The Shepherd of Weeds (3 page)

The package, he explained, contained a child.

“An orphan?” Mrs. Mulk asked hopefully. They were so much easier than invalids.

“No. Not yet,” Flux allowed.

And then he opened his pasty mouth, a slit in his yellowed face, and told Mrs. Mulk the reason for his visit.

Indeed, Flux was right in that the package did not contain an orphan. But, in an interesting coincidence, the package, when it awoke, would wish to be one. It was, in fact, a bitter coincidence that the package should find itself within the walls of an orphanage, for the package most definitely possessed two parents—each more treacherous than the other. The package’s mother had seemingly slipped it a very potent sleeping potion, resulting in this current situation. And its father, well, the package’s father was bent on world destruction.

So, in the hands of its former, fiendish taster, the package slept—and dreamed.

The basement was composed of walls of bare rock, and dotting the various crannies were dingy candles, dripping molten wax upon everything beneath them. Many more had burned themselves out, nothing but greasy stumps, but the smell of the rendered fat remained.

To look on the bright side, the room was well lit. Sadly, the view was one perhaps better relegated to the dark.

Above a far door to the laundry room was an embroidered sign.

t was the laundry room where all these bad things happened.

As awful as the basement was, the laundry room was far worse. It could be found, beneath the embroidered sign, through a small, riveted steel door. Inside, industrial-sized machines
clugged
and
sloshed
the sheets and tattered uniforms in a syrup of gray suds. Next, a large cylinder with a hand crank would squeeze out most of the dreary water, preparing the laundry—normally—for the drying process. But since Mrs. Mulk’s clothes dryer had long ago expired, the washing was then unceremoniously returned to the various cots and shoulders whence it came, damp and discouraging. And then Mrs. Mulk would turn her attentions to what she found to be a far more agreeable project: the Boil Pile.

In one corner of the laundry room, a boiler sprouted many crooked pipes and occasionally belched a cloud of steam. Beside it was a vat—indeed, a cauldron of sorts—which was heated from a vast, glowing orange coil of wire beneath. From a broken metal hatch below it all, tangles of frayed cords and bulging tubes spilled forth along with the occasional spark. There was no off switch. There were no windows. A thin vent pipe threaded through the damp foundation and led to the orphanage’s exterior, and was the only clue of the room’s existence to the outside world.

For it was here Mrs. Mulk practiced her pursuit of perpetual youth.

Because Mrs. Mulk had it in her mind that there was nothing as precious as youth, she had long ago concocted a way to get herself some. With youth came the promise of longevity and vitality, both in short supply in Caux. But this obsession of Mrs. Mulk’s did not translate into perhaps a more healthful lifestyle—the occasional enjoyment of the outdoors and an appreciation of fresh air and good deeds. No, Mrs. Mulk intended to
steal
herself some youth. And from whom better than the youngsters in her care?

The custodian of the Wayward Home for Indigent Orphans and Invalid Hotel found herself thinking that youthfulness could be
extracted
—quite simply, albeit horribly—from cherished objects belonging to her children. Upon arrival, the orphans (already parentless and destitute) were forced to
relinquish their only beloved objects—their last possessions, filled with the sweat, kisses, tears, joys, and fears of their miserable lives.

A short list of things upon the Boil Pile:

1. One teddy bear, left eye missing, lovingly replaced with a battered button
   
2. A child’s blanket, silken edge rubbed raw from cuddling
   
3. A broken locket
   
4. An odd doll’s shoe
   
5. A thick book, titled
   The Field Guide to the Poisons of Caux
   , by Axlerod D. Roux
   

Mrs. Mulk would carefully boil down each of these treasures and, from the burnt dregs at the bottom of the vat, produce a mass of creams, powders, and lotions that would—she hoped—imbue her with eternal life.

orrel Flux’s eventual departure from the orphanage brought with it an uncheery moment of silence.

He pattered down the creaky steps. He skulked through what was once a small rose garden, which now grew nothing but vicious thorns. He made his way along the dark hedgerows that lined the walk, covered in a stingy winter’s snow, past a few tattered scarecrows made from the cast-off clothes of abject orphans. The scarecrows were silent. A slight wind moved through their straw arms, causing a few to sway worryingly, but Sorrel Flux paid them no mind. His was a nature not to be troubled by nightmarish things—he preferred, instead, to cause them.

The grounds that surrounded the orphanage were, if possible, even more dire than the place itself. Much of the
countryside was riddled with wetlands, and in the warmer months, the impassable earth was thick with deadwood and slime-covered puddles. Round hills rose from marsh, and fell back again into field. Tonight, everything was frozen and unwelcoming, even beneath a blanket of snow.

The moon was high now, a sulfurous wedge of yellow in the dark pool of Cauvian night. It easily illuminated the dented pipe from Mrs. Mulk’s laundry room, and Flux made a beeline to it. He unwound the silken ascot from his yellowish neck and balled the fine fabric into a small clump, which he then stuffed satisfactorily into the ductwork before him. It was thoroughly jammed. Satisfied at his handiwork, he turned his back on the orphanage.

Sorrel Flux then found his way cautiously in the low light to an old crab apple tree, where he stopped and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He shook off some of the snow from his polished shoes and waited. He coughed once, and then thought better of it. He stifled a yawn.

Finally, from the deep recesses of the winter night, another figure emerged. It was a grand one, tall and glorious, especially beside the insignificant silhouette of the taster. The moon shone down, revealing a dress of such spectacular fabric as to mimic the celestial heavens above. A deep, night blue—devoid of all stars.

This was Clothilde. She appeared, as if stepping down from the ether, hands upon her hips. Her long hair—once
fiercely black—was now a wintry silver, icy. The moonlight coursed through it like a waterfall. With an elegant sweep, she pulled it back into a tidy bun, securing it with a flash of a silver hairpin.

Sorrel Flux, his eyes narrowed, regarded his companion. But he was distracted not by his companion’s utter resemblance to the child he had just delivered into Mrs. Mulk’s questionable care. No, instead, he was preoccupied with a fantasy. It surged within his scrawny ribs, a dream of his future, one to which he was now one step closer.

“It is done,” Flux smirked.

The unlikely pair then turned, bound for Templar.

In the gloaming—before the light falls away completely in the evening—a trio was gathered in an overgrown garden. They were sisters, these three, from a time in Caux’s history when great feats of magic were performed by cherished kings and hands wove spectacular tapestries made from silken ribbon and strong enchantments
.

But these ladies, like Caux, had seen better days
.

The first sister had long ago succumbed to a fungus, and her face was lumpy and porous with hundreds of small mushrooms. The next was wrapped in a cloak of moss so old and formfitting it was hard to distinguish where it began and her flesh left off—if indeed there was such a place. And the last of the sisters was like a very ripe cheese—mold had converged within her veins, and her skin was aged and crumbly. Hers was not a skin but a rind
.

These were the Mildew Sisters, and they were gathered together for a spot of tea. A weak fire had been lit beside the garden’s stricken scarecrow, and a dented kettle warmed between them
.

“We are too late,” the aged-cheese sister muttered. “The tea leaves do not lie.”

The other two nodded, thoughtfully appraising the soggy pile of brewed nettles on the ground between them. They leaned in, divining
.

“You are right, as always, Lola. The girl has returned to Caux, a failure. The Prophecy is unfulfilled. The King has not been cured.”

All three nodded, agreeing
.

They took a moment to look about the garden. At one time, a young girl’s hand had tended the rows—growing with great skill deadly poisons right beside their antidotes. Not far from the crumbling walls, an old millhouse stood abandoned. A sign for a tavern swung from a single nail
.

“And see, Lola”—a weedy hand pointed again at the tea leaves—“it says here she is in grave danger.” This was Gigi, and Gigi wrapped her moss shroud about her shoulders tighter, disturbing a nesting spider in one of the folds. “They call her a false prophet.”

“Deceitful. A fraud,” agreed Lola
.

“She must harness the power of the forest to succeed,” continued Gigi
.

Again they nodded agreeably
.

Lola and Gigi looked at the third sister, the fungus-strewn one, a bit hesitantly. This was Fifi. Fifi, realizing something was currently expected of her, leaned in to the soggy pile, squinting
.

“Er—” She looked up at the expectant faces of her sisters and
then quickly back at the pile of tea leaves. She tentatively gave the mound a nudge with a worn boot
.

“It says …” She tried again, resolute. “The tea leaves are telling me …” A look of frustration settled upon her porous features and then renounced itself
.

“It’s no use!” Fifi squeaked. “I think I need another cup.”

Gigi and Lola scowled at their youngest sister, and then with a resigned sigh, Lola turned to the drooping scarecrow and plucked a generous handful of its stuffing from a fraying hole in its side. From this, more tea was made—the cup finally shoved indelicately in Fifi’s direction
.