Nightfall Gardens, page 9
Silas finished planting the last witch vine and wiped sweat from his forehead. His skin was beaded with dirt and sweat and he daydreamed about a hot bath instead of the cold buckets of water he poured over himself at the end of each workday. He was leaner than when he'd arrived and his hair curled to his eyebrows. He leaned against the hoe and looked up at the windows, but as usual there was no sign of Lily.
“Let’s go, lad. This wheelbarrow isn't going to fill itself, and soon dark will come. Best be away from the Gardens when that happens,” Mr. Hawthorne said. Thirty minutes later, they set off past the Shadow Garden. By now, Silas knew all three of the gardens, at least in theory. Mr. Hawthorne had given him a guided tour his second day and told him not to mind anything he might see. “Most of the beasties don't know where they are anymore, but the ones that do will do anything to make you stray from the path. Remember, you're safe as long as you don't leave the trail. Once you're in the garden proper, heaven have mercy on you.”
The Shadow Garden was the most foul of all of them for it was the one that was conjured by the human mind. Rosebushes bloomed so vibrantly that it was as though they were fed on blood. White trees leeched of their color stretched into the depths of the property. No insects sang there and a chill came from within, like cold off an ice block. Light seemed to evaporate when it hit the edge of the dark grass. Inside the Shadow Garden, there were plenty of spaces to hide and watch. “Three gardens for the three evils that gorged on human misery,” Mr. Hawthorne recited as though it were something he'd learned as a child. “The Labyrinth for the old gods, the Shadow Gardens for the monsters sprung from the imagination, and the White Garden for the spirits that make a mockery of death.”
Silas pushed the wheelbarrow ahead of him along the smooth path. The red moon that was always a ghost on the horizon was beginning to creep up in the gray sky. Mr. Hawthorne was following him, lecturing about plants as he did every evening on their way home, when something stirred in the trees beside them. Silas thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked, he only saw bleached trees shaking with the evening breeze. “Highly lethal to humans if eaten, but one of the most powerful magics if used properly,” Mr. Hawthorne said, explaining the different beneficial properties of Blood Creeper extract. Silas thought that if the groundskeeper were cleaned up, his thick mustache trimmed and he were given a tweed jacket, he would look like one of the college professors the Blackwood family played for in Waxahachie. He glanced back, feeling a burst of warmth for his mentor, and that was when he saw the woman watching from the trees. She was beautiful, but not in the same way as his sister or mother. They were universal beauties who could turn the heads of royalty or beggars on the streets; this woman's beauty resided in her earthiness and the smile that lingered about her red lips, even though she was long dead.
“Horatio,” the woman said. Her voice was barely above a whisper and sounded of the night.
“Faster, lad,” Mr. Hawthorne said ignoring her. Silas could see fear and something else in the groundskeeper's eyes.
“Are you afraid to stop and talk with your wife?” the woman asked. Her voice seemed to come from all around them. She was standing apart from the trees now, and in the red moonlight he saw how much Cassandra resembled her. 'Who is this?' Silas thought.
“It's not my wife, but a demon from hell,” Mr. Hawthorne said, his voice cracking with emotion. He put a hand up to wipe away the tears that were there. “Now go on, lad. Faster.” He stumbled after Silas as the woman followed along at their side.
“That's not true,” the woman said. Her voice encircled them. In the red light, her skin seemed almost transparent. She was as white as the trees in the garden and her eyes were dark. Her fingernails were ragged and sharp as razors. “I'm your Belinda. I'm the one you married under the poplar trees by the winding brook. Ah, what a day that was. All of the riders in their fine wolf cloaks and the mist people came from miles around. Even Mrs. Deiva and her husband came from the house to watch. It was a celebration that lasted for days.”
“Stop it, witch! Don't sully her name,” Mr. Hawthorne said.
Silas looked back and gasped. The groundskeeper was staggering blind from the tears and was inches away from stepping off the path into the Shadow Garden.
“Mr. Hawthorne, watch where you're going,” Silas said, slowing the wheelbarrow again.
Belinda hissed at him and turned back to her husband. “It was a celebration that lasted all the years of my life, through the birth of our daughter and many a planting.”
“No more,” Mr. Hawthorne said. “Leave me be.”
“I tried to get you to leave. The three of us to go through the gates and start a new life, but you wouldn't do it, wouldn't leave behind the centuries your family took care of this forsaken land. Look at me now,” Belinda said, posing in moonlight. Her jaws opened so wide Silas could no longer see her face, only a mouth with dozens of sharp, crooked teeth so that he wondered in amazement how she ever managed to keep from tearing her lips apart. “Do you like what the Smiling Ladies have made me?”
“No, no. It can't be,” Mr. Hawthorne said. His cheeks were wet with tears. “I would have done anything to help you.”
“Except risk your own life,” she said. A thick, red tongue rolled out of her mouth and waved in the air like an insect antenna.
“Cassandra, I had to think of Cassandra,” he said.
“How is my daughter? Tell her that Mother can't wait to give her a kiss,” Belinda said with a cold laugh.
Mr. Hawthorne stopped walking. He was standing feet away from crossing into the Shadow Garden. The woman who had been his wife was beckoning him to her with the claws that used to be her hands. As Silas watched, the groundskeeper took one, then two steps towards her.
“No!” Silas yelled. He dropped the wheelbarrow and it dumped over the earth and dead witch vines. He grabbed the groundskeeper and pulled him away from the garden. “Mr. Hawthorne, Mr. Hawthorne, please. Think of your daughter.”
The groundskeeper looked as if he didn't know who Silas was, then recognition stirred in his eyes. “You're right, boy. It wouldn't be fair to Cassie. I'm tired, though. Sometimes a man gets so tired.”
“Let’s go,” Silas said, lifting the wheelbarrow. “Everything looks better after a good night’s sleep.”
“You'll pay for this,” the woman called as Silas and Mr. Hawthorne left the trail. “I'll feast on your sister's blood, you fool.”
They were nearing the groundskeeper's cottage before either of them spoke. “Best not bring this up around Cassandra, lad,” Mr. Hawthorne said, tired-sounding. “It'll only upset her.”
Silas was emptying the dead vines in a compost heap behind the barn when Osbold landed on his shoulder and nuzzled tenderly at him. In the past month, he and the little gargoyle had become fast friends. The same couldn't be said for Silas and the groundskeeper's daughter. If anything, she took a particular pleasure in insulting him and his family. The nicer he tried to be, the meaner it made her.
“There he is, old jelly-bean eyes,” Cassandra said, coming around the barn with a smirk on her face. The different colors of his eyes were a favorite insult of hers. “Did you chip a nail helping with the planting?”
Silas thought of the thing in the Shadow Garden that had claimed to be Cassandra’s mother and ground his teeth.
“You'll never guess where I spent my day,” she said, leaning on the fence to watch him muck out the last of the wheelbarrow.
“No, but I imagine you'll tell me,” he said.
“Fine, then. Since you asked, I spent the day with the lady of the manor, Lily Blackwood.”
Silas stopped and looked at her. Cassandra had a pleased look on her face. “You saw Lily?”
“In the flesh. Not nearly as unpleasant as her brother. She invited me back again in two days.”
“How — how was she?”
“As fine as anyone can be in her situation. She told me to give you a message.”
“Well, what is it?”
Cassandra ignored him. She put her hands behind her back and began to whistle while pretending to walk an invisible line so she could draw out his torment. When Silas wouldn't give her the satisfaction of an irritated look, she spoke. “Oh, all right. She said to tell you that she was fine and that she....,” the groundskeeper’s daughter paused as though she were going to vomit the word. “And to tell you that she loved you.”
“And what did you tell her?” Silas sighed in relief that his sister was fine. Osbold rubbed his leathery skin against the side of Silas’s head and picked at something in his hair.
“I wondered how a girl so beautiful could have such an odd-looking brother,” Cassandra laughed. “Come on Osbold, let’s leave the stable boy to finish his chores.” She put out her arm and the gargoyle flew and perched on her arm.
“You'll tell her I'm fine as well?” he said.
“I'm not in the habit of being a messenger,” she said. “It's lucky for you I'm in a good mood tonight.”
'What did I do to make her hate me so?' Silas thought, as he approached the bunkhouse. A group of lathery horses were tied in front and he almost broke into a run when he saw his uncle's among them. It had been more than a month since Jonquil and the other men had headed into the mist and though none of the riders mentioned it, Silas could tell they were nervous. “Not normal to be gone so long,” he heard Larkspur say one night after he'd drank two flagons of wine. “We need to go after them.” There were ayes from the other riders. Skuld banged his one good arm on the table hard enough that it rattled the wooden plates and cups. “If Jonquil's been gone so long it’s because he's got a good reason.” Silas almost told Skuld about the man he'd seen talking with the wolf that night, but at the last minute decided to keep it to himself. Which didn't mean the boy hadn't tried to figure out who it was. There were 32 riders in the bunkhouse. Seven of those Silas discarded instantly; they were old riders who couldn't do more than cook, keep up the camp, and talk about their glory days. Silas also discounted his uncle and the men with him, and that knocked the number down to 20 — still large, but more manageable. He was inclined to take Arfast and Skuld from the list as well, which made the number less. From there, he observed the remaining riders and their routines, trying to deduce the mysterious person, but with no luck. Silas slept lightly and watched who entered and left the bunkhouse, but whoever it was, he never repeated his journey into the woods.
Voices spilled from the bunkhouse in excitement as he approached. The front door was open and oily light fell on trampled mud in front of the barracks. A pair of dusk riders stood in the shadows watching the meadow for signs of anything approaching. Their wolf cloaks were filthy yellow and they clutched muskets to their chests.
“How long?” Silas asked, stepping onto the sagging porch.
“Nought as the crow flies,” one of the riders said. “Came out of the mist as though they were being chased by the devil himself.”
A scream of pain from inside the bunkhouse ripped the night, followed by the sound of someone shouting “Hold him down!” Silas moved towards the door and the rider blocked him.
“What are you doing?” Silas asked.
“It's your uncle, he —.” Concern etched the rider's features. “He's hurt badly.”
Silas pushed past the man and entered a bunkhouse that was scrambling with activity. Chaos reigned. Men were running back and forth. One rider was throwing boxes from a cupboard, wildly searching for something. Another collected herbs and potions from a dusty shelf. Three men lay on cots and were being forced to hold still. “They've gone mad with fever. Bring me water,” Larkspur shouted. He was feeling the temperature of a rider whose face boiled red and eyes looked ready to pop from their sockets. Veins throbbed in the man's forehead and neck. Larkspur pushed him back down on the cot. “Hurry, he doesn't have much time.”
Silas searched the room for his uncle. A group of riders huddled around a table deep in discussion. Skuld was shouting. “Tell me what happened again. Blast it!” Silas saw Brayeur, one of the riders who went with his uncle, stretched out on a cot with a bandage over one eye. His skin was a sickly yellow and a rank odor poured from him. Brayeur couldn’t have been more than thirty, but something had sapped his energy and he spoke as though it exhausted him. “I've told you, I don't know. We followed strange trails into the mist until we were lost. That was when the attack happened.”
“And you didn't see what it was?”
The rider swallowed. “I caught only a glimpse.”
“What did you see?”
“A man,” he said.
“A man did this?” Skuld said, disbelieving.
“I don't know. I only saw him for an instant.”
“What did he look like?”
“The mist plays strange tricks,” Brayeur said.
“Tell me. Blast it,” Skuld said. Across the room, one of the injured riders called out for his mother in a delirium.
Brayeur stared lost in memory, struggling to find the exact words to describe what had attacked them.
“I heard the screams before I saw him. We'd been traveling for days, through a mist thick enough to test a man's sanity. I could barely see the horse in front of me. We were past the villages, well into the area where the nothingness starts.”
“Why would you go that deep? It's too easy to get lost and never find your way back,” Skuld said in disbelief.
“I can’t— can’t remember clearly. We were tracking whatever was dragging the villagers from their homes and killing them. It was Jonquil who discovered the tracks beside the cabin. We found the bodies nearby, fresh dead — an old man and a little boy. They were — they were skinned alive, empty husks, all of the good stuff scooped out of them,” The rider rocked back and forth at the terrible image.
“And you followed the trail?” Skuld said, trying to get the man back on track.
“Yes, deeper into the mist until everyone thought we were lost, but Jonquil wouldn't quit. Kept saying we were going to catch up with whatever it was. That we could stop the killing. And then, instead of us finding it, the creature found us.”
Brayeur told Skuld how he’d heard screaming coming from the direction in which Jonquil had gone. The sound was strange in the blinding mist and had echoed from different directions until he was disoriented. His horse whinnied with fear and it took all his skill to calm it down. Somewhere to his right, a rider called out, “Stay back, I warn you,” an explosion followed as a flintlock was fired. He pulled his own pistol and loosened the strap on his sword. Every rider was prepared for death, for they lived in its constant shadow at Nightfall Gardens, but that didn't mean any wanted to die. “Riders to me,” Jonquil called from the fog, but Brayeur couldn't tell where his call had come from. Another shriek came from nearby and he gripped the gun tightly, his palm sweating. A body flew from the mist and landed close enough that he could tell it was Fenwick, one of the riders. His skin looked as though it'd been turned inside out; he was a mess of blood and gore. Brayeur spurred his horse forward and charged directly into the creature.
“What did he look like?” Skuld asked, more gently now that he'd heard the horrible story.
“He was seven feet tall. Aye, the tallest person I've ever seen and his arms were no bigger around than a whipping branch, but stronger than ten of us. His skin was hard as iron and sickly gray. His beard touched his knees and I saw live things moving inside of it. Whatever he was, I saw no eyes, only empty sockets where they used to be. A pair of antlers grew from his forehead and glistened with blood and poison,” Brayeur shuddered at the ghastly memory.
Silas saw a flash of recognition cross Skuld's face, but one second later it was gone.
“And how'd you get out of that mess?” Skuld asked.
Brayeur laughed so hard that Silas thought the others were going to have to hold him down and force draught of the mina worm down his gullet to calm him. “My gun,” he said, when he could continue. “I pulled the trigger and it backfired, blew me off my horse and near killed me. When I woke up, he was gone, one of the riders was dead and the others were torn and injured.”
“And why would he leave without finishing the job?” Skuld asked.
“Who’s to say he didn’t? We're poisoned, can't you tell? It's searing our blood and killing us.”
“What could do such a thing?” One of the riders asked Skuld.
“Eldritch,” Skuld said after a long pause, and Silas felt fear go through the room at the name. Several of the riders started muttering. “Couldn't be,” one of the riders said. “Jonquil chased him into the nothingness. No one has ever come back from that.”
Skuld frowned. “Then no one did a lot of damage to five of our best riders,” he said. “If it’s true he's back, then we're in more trouble than I thought.”
Silas pushed out of the group and saw Arfast helping tend one of the wounded riders. “Where's Jonquil?” he asked, looking for his uncle.
The young rider looked up at him as he cleaned a gash on the rider’s chest. The warmth and humor that was normally there was gone. “No lies, little one. He’s injured something fierce,” Arfast said.
Silas gasped when he realized his uncle was spread out on the cot in front of him. Jonquil’s face was shriveled and the color was drained from him. Even his lips were white. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he burned with fever. He was so ghostly looking that Silas was surprised when his chest heaved to draw breath. Jonquil’s mouth moved as if he were trying to speak.
“What’s wrong with him?” Silas asked.
“The poison has worked its way deep. It’s powerful dark, from the times when the old gods walked. Nothing works against it,” Arfast said. As if to prove his point, he poured blue liquid from a vial on the wound and Jonquil thrashed with madness as it turned from aqua to bubbling black. “It’s too strong.”
