Nightshade

by Maryrose Wood

  “Jessamine? I read of her in the diary. He did terrible things to her. He knew the two of you were in love.”

  “We are in love,” I insist, but my bitterness cannot be hidden.

  Signora Baglioni gazes at me searchingly. “If you took vengeance against him, I would not blame you. But it is best if you tell me the truth, Weed.”

  “I did not kill him,” I say, meeting her gaze. “But I wish I had. Signora, the plants of your garden are wise. If they say you can help me find Jessamine, I know they must be right. Do you know where she is?”

  “Poor Jessamine,” she murmurs. “If I am the one who can help you find her, then she must be in great danger indeed.”

  She looks as if she would say more. Instead she shuts the diary with a snap. “Earlier I said I wanted to know your secrets. I see now that I must reveal mine. Do you wish to hear them? I warn you, there is great responsibility attached to this knowledge.”

  I nod.

  “Good.” Her voice is low and urgent. “Officially I work for the university as the caretaker of the Orto botanico. It was planted here centuries ago by great scholars, for a serious and noble purpose. It was meant to be a place where humans could grow and study medicinal plants and try to determine their properties.”

  She leans back in her chair. The light filtering through the pergola makes patterns of light and dark on her face. “Unofficially, but even more importantly, I am the guardian of a special collection of books and artifacts owned by the university. Some are quite ancient; all are rare. Few people know it exists. This Thomas Luxton seems to have discovered it; he alludes to it in these pages. I wish I knew how he learned of it.”

  Her face is in shade now, and she removes the hat that has shielded her eyes from the sun. “My grandfather was a professor at the university and a famous botanist. The Orto botanico was his responsibility, and the collection was, too. It was he who ultimately realised the danger it held and moved it from the university library to a more secret location.” Her eyes flit to the house. I nod, understanding.

  “After my grandfather died, my father continued to add to and guard the collection. I have followed in his footsteps, and have made some recent valuable acquisitions. Perhaps none as valuable as this, however.” She lays a hand on Luxton’s book. “There is much to know. And much, alas, to fear.” She stands, and beckons me to follow. “I will show you. Bring the diary with you, please; it should not be left unattended.”

  “You can have it, if you find it valuable.” I stand, but cannot bring myself to move. “Why do you say Jessamine must be in great danger? What kind of danger?”

  Gently she takes my arm. “That is what I am about to show you. Swear that you will use this knowledge for good, Weed. Swear it on your life and all you hold sacred. If I discover you don’t mean it, believe me, I myself have many ways to prevent you from doing harm. And I will not hesitate to use them.”

  “I swear,” I say with feeling. “Thomas Luxton was my enemy. His work makes a mockery of nature’s bounty. I wish only to find Jessamine and secure her safety. I fear she has fallen into the hands of one who is evil – a greater evil than her father was.”

  Suddenly the plants of the courtyard begin keening with anxiety. They do not wish me to speak Oleander’s name.

  “I would like to hear more about this greater evil,” Signora Baglioni replies, leading me to the house. She nods at the marigolds that guard her door. “For protection,” she explains. “Italian folklore says that marigolds have the power to turn back the evil eye. Do you find that idea foolish?”

  “No.”

  “It is unscientific, perhaps.” She shrugs. “But what harm could it do? And we need all the protection we can get.”

  The house is small and bright, and filled with the aroma of fresh herbs, but we move away from the light and pass through a small door that leads down to the cellar. The stairwell is so low I must duck my head to get through. Not until we reach the bottom can I stand upright. It is not musty and damp, as most cellars are, but clean and dry. There is a faint, not unpleasant smell of fermented grapes.

  “It was a winemaking cellar once.” Signora holds a candle to light our way. “The grape press was there, and along that wall were stacked the oak barrels in which the wine was aged. When the collection was moved down here for safety, my grandfather made sure the cellar was enlarged and improved. Vents were put in to keep the air fresh. Lamps were added – as were many locked doors.” She emits a sharp laugh. “It is a safe place to store valuables, to be sure. Like the vault of King Midas.”

  Holding a large ring of keys, she leads me through an underground labyrinth, unlocking one door after another and locking them again behind us as we pass. “Almost there,” she says quietly, although there is no one to overhear. She fits a key into a shining metal lock, and the final, massive door opens. Signora Baglioni lights all the lamps in the room, until the windowless underground chamber is as bright as day.

  The room is larger than would seem possible from the scale of the house. The walls are lined with books and glass cases holding objects that are strange to me – small, full-bellied figurines, dried leaves and nuts, detailed drawings of plants, and other items I cannot guess the purpose of.

  Signora Baglioni gestures at the shelves. “Some of these books are scientific diaries, too, though none have the murderous intention of Mr. Luxton’s. As for the rest of the items, they come from around the world. Some are thousands of years old.”

  “Thomas Luxton longed to see books like these,” I say, gazing at their weathered spines.

  “According to his diary he worked hard and without scruple to discover what he could on his own. Of course, in principle I have no objection to using human subjects, as long as they are already dead,” she adds. “Have you heard of the anatomy theatre? It is where the medical school’s dissections are performed. They use bears, monkeys, dogs, and human corpses too, when the weather is cool enough. The students have been known to kidnap a body the night before its dissection, dress it up, and take it for a gondola ride down the canal.”

  She shakes her head in disapproval, but seems amused also. “As I said, the knowledge here spans centuries and continents. But there is a common thread that runs through it all, which is this: There can be no life on earth without plants. They provide food for our bellies and the bellies of our livestock. Without them we starve. Plants also have the power to heal and to kill. But they are more than simply tools for our use. They are alive. Many cultures believe that plants have souls. Some worshipped them as gods. In our own time, in this world, this has largely been forgotten. But not completely.”

  She waits and looks at me, giving me the chance to respond. I sense that she wishes me to add something to her story, to reveal what she already suspects I know, or am. But I say nothing, for I am hungry to hear her explain myself to me.

  Signora keeps talking, leading me from case to case as she speaks.

  “The island natives of the Indian Ocean think the first man – he whom we call Adam – emerged from inside a bamboo stalk, like this one. See this illustration? It is Asvattha, the tree of the universe. The ancient books of India, the Upanishads, call it the foundation of our world. Many other cultures have similar stories about a tree of life. Here, come look at this.”

  She walks ahead of me to the next display case and points to its contents: a leather bag with a long strap, sewn together with thin strips of animal hide and adorned with painted emblems, seashells, and feathers.

  “What is it?”

  “One of my recent acquisitions. It is called a medicine bag, from one of the native tribes of North America. A fascinating people, highly skilled in the use of plants’ power. They too understand nature’s essence as divine. So much so that they do not think it is man’s place to own the land at all. Imagine that – think of all the wars we would have missed!”

  Puzzled, I ask, “Is that why this information must be kept secret?”

  “It is heresy, Weed,”
she explains. “We live in strange times. The end of the century approaches, and the people are afraid: What unknown future lies in wait? Everywhere the world is changing. A spirit of revolution spreads like fire. Your American colonies have already succumbed. Now France has fallen prey to it. Some say England will be next.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, but I cannot block the memory of the preacher at the crossroads, my hands wrapped around his neck as he pleads for his life – Repent, for the end is near –

  Her voice calls me back from the past. “The idea that we humans are not the rightful rulers of this earth, but merely one type of thinking, feeling creature among many, all equally ensouled – it changes the very idea of what it means to be human. There is a chemist working in your country, a Dr. Priestley. I follow his work carefully. His experiments suggest that plants may even manufacture the air we breathe.”

  She throws her arms wide. “Plants make the air! Do you understand what that means? Our food, our air, our very lives come from the plants. How could they not be of divine origin, of divine intelligence? How can we deny that, in some essential way, they are no less than you or I?”

  I thought I would feel comforted to hear her say aloud these truths that have been unspeakable my whole life. Instead I become afraid. Why are the plants so afraid of Oleander that they cannot even speak of him, or hear his name uttered?

  “What of Jessamine?” I ask.

  “The collection also teaches us that nature is not an angel,” Signora Baglioni says quietly. “There is a dark side. Nature has its devils, too: the volcanoes that spew ash into the sky and blot out the sun, the floods that clear away all life and force the world to start over. The Shinto priests of Japan would say, ‘The gentle breeze that cools us in summer is also the hurricane that destroys.’”

  “The plant that cures also kills.” I close my eyes and feel the cold shadow of the dark prince pass over me. “All is balance.”

  She takes out her ring of keys and begins unlocking one of the cases. “Yes. There is a balance, and that balance can be destroyed. May I have Mr. Luxton’s diary, please?” I hand it over, glad to be rid of the vile object. She finds a place for it on a shelf. “I will catalogue it tomorrow. For now, I simply wish it to be locked away, where no one can find it.”

  She pockets her keys and turns to me. “As I sat in my lovely garden, reading this book of horrors while you slept, I thought: Here in Padua the air is gentle and the bees hum with joy, but in some windswept corner of northern England, a man with evil in his heart has created a terrible garden that has somehow upset the balance of nature, and let the hurricane have dominion over the breeze, the tidal wave over the gentle swells. Am I right, Weed? Is this the greater evil you speak of?”

  I nod. “The poison garden has taken form and shape. It has anointed a leader. He fancies himself a prince.”

  “Does this prince have a name?”

  “His name is Oleander. He calls himself the Prince of Poisons.”

  She takes me by my arms, searches my face. “And who are you, Weed? What role do you play in all this?”

  “I – I do not know.”

  “You do!” She grips my flesh hard. “Who do the plants say you are?”

  I suddenly have the urge to bolt, to climb and claw my way above ground. But the signora holds me fast. “The plants in the forest of Northumberland call me the Human Who Hears.”

  “And you can hear them.” She says it with awe. “You hear them all: the trees, the flowers – all the healing plants?”

  “The poisons, too.”

  She releases me. “How wonderful! It is a miracle, surely.”

  “It feels a curse to me.”

  “No, no! Listen to the ancients.” She gestures around the room. “In all of these lands, the person who could bridge the worlds was revered. He was a shaman, a holy person. Think of it: Humans can survive without animals, and animals without humans, but the Earth itself and all that lives upon it would die a barren, airless death without plants. They are our true masters, though we pretend otherwise. You are an emissary, Weed. A peacemaker, perhaps.”

  “But what am I to do?” I say, feeling hollow.

  “That is what you and I must discover, together. This Oleander is the real danger. Like the Hebrew golem of old, he is a monster that rises from the dirt and forgets he is only made of mud.”

  “Oleander is a monster,” I say heatedly. “I would destroy him if I knew how.”

  She reaches and chooses a book off the shelf. “My grandfather wrote of just such beings – for Oleander is not the first dark spirit to rise up this way, and will not be the last. Here, listen.” She turns the yellowed pages, and reads:

  “There is a force of growth and a force of decay, locked in an eternal dance. The force of growth is called Eros, and it is love. And the force of decay is that which the Greeks called Thanatos, Death the Healer, who delivers living beings from their suffering.

  “And what if the Prince of Decay should move on his own, and try to seize dominion of the Earth? He can try, but he will fail, for alone he is barren. As the pistil requires the stamen, he needs a partner, an opposite. He must add a force of healing to his killing, a force of light to his darkness, a force of growth to his corrosion. Then his power is complete. Then the Earth shakes, the mountains burst into fire and smoke, the great floods wash away even the strongest arks, and winter comes and does not leave.”

  “Jessamine!” My fists are clenched; I wish to strike and strike again – but my enemy is not here. “She is a healer. She is light and growth. That is why he has taken her.”

  Signora Baglioni looks grim. “It is what I fear, too. Jessamine may well be the key to his power. You must find her, Weed – not just for your own sake and hers, but for the sake of us all.” A wave of grief crosses her face. “I hope – I pray – it is not too late.”

  12

  JESSAMINE LUXTON.

  Jessamine Luxton.

  The name is so familiar to me.

  Sometimes I think the name was once mine. I can close my eyes and conjure such sweet, simple scenes: a girl and a boy, lying together in the meadow grass of a sheep-dotted field. Gazing into each other’s eyes, fingers entwined. Two children, playing at love.

  The girl’s name is Jessamine. The boy – what a strange name he has! It skitters along my memory like a dragonfly on a pond, so close to the surface, never landing. But it is a strange name, of that I am almost sure.

  Or perhaps the sweet scene in the meadow is a fantasy, and the story of a girl called Jessamine and the beautiful boy she loves with her whole innocent heart is no more than a dream I once had – a dream I have long since woken from and that is now almost completely forgotten.

  For that is what happens to dreams. One wakes, the fantasies of the night fade, and the hard, cold truth of the day comes crushing down until it aches to draw breath.

  How it aches, sometimes! A stabbing that tears my heart in two. Enough. Dream or memory, it does not matter. Jessamine is no more.

  And what of Rowan, the unsmiling seamstress? In my mind she lies a corpse, bloated and pale, drowned at the bottom of the Tyne. Her naked body is tangled in the eelgrass of the riverbed. Her hair floats in the current; her eyes stare blindly into the murk. Her youthful flesh is blue and cold, food for the crabs and the fish.

  Or is it? For I think I was Rowan, for a time. Can she be dead if I live? My mind is very unclear of late. A jumble of thoughts travel in endless spirals, whirling around and sinking ever downward – the past gets buried deeper every day, but I can still remember the warmth of Rye’s breath in my ear, and the touch of his rough hands upon my skin.

  I rarely feel pity anymore, or any soft or tender feeling, but I feel pity for Rye. He will not trust a woman again, that I know. He will spend his life as he was meant to spend it: as an outlaw and a profiteer, alone save for the parade of naive girls to be wooed, bedded, and cruelly tossed aside. Each conquest will serve as another useless revenge upon me, until in time he fo
rgets me, too – just as I have already forgotten myself.

  Belladonna is my name now. It suits me; at least it suits the girl who looks back at me from the mirror. My skin is pale as a snowdrift, for I cannot bear to go out in the sun, and I rarely have the urge to eat. Thanks to fresh applications of indigo and henna, my hair is a lustrous raven black. It cascades like waves of a midnight sea over my angled, bloodless cheeks.

  My eyes are nearly black, too – my pupils stare from within a thin ring of ice blue, dark and round and shining, like the deadly nightshade berries I once tended like a mother.

  Belladonna. A most deadly nightshade, indeed.

  Remember, Jessamine, you will be raising a litter of assassins…

  Memory, or dream? A man spoke those words to me, long ago. A stern, forbidding man. He often scolded me. I was afraid of him; that much I do recall.

  Was he my father?

  My mind goes weirdly blank at the thought. I remember only this: that I left Rye in the dark of early morning, with Oleander urging me on and on.

  Run, lovely, he told me, in that mocking voice that slithers hourly within my brain. Run, though you have nowhere to go.

  I have only enough money for a day’s bread – why did I not take more?

  You should have listened to me, when I told you to let the girl die. Now you will run until you tire, until you hunger and thirst, until your feet bleed, until the snows come.

  I will find refuge somewhere – surely someone will have pity on me –

  For a time, perhaps. But it will make no difference. No matter where you go, it will be the same as it was with these ignorant, witch-hunting fools. You will be hated, hunted down, despoiled, and driven away.

  What shall I do, then?

  Obey me from now on, lovely. Obey me without question. I will tell you what to do.