The Lie Tree

by Frances Hardinge

  And with that she turned and ran from the room, wishing that she could leave the memory of her mother’s words behind her.

  CHAPTER 30:

  A TINY DEATH

  You disgust me.

  Faith put her hands over her ears as she ran upstairs, wanting to shut her own words out of her head. She had meant it, she told herself. Myrtle deserved it. But over and over she remembered Myrtle’s hurt look. The pain in her mother’s eyes reminded Faith of the way she had felt when her father had torn her to pieces in the library.

  Myrtle had been fighting a dirty war, but fighting it for the family’s survival. How could Faith claim the moral high ground? For all Faith knew, her own actions had already claimed lives.

  Her ears pricked. There were faint sounds coming from the direction of Howard’s nursery, scritches and scratches.

  She emerged on to the landing, but as she turned the handle of the day nursery she heard a scuffle and scamper from within. When she entered, the nursery was apparently empty. Howard’s copybook was under the table, slowly flapping shut. An abandoned pencil rolled across the floor.

  ‘Howard?’ called Faith. There was silence. She did not want to venture into the night nursery, in case he bolted from some hiding place through the door behind her. ‘Come out, How!’

  Silence.

  ‘Howard, I am getting out your theatre!’ she called, in a moment of inspiration. She settled herself on the floor and pulled the toy theatre out of the toy box.

  There were a few creaks, and then a small figure appeared in the doorway to the night nursery. Howard was grimy and looked as though he might have been crying.

  ‘Oh, there you are, How.’ Faith felt a flood of exhausted relief.

  Howard edged into the room, looking daunted and evidently expecting a scolding. ‘Why was everybody shouting?’ he asked.

  ‘Never mind, Howard.’ Faith’s voice sounded deadened, even to her. When Howard came and knelt down beside her, resting himself heavily on the side of her lap, she put her arm around him. ‘How,’ she said gently, ‘we need to talk about that pistol.’

  Howard buried his face in her arm and shook his head.

  ‘Noooo!’ was his muffled reply. ‘Nononono! I need it!’ His face emerged again, glossy-eyed and desperate. ‘Do a show, Faith!’

  Faith looked down at the little stage, and her spirits suddenly failed her. She had fully intended to reward Howard, but as she stared at the little bone-white woodland scene all she could think of was the great shadow hand searching for her while she hid. The painted moon mesmerized her with its dead eye. She felt a surge of unexpected terror.

  ‘How,’ she whispered, ‘I . . . I can’t. Not right now.’

  ‘Please!’ Howard had that shiny-cheeked, wild-eyed look. He was frightened. He wanted her to have all the answers again. Howard was very small, Faith reflected. Perhaps that was why he liked there to be a smaller world that he could study and control.

  Faith took up the jester’s rod and twirled it, watching the jester somersault. She thought of her lies, making people leap head over heels, and sometimes sending them crashing to earth and cracking their heads open.

  Tongue dry and voice trembling, Faith danced the puppets through the colourless forest, letting them fight, taunt, spin and die. She watched them in fascination, and her fingers felt numb. Was she really controlling them? Her hand seemed to tingle as she handled the Devil. He stared up at her, tusks bared in a snarling grin.

  ‘I want the Wise Man,’ said Howard.

  Faith manoeuvred the tiny, smudge-faced sage on to the stage. At least the show was likely to be near its end.

  ‘Master Howard!’ shrilled Faith–Wise-Man. ‘What can I do for you today? Do you have a question?’

  Howard hugged his knees to his chest and peered over them. For a few moments he just rubbed his nose against his knees.

  ‘Is it my fault because of the ghost?’ he asked, very quietly. ‘Is it my fault because I couldn’t do it, and I couldn’t make it go away? And did that make Jeanne get ill and is that why she went away and is she dying? And is it my fault?’ His voice grew louder but huskier, and now there were tears spilling out of his eyes.

  ‘Oh no!’ Faith could only just keep to her Wise-Man voice. ‘No, Master Howard, you are a good boy—’

  ‘But I couldn’t do it!’ wailed Howard, hoarse with misery. ‘I – I tried! I tried! But I . . .’ He pulled over his copybook and scrabbled it open, clawing through the pages.

  The letters were almost legible at first, though some were back to front or sprawled out at the wrong angle. As the pages passed, the pencil squiggles and marks became wilder, more desperate and less like letters. Some left frantic, unsteady grooves in the paper. Pages of them. Pages and pages.

  With a terrible sinking of the heart, Faith realized what she was looking at. Scripture.

  Ghosts won’t come after a good little boy who says his prayers and copies out his scripture right-handed. They only hunt bad people.

  With utter remorse, Faith imagined Howard scratching his marks in increasing panic every day, and lying awake each night listening for ghostly footsteps . . .

  ‘Is it my fault?’ he asked again, tremulously.

  ‘No!’ Faith swallowed hard but could not stop her voice shaking. ‘No, none of it is your fault, Master Howard! None of it! The ghost never came here for you!’

  ‘Then why did he come?’ Howard clutched the toes of his shoes. ‘Why is he making Faith ill? Did he come here for her?’

  Faith thought of killers hunting for the Lie Tree, and her mouth shaped an almost silent yes.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Howard. ‘Why does he want to hurt Faith?’

  ‘Because she is a stupid, evil girl!’ exploded Faith, unable to bear it any more. ‘She spoils everything, and spreads poison everywhere she goes. And she is going to hell!’

  She pushed the toy theatre off her lap, stood unsteadily and ran from the room. Out on the landing she finally burst into tears. The sobs felt larger than she was, and for a while she was lost in them.

  Faith was jolted out of anguish by a strange racket coming from the nursery behind her. There was a thudding, cracking, ripping and skittering. She turned around and looked in through the door.

  Howard was stamping on the toy theatre, tears streaming from his eyes, his nose running. The brightly painted proscenium arch had caved and crushed, and the whole theatre had dented and buckled. Nearby lay a snapped rod, and a tiny paper man with its head ripped off. The little head wore a Chinese hat.

  ‘Oh, How!’ Faith ran in, dropped to her knees, and scooped up the remains of the Wise Man. ‘What have you done?’ Her little oracle was no more. She felt a terrible stinging sense of loss.

  Howard came towards her, eyes gleaming with tears. ‘Killed him,’ he said in a very small voice. ‘I killed the Wise Man. He . . . He said you had to go to hell! But . . . But now he’s dead . . . he can’t make you go! I don’t want you to go to hell!’

  ‘Oh, Howard!’ Faith crouched and spread her arms, and Howard tottered into them, snuffling. She squeezed him tightly.

  ‘He can’t hurt you now, can he?’ whimpered Howard in her ear.

  ‘Hush,’ said Faith. ‘No . . . I . . . no. He’s dead. He can’t hurt me. You . . . rescued me, How.’

  Howard sobbed for a long time, while Faith made hushing noises and stroked his head. When at last his tears slowed, she wiped his face with a handkerchief.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, and led him into the nursery. Howard’s eyes widened as she took down his blue jacket and opened her folding knife. First she hacked away the stitches that pinioned the left sleeve, then she dragged great slashes through the fabric, over and over.

  ‘It’s a stupid, ugly jacket,’ she said, her own breaths juddering, ‘and you never, never have to wear it again. You can write your scripture now, How, and you can use your left hand as much as you like.’

  She was out of breath by the time she stopped. The two siblings stood
and stared down at the ravaged jacket like conspirators. It was definitely dead. Dead as the Wise Man.

  ‘Are you frightened of the ghost?’ asked Howard.

  ‘Yes, How,’ Faith said quietly.

  Howard disappeared under his bed, scuffled around, then re-emerged. A little reluctantly, he placed a small cold shape in Faith’s hand.

  You have to give it back after you shoot the ghost,’ he declared.

  In Faith’s hand lay a little pocket pistol with a stubby barrel. It was her father’s gun.

  The pistol still seemed to be loaded, though the percussion cap appeared to have fallen off. To Faith’s certain knowledge the gun had spent one night out of doors, but at least it had not rained that night, so there was some hope that the powder was not damp. In any case, she did not wish to try her hand at reloading it. She had seen her father doing so, but it had been a complicated process involving pins and removal of the barrel, and she was hazy about the order of the sequence.

  Instead she gingerly half cocked the pistol and put a fresh cap in place, then concealed the weapon in a reticule and tucked it in her pocket.

  You can stay in the nursery with me,’ Howard said hopefully.

  ‘I can be lookout. You can shoot the ghost from my window.’

  Faith hesitated. It was tempting to stay in the safety of the house, but the inquest was the very next day. Unless she could find some proof of the murder by then, her father would find a suicide’s grave in unconsecrated ground, and her family would be turned out on to the streets.

  ‘You keep watch,’ she said. ‘If you see anybody in the garden, run and find Mother, or Mrs Vellet, or Prythe, and let them know. I . . . have to go on a secret mission. You won’t tell anyone, will you, How?’

  It had not been long since she fed the Tree the lie about Miss Hunter, but that lie had been believed enough for arson, theft and violence. It was just possible that the Tree had borne a fruit. If it had, then at least the terrible consequences of the rumour would not have been for nothing.

  The Lie Tree tugged at her thoughts. She felt as though its vines had grown into her mind, and that even now it was hauling her back to it.

  Faith considered walking the safer route to the cave’s secret entrance, but calculated that she would still be faster by boat, and less likely to be noticed. As she rowed to the sea cave once again, she could feel the cold wind seep in through every split and tear in her long-suffering funeral clothes. The moon was full and brilliant, painting a milk-river down the grey-black swell.

  Faith’s excitement at the thought of the Lie Tree had soured. Now foreboding curdled in her stomach. She had to remind herself that the Tree itself had harmed nobody – her lies alone had done that. Nonetheless, it seemed to bring out the worst in her. If she gave up on it now, however, then all the damage she had done would be wasted. It was too late to admit defeat. For a moment she wondered whether her father had felt the same way, and plunged on with his frauds to the brink of destruction, rather than admit that everything he had done had been a terrible mistake. They were like gamblers who had lost too much to stop betting.

  She let the wave wash her boat into the cave, felt it ground, and leaped out to tie it up. It was time to test the fruits of her experiments. She carefully removed the thick cloth covering the lantern, and swiftly replaced it with another, a mesh of layers of gauze that choked its light like cobweb but still let a faint glow through. If she was correct, this would not be bright enough to harm the Tree.

  Shrouded lantern in hand, she clambered up to the main cavern, then stopped dead.

  The way ahead was criss-crossed with black vines, as if somebody had scribbled over the aperture with a thick stick of charcoal. She advanced a few steps, and the cold smell seared her throat and the skin inside her nose. In her absence, the Tree had filled its cavern.

  This was the stuff of fairy tales. Faith remembered an old story of children who had fled a witch’s house, and had cast down a magic comb behind them, which had sprouted into a thick and enormous forest.

  Tentatively Faith reached out and touched the vines, most of which seemed to be dangling from the ceiling. They were slender and supple, and yielded as she pushed them aside. Slowly she made her way into the strange, new jungle, the leaves clammy against her face.

  The vines closed behind her. With no light but that of the spectral lantern, it was hard to tell which way was which. She quickly checked her father’s compass clinometer and made a note of the direction and ground slope, in case she became lost.

  The most recent fruit had been near the heart of the plant. She had to hope that the same would be true again, or she would never find it.

  It was easier to advance than she expected, despite the vine-matted floor. She had to duck under a few thick, spiralling stems, but most of the stray vines seemed content to drape and slither across her shoulders as calmly as her snake. Irrationally, she felt that the Tree was comfortable with her.

  The tough, forking vines that veined the floor were her guide. They all weaved from the heart of the Tree, and so she slowly followed them back. As she did so, the molten voices in the cavern’s roar seemed to grow louder, but no easier to understand. Sometimes her ear tingled, as though somebody had placed their mouth close to it, about to whisper.

  The stone shelf reared before her, now cocooned in black tendrils. The dark, spidery mound on top of it glimmered faintly in the dull, gauzy light of the lantern. She ran her fingers through the leaves here, there and everywhere, until at last they felt something small, round and hard dangling below a stem like a Christmas bauble. It came away in her hand, a tiny perfect fruit.

  Just as Faith was putting it away in her pocket, she saw something move out of the corner of her eye.

  She spun around, lantern raised, looking this way and that. On all sides her eye was baffled by the weaving and criss-crossing of the vines. The lantern did little more than gild the murk. She could discern no rustle amid the roar and hiss of the sea, the moan and murmur of the echo-voices.

  Faith reached into the pocket reticule and pulled out her father’s pistol, then drew back the hammer so that it was ready to fire. She let out a long breath and managed to hold the lantern steady in her other hand.

  Some ten feet away, amid the vine-tangle, the foliage shivered again. This time she knew it was no mistake, and amid the cat’s cradle of stems could make out a dark blot. It was taller than her, and in the shape of a human figure.

  There was nowhere to run. Standing there with her lantern, she was obvious. Whoever they were, they had seen her, and if they moved again she would lose track of them.

  Faith pointed the pistol directly at the blot, her heart hammering like a hummingbird’s wing.

  ‘I can see you! And I know you can see me! Come forward – slowly – or I fire!’ She had no idea whether she had it in her to pull the trigger, even if the other leaped at her, but somehow she kept the terror out of her voice.

  The dark shape stirred, swayed slightly. For a moment she thought it would duck back into the shadows and be lost to her. Then it began to approach, one arm raised to push stray vines out of the way. At last it was close enough for the dim golden light to fall upon its face.

  The intruder was Paul Clay.

  CHAPTER 31:

  WINTERBOURNE

  Paul Clay, Faith’s ally and enemy. She was overwhelmed by fear, confusion and distrust. He had discovered her lair, and seen more than she could allow anybody to see.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, still aiming the pistol.

  ‘Don’t point that at me!’ he protested, blinking in the dim lantern-light. ‘What are you doing here? Why is everything . . .’ He looked around at the night-black jungle.

  ‘How did you find us?’

  ‘Us?’ Paul looked nonplussed.

  ‘Me – and the plant.’

  ‘Is it yours?’ He stared up at the vines. ‘What is it? Where did it come from? And will you put down that pistol or not?’


  Faith said nothing, nor did her pistol hand waver.

  ‘Then you can stay here with your death-ivy,’ growled Paul, backing away a step. ‘I hope you have a good evening together.’

  ‘I can’t let you leave.’ Faith knew her arm was shaking, despite the lightness of the pistol.

  ‘What?’ Paul’s angry look gave way to one of alarm.

  ‘Somebody is looking for this plant,’ said Faith. ‘And they are willing to kill whoever has it. And that killer might be you.’

  ‘Is that a joke?’ Paul gaped at her. ‘You asked for my help!’

  ‘I had to trust somebody!’ Faith could see that he was standing with his spare arm crooked, as if cradling something bulky. ‘Perhaps I chose the wrong person. There are two killers. They might be lovers or accomplices . . . or they might be a father and son.’

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Paul. ‘My father never hurt anybody in his life!’

  ‘How do I know that? What do I know about any of you? Your father was allowed on the excavation site – he could have sabotaged the chain of the mining basket.’ As she spoke, Faith recalled something else. ‘And the day we arrived, he came to meet us. The carriage was too heavy, so he suggested leaving the box with this plant behind – and offered to stay with it and keep watch. He would have been left alone with the box containing the plant, if my father had not refused.

  ‘Somebody has been searching our glasshouse and the garden for the plant. They were seen, but mistaken for a ghost. And I know you have been searching around our house – I caught you doing so! You said you were looking for a lock of hair, but how do I know that was true?

  ‘And now . . . here you are. Exactly where the murderer would wish to be.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I was up on the headland,’ Paul said at last, ‘and I saw you rowing by in your boat—’

  ‘What were you doing there at this time of night?’ interrupted Faith.

  ‘Taking pictures.’ Paul gingerly turned about to show that the object in the crook of his elbow was a box camera.