The Shepherd of Weeds (19 page)

The Prophecy. It was a messy, arcane thing that predicts in unclear metaphor what was to come. It was a hopeful morass on torn, crumbling parchment, written by an ancient hand, whose whereabouts were unknown. In this case, it concerned a child of noble birth and the reunion of nature with man. Who better than a bird, then, to guard the knowledge contained in its fragments?

Long ago, those who foresaw the events of the Prophecy inscribed it carefully upon parchment. But because parchment—as everything—eventually grows old and unreliable, they took steps to ensure the message’s survival. They whispered it to the wind, and the Winds of Caux, in turn, carried the message to the birds. The Prophecy was broken into fragments, and the families of various houses were each entrusted with a piece. While the minds of men were subject to age and distraction, the birds have never forgotten it.

In fact, wise men such as Axle and Cecil, and wise women such as Clothilde and the alewives, have never possessed the knowledge of the Prophecy
in full
. Axle was privy to most of the ancient knowledge, but even he did not know the entire, and far-reaching and at times contradictory, predictions it entailed.

Now, as the birds came forth, a single delegate at a time, they reassembled the ancient prediction. And what a song it was—rich, complex, sorrowful, and inspiring. And finally, when it was complete and the very last note had faded into the
night, the poor, suffering widow of the hummingbird eaten by Lumpen flew forward.

It was her turn to speak.

Her name was Aster, this poor, suffering hummingbird, and she was hardly bigger than a bee. Her wings fluttered so quickly they seemed to disappear, and she flitted about Shoo’s head for several moments in indecision. (Hummingbirds are not as nervous as they appear, but Aster, having been dealt this unkindness by Lumpen, found herself unusually wary.)

Aster and her mate had been traveling from Templar when tragedy struck beside Lumpen’s well, and she began by informing the caucus of this very event. For her loss, she received the appropriate amount of sympathy and outrage from the audience, and she continued. But hers was a mission of neither sympathy nor outrage. Aster wished instead to sow the seeds of doubt.

“In Templar,” Aster said as she flitted along the length of the weathered board, “they do not believe in the Prophecy.”

A low grumbling of disapproval met this news, but Aster stood firm. “They denounce Ivy Manx as a heretic,” she continued, wings humming earnestly now. “They say she hears voices. Sees visions.”

This piece of news was not as dramatic as one might think. Birds are unimpressed with madness in general, inhabiting a world where visions and voices are very much the norm.
(Enchantments and magic of all kinds are like lightning—they are great forces assembled in the sky.) But Aster, having made the acquaintance of Mr. Sangfroid’s hummingbird feeder in Templar, received along with sugary water a differing outlook on the future of Caux were Ivy Manx to succeed. Beware what secrets are shared beside an open window!

Aster continued, taking a different tack. If the caucus was not receptive to her disparaging tone, she would speak, then, of one thing they were sure to agree upon: the Shepherd of Weeds’ current choice of company.

“Friends and neighbors.” She alighted again, wings still. “Look who she chooses to align herself with. Two bird killers! One, a hideous specter of a lady who eats birds for breakfast, and the other—the other, a horrible, malingering
cat.
”

(
Cat
is the only word more disliked by birds than
captivity
, and here Aster received the reaction she was hoping for.)

The hummingbird paused, dramatically turning to Shoo. “Tell me, where is it foretold that the Shepherd of Weeds travels with our enemies?”

vy and Rue were becoming accustomed to being airborne, as this flight was a longer one, but the heights brought along a great chill. There was a side-slashing frozen rain within the night clouds, and while the scourge bracken within Ivy made her impervious to cold, Rue was frozen to the bone. When asked where they were headed, Klair and Lofft did not reply, so the pair were left to fly on, huddling down against the broad backs of the seabirds.

Soon it was evident that they were very far up—either that, or the weather had changed significantly. The clouds that obscured the skies had vanished, and the stars that made up the intriguing Cauvian constellations shone brightly. As Ivy fixed her gaze on Vitis—a rare treat, for the constellation was far too north for her to usually see—she felt the voyage come
to an end beneath the lowest star. Ahead, great pines rose from the side of a rock face.

At the top of the highest one, the girls struggled to gain their balance against the knee-high moss beneath their feet. They had alighted within some sort of bowl-shaped terrace, the sides of which were well-woven dark branches and mud, basket-like. There was the sound of wind, but none gained entry.

“What’s this?” Ivy asked, cupping a handful of the dried moss and playing it about her fingers.

“A rookery,” Lofft replied.

Ivy dropped the soft lining.

“A nest?” Ivy was incredulous. “How high up are we?”

“It’s quite safe.” Klair smiled, anticipating her next question.

“And secret,” Lofft inserted.

“And cozy!” Rue enthused as she slid down into the fluff, feeling the warmth return to her hands.

“My only worry is what to feed you two,” Klair fretted. “We have nothing of the sorts of foods consumed by humans.”

“What’s wrong with raw fish?” Lofft demanded. “There’s nothing like a herring slipping down your throat, still wriggling!”

“Ugh.” Ivy frowned. “I mean—I’m sure it’s quite tasty to you, but I prefer my fish cooked, thank you.”

“There might be some seed around, and we’re sure to find
a cache of worms.…” The pair of albatrosses looked concerned. “Or perhaps some juicy grubs? The barn owls might be able to drum up a mouse or two.…”

“We’ll be fine,” Ivy said brightly, clutching Rue’s
Field Guide
to her chest. “I’ve got something else in mind.”

“All right. Well, we’ll be back for you in the morning, so until then, Ivy and Rue, eat, sleep, and rest your wings. There are hard winds ahead.”

Ivy sat down beside Rue in the soft moss lining of the giant bird’s nest. It was warm and safe feeling, and there was a pleasant swaying that reminded Ivy of her stay aboard the
Trindletrip
.

“What’s on the menu, then?” Rue asked. Her appetite had returned.

“Let’s see.” Ivy held the
Guide
, propping it on her lap. Rue’s botanical specimens poked out from in between the hefty pages. Ivy randomly opened the large reference book.

“Blisterbush?”

“I should think not,” Rue demurred.

“Sicklerod? Saberweed? How about some bearded-tongue?”

“After the wolfsbane, I was hoping for something a little more … edible.” Rue smiled.

“You tell me. They’re your specimens,” Ivy teased. “Hmm, I know. I’ll surprise you.”

She flipped through the pages eagerly, finding eventually a dried, flattened leaf and tiny, delicate white flower. “Perfect,” she said, holding it carefully in her closed hand, as she had done in Professor Breaux’s night garden and in Jalousie. Soon there was a pleasant tingling and warmth, and a quite promising smell—delicate, fruity.

Rue’s eyes opened wide—there was no mistaking the scent. “Strawberries!” she cried, delighted. “Grandfather told me about your … abilities. But, Ivy, this is amazing!”

Ivy nodded happily, clearing away a small area of the moss beside her and Rue. She carefully placed the unfurling shoot upon the mud-laden underlayer of the nest, and quite quickly, and to the girls’ utter delight, the plant began to flourish. Soon there were wild strawberries nestled beneath the small green leaves of the plant, and although there were at first only a few (of which Ivy insisted Rue eat), soon there were more than either of the two might desire, the greenery overtaking most of the nest. They fell asleep happily, smudges of crimson upon their chins and staining their fingertips—which was a fortunate thing in more ways than one. For in the open moors far beneath the rookery, where the birds of Caux met to discuss what it was they might do to help Ivy’s undertaking, a small hummingbird was plotting her revenge.

Where are the seeds of betrayal sown? For it cannot be said that Aster was born bad, or even brought up poorly. No, little
Aster was neither. What happened to Aster was this: she suffered a great loss, which somehow curdled her instincts for kindness and sent her down the very path that many before her have passed (even royals are not immune to grief’s ravages, which, as it did with the Good King, can turn the tides against an entire nation). But it’s what you do with grief—not what it does to you—that matters.

Grief can be a mark, or a stain, that slowly creeps over you, subtly changing you in its wake. Or—and this is much harder—it can pass through you, eventually leaving you stronger and wiser.

Aster had succumbed to the first variety, and her little heart was now a hardened pellet. She remained at the caucus, however, for there was much in the world of birds—beings of air and wind—to discuss. She dutifully participated in the varying forums and events, all the while watching, noticing, dreams of vengeance and retribution growing like a stain within her chest.

n the early sun of the next morning—a shocking red glow to the eastern edge, with grays and purples awaiting their turn—Klair and Lofft returned for the girls. Strawberries draped luxuriously off the edge of the giant nest, nearly everywhere, and Ivy and Rue looked sheepish at the lavish abundance they had caused.

But the albatrosses seemed tired and sad, and the excuse that Ivy was formulating stalled on her lips.

“The caucus has finished,” Klair began. “The fragments of the Prophecy were reassembled, recited, spoken aloud to the wind. The words are inarguable. The Shepherd of Weeds will lead us into battle.”

Ivy and Rue looked at each other.

“The Shepherd of Weeds?” Ivy asked Klair when it became
clear that the great birds were not commenting further. “What is that?”

“It is an ancient and powerful name in the language of the birds.”

“A name for what?”

“The Child of the Prophecy. For you, Ivy.”

“For me? Why do they call me the Shepherd of Weeds?”

“The true nature of plants is awakening. You are their Shepherd.”

Ivy and Rue, sitting in the lushness of the giant crow’s nest, with the richness of strawberries growing in undeniable abundance, could not find a reason to disagree.

“We are of the air, we birds,” Lofft continued now. “Air is but one element. There are beings of water—the alewives—and those of fire and shadow, though these are neither helpful nor reliable. You, Ivy, you are the Shepherd of Weeds. You are of the earth,” Lofft explained.

“The caucus requires you to gather your forces of the earth,” Lofft went on. “You must ask the forest for help. It is time to assemble your army of flowers.”

“Army of flowers?” Ivy asked, alarmed.

Breathlessly Rue turned to Ivy. “A favorite poem of my grandfather’s!
The Ballad of King Verdigris!
” she said.
“ ‘The air brimmed with sunlight and dew/His enemy lay vanquished/Behind him, an Army of Flowers.’ ”

Ivy’s mind raced. How was she to gather an army, here, in
this desolate corner of Caux? She had no talent for this. “Surely this can wait until we get to Templar? My uncle—he will know.”

“Enough time has been wasted already,” Lofft said. “Call forth your allies, my Shepherd. On this, the birds are absolute.” Lofft shook his elegant head. And”—he looked down sadly—“there is something else.”

“What is it, Lofft?” Ivy’s heart sank.

“There is one other condition the caucus has put forth.”

Klair and Lofft were silent, and when Lofft finally spoke, his deep sadness had returned. “The birds will not align themselves with a cat.”

“Cats have for eons been, at best, disrespectful nuisances,” Klair elaborated.