too?

  I do, but I am also disappointed in Weed right now, for he made me a solemn promise, and I fear he is breaking it even as we speak.

  What promise was that?

  That he would never go into Father’s locked apothcary garden again. It is an awful place, do you know it?

  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 …

  16

  MOONSEED 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.