The Garden of Darkness (34 page)

“Who are you?” asked Clare.

“My name’s Dante.”

“Like the poet?”

“Like the poet. My father’s choice.” He leaned forward to rest on his hoe, and Clare could see the sprinkling of red freckles on his chest.

“You still have the Pest rash,” she said. “Does it stay even after the cure?”

“I’m not cured yet,” said Dante before turning away from them.

The older children struggling with the goat barely acknowledged them.

“We’ll see you inside,” said the one Dante had called Britta, and then she got behind the goat and started to push. Doug got in front and pulled. The goat didn’t move.

“Try scratching it under the chin for a while,” said Ramah.

“Thanks,” said Doug and then ignored her advice.

Clare, Jem and Ramah walked on.

“Dante seemed nice,” said Clare finally.

“The word ‘nice’ doesn’t mean anything,” said Jem.

“Well. The two with the goat
didn’t
seem particularly nice.”

“Point taken.”

“So I can use the word ‘nice?’”

“No.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Ramah. “But we need a plan.”

“We don’t get separated,” said Jem. “We act all innocent.”

“We
are
all innocent,” said Ramah. “That’s what bothers me.”

Then the gate was in front of them, set in a formidable wall of stone. Jem gave it a push, and it swung open.

Inside, the landscape was lush. The thick grass was carefully clipped. There was a pond with a fountain bubbling in the center. Three ducks waddled over the grass, and a peacock cocked its head at a peahen and spread his tail. Clare thought of Bird Boy: he would have been ecstatic.

The peacock saw them and screeched.

Beyond the rolling lush lawns and gardens stood a mansion, its windows glittering in the sun. Someone, apparently, had decided to build an English manor in the rural United States.

“This makes Thyme House look like a run-down farm,” said Clare.

“Thyme House
is
a run-down farm,” said Jem. “But we still love it.”

Clare had expected something quite different. She had pictured children fighting for survival, scavenging and hoarding food, not weeding ornamental gardens. This looked like nothing less than Paradise.

She idly wondered about the location of the snake. But mostly she was thinking about whether or not there might be warm water for bathing. She had a momentary fantasy about washing her hair in a hot shower.

They turned a corner, and Clare was startled. She automatically took Jem’s hand. There must have been twenty-five children in front of her—and they were actually playing. A game of foursquare was going on in the corner of the courtyard; two small children were chalking out a place for hopscotch; other games involved a lot of running and some hiding and much laughter.

When the children in the courtyard caught sight of them, they began to crowd around. Most of them were younger than Ramah. Where Clare could see throat or chest, she saw the Pest rash.

“New ones!”

“You’re welcome here.”

“Someone get Britta.”

“What’s it like out there now?” asked a girl, but she was shushed.

An unnaturally beautiful little girl with a heart-shaped face and a long braid reached out and touched Ramah, who drew back.

“Sorry,” the little girl said. “But we haven’t had new ones in a while.”

At that moment, Britta and Doug, along with the goat, arrived out of breath. The effect was instantaneous. The children stopped playing.

“It’s still recess,” said a wispy little girl. “You said we could play.”

“It’s all right,” said Doug. “But one of you get the goat back to the barn.”

Britta looked at Jem, Ramah and Clare as if she found them less than interesting. Clare stood up straight and let go of Jem’s hand. Letting go, she realized how hard she had been holding on to him.

“You seem to be in charge,” said Jem.

“Until Master’s back,” said Britta.

Doug, oddly, eagerly, looked hard at Clare.

“You’re staring, Doug,” said Britta. She sounded haughty. “It’s rude.” Clare rather hoped that the goat had kicked her.

“It looks like you came just in time,” said one of the younger ones. She tossed her head, and her tight braid flipped onto her shoulder. Clare was suddenly reminded of Laura Sparks, Michael’s girlfriend from long ago. She also noted how very clean the group of the Master’s children looked. There were a lot of shiny faces and a lot of just-washed hair. The fantasy of a hot shower returned. Then Dante came in the gate, still carrying his hoe. His shirt was smudged with soil and pollen and grass stains, and his face was dirty. He smiled at them, but Britta snapped at him.

“Go get cleaned up. You’re filthy.” Dante fled.

Then Britta led them into the mansion. “We’ll give you your rooms now,” she said. “Work assignments come whenever Master gets back. We’ll heat water for you—we only take two bucket hot showers here usually, but I’m going to tell Fran to give you three buckets. You look like you need it.”

“A hot shower,” said Clare.

“Don’t get ready to sell your soul yet,” said Jem.

“Finally,” said Britta, “don’t go prowling about on your own. You’ll just get lost.”

“No prowling,” said Jem.

“You’re part of the Ingathering now,” said Britta. “That’s a good thing.”

“‘Ingathering,’” murmured Ramah.

“When Master gets back, he’ll have a few questions for you. But while he’s gone, I sort you out. I find out who you are, or were, and then I decide how you’ll fit in.”

Clare raised an eyebrow at Jem. Ramah sighed.

While they waited for Fran, Britta questioned them, and the story of their journey began to emerge. Clare noticed how careful Jem was to leave certain things out. He never mentioned Mirri and Sarai. He even left out Sheba.

The rooms were the real issue. Britta insisted that they be separated.

“Just during sleeping hours,” said Doug. He glanced at Britta, and she nodded.

“I don’t think so,” said Clare.

“The rules of Ingathering are for everyone,” said Britta.

“’Ingathering’ again,” said Ramah under her breath.

“You need us.” Britta’s tone was icy.

“You need us, too,” said Ramah. “I just haven’t figured out why.”

“I don’t know, Britta,” said Doug. “What harm could it do if they share a room?”

“We’re not having sex,” Ramah said coolly. “If that’s the problem.”

Clare was embarrassed, and Jem blushed so very deeply that she worried for a moment that he was ill.

“It isn’t worth arguing,” said Britta. “Doug, get Fran and tell her to hurry. She’ll get them settled. We have to monitor the others.”

“‘Monitor,’” sighed Ramah.

When Fran arrived, Clare saw that she was the sharp-faced girl who had reminded her of Laura Sparks.

“Put them in the tapestry room on the second floor,” said Britta. “It’s plenty big for three. But no dog.”

“That won’t work,” said Clare.

Bear walked up to Britta, and Britta backed up very quickly as he tried to sniff her.

“Then take the dog,” she said. “But Master’ll want it leashed.”

Fran led them up a staircase with a peculiar banister: at its base, the wood was sculpted into a leering gargoyle; at the top, it ended in the face of a man with vines coming out of his mouth.

“The green man,” said Clare.

Fran took them part way down a long hall.

“Here you are,” she said. “Get settled in and get cleaned up. The bathroom’s first door on the left. Come down in a couple of hours for dinner, if not before. Everyone’s going to want to hear your story.” Then she left.

Forty minutes later, the three of them were clean and warm. The hot three-bucket shower had been magnificent, and Clare had washed her hair with real shampoo.

They explored their room. Two tapestries hung on the wall. The titles were underneath: ‘Diana and the Hunt’ and ‘A Royal Picnic.’ Clare looked closely at the Diana, but she seemed a little solid for the part. Ramah would have been an infinitely better model for the weaver.

Jem lifted the tapestries and looked behind.

“This isn’t
The Secret Garden
,” said Clare. “You’re not going to find a door.”

“Maybe not,” said Jem. “But you do have to admit, this place looks like something out of
The Secret Garden
.”

There was a big four-poster bed with a canopy and a smaller bed with a sleigh headboard on which was painted a tiny sailing ship in a stormy sea. They were near the top of the house, and the window looked out over a great green lawn.

“Let’s take a look around before we go down,” said Jem.

“I think that counts as prowling,” Clare said.

“Yes. Let’s prowl. If we run into Britta, we’ll say we’re lost.”

“I vote for prowling, too,” said Ramah.

“I just hope we don’t find anything awful,” said Clare, “before I have another shower.”

They wandered down the hallways and tried the doors they came to. All were unlocked. Most of them led to bedrooms of no interest.

“They’re not big on personal belongings,” said Ramah. “Have you noticed? No photos. No jewelry.”

While they were exploring the upper rooms, they ran into Dante. His hair was wet, and he had changed his clothes.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m clean.”

“We’re looking for skeletons in closets,” said Jem.

“You won’t find any,” said Dante. He hesitated. “But can I help you look? Britta never lets us poke around.”

They found linen closets, and closets filled with mops and brooms, and chests full of blankets and quilts and rooms full of old pieces of furniture. One room had a sewing machine in it with a supply of sewing equipment: scissors, straight pins, bobbins, knitting needles and plenty of things that Clare couldn’t put a name to.

“Kelly would have loved this,” said Dante. “Kelly was my mother. She knew how to sew. She made quilts.”

They tried more doors, but, except for the occasional tapestry or painting, the rooms were uniformly dull.

“Ramah’s right,” said Jem. “There should be more personal stuff. I thought the house would be full of stuffed animals and mementos of parents and things like that.”

“‘The old world’s gone,’” said Dante. “‘The past is dead.’”

“You’re quoting someone,” said Clare.

“Master.”

“Look,” said Clare. “We just want to get the cure and leave. That’s all. We want to go home.”

“You’ll have to talk to Master,” said Dante.

T
HE UPPER FLOORS
of the house were light and airy. Clare could smell beeswax and polish and pine. The atmosphere was hushed.

“Let’s keep prowling,” said Jem.

Finally they found a door that was locked. It was low and uninviting and painted an ugly yellow.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” said Dante. He suddenly seemed nervous, less confident, younger.

Jem pushed at the door, but it didn’t give way. Ramah finally spoke up.

“I’m going back to the sewing room,” she said. “It has what I need.”

Ramah returned and picked the lock neatly with a bent pin and a narrow knitting needle. Clare had the curious sensation that they were doing something very much against the will of the place itself. The corridors didn’t seem so airy now; the house seemed to close around them.

Then the door swung open.

“That’s excellent,” said Clare to Ramah. “Any other special skills?”

“Oh, yes.”

Windows lined one side of the room, and the light was so bright that they had to squint. Jem quickly closed the door behind them. From the windows, they could see the Master’s entire domain—from the fountain in the courtyard to a small pond behind the gardens. Beyond that were rolling hills. On the floor of the room, piles of books had apparently spilled over from a small bookcase. Clare leafed through them. Some of the titles were familiar to her:
Great Expectations
,
Lolita
,
The Screwtape Letters
. Then there were textbooks on medicine and psychology. She opened one of the medical texts and found that, at the top of the first page, someone had written ‘SYLVER.’ She showed the others.

“That’s what’s written on the Cure patch,” said Jem to Dante. “What’s it doing here?”

But Dante didn’t know.

At the other end of the room was a wooden angel that looked as if it had stepped out of the fourteenth century. The angel’s face was painted, and the rest was covered with gilt. It stood with wings folded, as if it had been caught at a moment of rest. At the foot of the angel was a small box.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come in here,” said Dante.

Ramah, with one finger, lifted the lid.

Photographs.

There were hundreds of them, and all of them were of children. Some of the children were in a playground; they were caught forever in a moment on the teeter-totter, frozen going down slides, stopped in the arc of a swing. Ramah examined one carefully.

“It’s a close-up,” she said. “But these children aren’t looking into the camera.”

Jem shuffled through the photographs again, taking a moment to look at each one. Then he put them down.

“What?” asked Clare.

“It’s just that they all have blue eyes,” said Jem. “The photographs focus on their eyes. Sometimes the eyes are all you can see clearly.”

“I don’t like this,” said Ramah.

Clare, still under the influence of the hot shower, wasn’t ready to be suspicious yet.

“They’re just photographs,” she said.

Dante nodded in agreement.

Then Clare turned away and found herself staring into the eyes of the angel. The eyes had been painted a pale blue. They gazed out at the room as if nothing in the world could disturb the angel’s rest, as if everything in the universe had been weighed and measured and dismissed. At the base of the statue was the word ‘SYLVER.’ Clare couldn’t understand the expression on the angel’s face at first, and then she realized that it was all in those eyes: blank, flat, perfectly indifferent. There was no room in those eyes for sentiment or affection or love.

She had found the snake.