The Shepherd of Weeds (6 page)

Rue sagged. Together, the girls thought of Axle, Ivy’s friend and traveling companion—and expert author of Caux’s famed
Field Guide to the Poisons of Caux
. His future was dim—even if Ivy managed to escape Mrs. Mulk, he was behind the impenetrable walls of the Tasters’ Guild, a captive of Vidal Verjouce himself.

“Ivy—” Rue began, alarmed. “The stones. Mrs. Mulk—?”

The wind had picked up and a deep chill was settling in. Ivy stood and carefully wrapped Rue tighter in the old rug. The thing was appallingly dirty and smelled damp like mildew, but Rue needed its warmth.

“They are safe.”

Ivy looked around, appraising the hills. Somewhere out there was Rowan—she hoped. And her uncle, in Templar. But the wintry hills of this far corner of Caux looked dismally unfamiliar. Ivy spotted something upon a nearby branch and reached for it, snapping off a small, delicate spike. “Here.” She handed it to Rue. “A maple icicle. They’re delicious! Sweet and cold, the best of winter.”

As Ivy stood, Rue remembered something.

“Ivy,” Rue warned. “Beware of the well keeper.”

“The well keeper?”

Rue swallowed nervously and nodded. “Yes. Her name is Lumpen Gorse.”

estled in a nearby valley among swollen hills lay a pile of mossy stones. In the center was a deep, dark hole, the well of which Rue spoke—one of great depth and clear, satisfying water. No one knew what lay beneath the well that lent it such marvelous clarity and taste—not even Lumpen Gorse (or if she did, she had long forgotten). The well was only accessed by a small meandering path that left all who approached open for inspection.

Beside the ancient well was the well keeper.

Lumpen Gorse squatted in all seasons near the pile of stones, one arm grasping her yarrow stick—a thin Y-shaped branch she regarded as both a necessity to her profession and a weapon. When she was awake, her large brow protruded in a permanent scowl. She had a colony of red capillaries upon
her face, and the sackcloth that made up her rudimentary skirts splayed out about her in a succession of faded and pulled patchwork. Her bones were sore from resting upon the stones of the well, and she had remedied this with padding; her threadbare coats and long pantaloons were stuffed with straw from nearby fields. Her lips appeared to be sewn to the corncob pipe protruding from one corner of her mouth, which glowed with red embers even when she slept (which she managed to do with one eye open—for such was her suspicious nature that she had long ago learned to keep guard on the water even while she rested).

And Lumpen was indeed currently asleep, her one eye staring mindlessly at the large clot of thorns and burrs that made up a hedge nearby. Little gurgling snores poured out of her pipe. But suddenly the listless black pupil within Lumpen Gorse’s bloodshot eye shrank to a pinprick—and the eye assumed an intensity and focus, an awakeness, while the craggy eyelid held virtually still. From all outward appearances, Lumpen Gorse slept on.

Within the hedge a pair of hummingbirds flitted.

Or, to be more precise, a single hummingbird darted from branch to branch, encouraging her mate, who was hopelessly entangled within a deadly shroud of burrs. The suffering of the male hummingbird was observed by the well keeper for a quiet minute. Then the twiggy eye blinked finally, and with a grunt, Lumpen rose and plodded over to the hedge.

With surprising agility and patience, the well keeper assisted the ensnared bird, carefully peeling away the tiny hooks embedded throughout the creature’s miniature feathers while the other hummingbird nervously droned beside the well keeper’s mass of strawlike hair. Her considerable fingers were unusually deft.

And only then, after the final pesky barb was removed and the exhausted creature sat resting in her callused hand, did Lumpen Gorse remove her pipe from between her sluggish lips. While the relieved mate looked on, she popped the liberated bird into her mouth and ate it for breakfast.

The delicate bones had barely cleared her gullet when, from behind her, a voice called.

“Miss Gorse?” it spoke.

The shock Lumpen felt was twofold. First, she had never, in her long history of well-tending, been surprised in such a way as this—the path to her well was a long and open one, and by the time a thirsty traveler had arrived at her skirts, she had already summed him up quite appropriately. And second—and this she discovered as she wheeled about—the hummingbird was partaking of his final revenge, and was stuck in her craw.

Before her was quite an unusual group. It consisted of half a dozen red-cloaked men—a deep, rich scarlet, Lumpen noticed, the color of blood—and one very particular gentleman in their midst.
Gentleman
might be a stretch, Lumpen now
thought, but he was evidently important enough to warrant such an impressive escort. He was, for one, entirely covered in what appeared to be some form of paint. A dark, inky splatter reached across his white shirt and freckled his thin, lumpy neck. His frail fingers and cuticles were a permanent deep, rich black.

It took Lumpen Gorse a complete minute to recognize him.

“Hemsen Dumbkin?” She coughed suspiciously. A few emerald-colored feathers accompanied the words and floated lazily between the two.

A satisfied look crept across the calligrapher’s inky face. “A pleasure to see you again, Lumpen.”

The well keeper’s eyes merely narrowed.

“I have come, with your permission, to draw more of your fine water.”

A great gasp penetrated the small walled garden and drifted out in the bitter air as a rolling cloud of misted disbelief
.

“She did not just say what I think she said!” Gigi sputtered, appalled
.

“
It’s your fault, you know—you’re always so tough on her—
”
Lola accused
.

“
Me?
You
hit her first!” Gigi retorted
.

“I was merely trying to break whatever swoon had overtaken the poor thing,” Lola insisted
.

“
Still—she did say
the
name, you know
. Babette—
”

“Shh!”

The two sisters peered at the third. Fifi was quiet now, after her outburst
.

“Let us agree to put this off to the trials of the journey; you know that she is decidedly unused to keeping such a pace,” Lola decided
.

Indeed, the Mildew Sisters had been on the move, leaving the
seclusion of their dilapidated compound on the island of the Eath, traveling together in silence through ancient forests to find themselves at a small, dark, and shuttered tavern
.

The three sisters were not there for the famous brandy (they were, after all, teetotalers). They had journeyed not to the tavern but to the small garden behind it. For within the crumbling walls was a potent source of information, if not herbs. This was not any garden. This was the garden of Ivy Manx—or Poison Ivy, as she was known by her clients. And notably, this garden was one of great wonder, and great danger to the uninitiated. Just the place to make tea and divine the fortunes of the garden’s wayward proprietor
.

Among the old stones, Ivy Manx had long ago propped a broken mirror, and standing before it currently were the three huddled figures of the Mildew Sisters. Frost crisped the damp hems of their decrepit dresses. Steam threaded up from a discarded pile of tea leaves. Yet it was as if the mirror had met with daylight and held it hostage, for quite clearly the reflection was of a meeting beneath the afternoon sun. More curious still, the Mildew Sisters—the ones in the mirror—were very much the picture of youth and beauty, unburdened by their various afflictions
.

Gone were the shroud of greenery, the rindlike skin, the roiling mushroom eruptions
.

Within the shard of glass, three impossible dresses clothed three impossible beauties, the color of each so bewilderingly beautiful, to
name it would be a frustrating exercise in poetry. Crowns of posies kissed their dewy temples, while a garden lush with life was in full bloom beside them
.

Yet in the dismal garden, beneath the brooding clouds, Fifi was coming to, and, realizing she was the subject of some concern and vexation, she spoke
.

“The strangest thing—I had the most peculiar dream!”

“Never mind.” Lola straightened and looked around the dimness purposefully. Flashing Gigi a warning look, she was determined to forget the whole shocking affair. She pointed. “The author’s trestle is just there. Ivy’s friend—the little man who wrote the
Field Guide.
”

“Yes,” Gigi agreed. “Let us go. There still is a chance.”

“A last hope,” Lola concluded
.

A small path strewn with white pebbles led from the garden to the tavern in the twilight. From behind the crumbling walls a few ungraceful footsteps crunched; the snap of deadwood called out an enormous owl from his hunting perch. The Mildew Sisters emerged
.

Through dark, misted fields, Fifi, Gigi, and Lola proceeded past the Hollow Bettle’s limits, over broken casks and rusting hoops, to find the old Northward Corridor rail line. The eldest, Lola, paused to breathe in a chestful of the damp air
.

“The Southern Wood,” she said, satisfied, “has a delicious chill to it tonight, wouldn’t you say
, mes chères
?”

The others paused and eagerly agreed
.

“A night such as this, it seems a shame to be doing the bidding of another.” She was thinking of the forest and its deep and uncharted fens and glades, what nibbles she might find within them
.

Again, all were in agreement
.

“But that we must,” she sighed. “For we have a promise to keep.”

With that, the three strange silhouettes made their way across the treacherous rail ties to a place mid-trestle and, through a dewy spiderweb, disappeared down a small painted door
.

They were followed, quite unbeknownst to them, by a shadow—a strange shadow, one not black, but white
.

vy neared the top of a stark hill, and noted the scenery seemed positively inspiring the farther she got from the dismal brick prison. It was quite evident that the rolling hills and open fields had been carefully tended by knowledgeable hands. The land opened into a patchwork, and Ivy could see, posted as sentries, the occasional scarecrow on guard.

She struggled to find a familiar landmark. The frozen farmland was sparse and stretched out forever, crisscrossed by crumbling stone walls and the occasional shade tree. Rowan, she knew, came from the north, where the dark, rich earth was perfect for farming. But this was not the Northward Corridor, her friend’s homeland, for there, the ancient Craggy Burls rose in jagged peaks.

How far is Templar? she wondered.

A few small birds flitted nearby—alighting upon the crumbling stone walls and hedgerows. They chattered at the happy discovery of some hayseed, and in the weak light of winter made a meal of it. A lazy shadow played across these fields now, a vast jagged V, and Ivy felt a sudden chill. The bird party departed abruptly after several shrill warning cries. The shadow glided, its shape stretching monstrously as it passed over an outcropping of rocks, a crooked menace. Looking into the stark sky, she saw the vast wingspan of a vulture, circling lazily.