The Night Gardener (16 page)

Neighhhhhh!

A high-pitched whinny broke the silence. It came from across the lawn and nearly made Molly gasp. She opened her eyes to see the man facing the stables. The door was open, and through it Molly could see Galileo inside, kicking, snorting, straining against his rope. The horse whinnied again, knocking the walls of his stall, fighting to get free. Molly smiled. She would have kissed that stupid horse if she could.

The man waved his hand, and a sharp gust of wind hit the stable door, slamming it shut with a violent clatter. He lowered his hand and turned back toward the house. Molly listened as his footsteps receded into the darkness. She wanted desperately to run, but she knew there was no place to run to. They were trapped.

She felt Kip stir at her side. He was staring up at her, his eyes wide and pleading. “What do we do?” His voice was less than a whisper.

Molly stared back, and for the first time in her life, she had no story or smile for him. “You were right, Kip.” Her voice was shaking. “Right all along. We never shoulda come here. Tomorrow we run.”

Tomorrow, however, was a long way off. She held her brother close against her chest, shivering in the darkness, listening to the sharp crunch of the man’s spade as it cut the soil over and over again.

Digging …

Digging …

Digging …

ip heard two voices in the darkness.

“It’s like I told you,” the first voice said. “They’re dead.”

“They’re not dead, dummy,” said the second voice. “Look, you can see their breath.”

“Are, too! That breath is just their ghosts leaving the bodies. I think we should play funeral. You’ll be pallbearer, and I can give the homily!”

“They’re just sleeping. Look here, I’ll prove it.”

Kip heard a deep hawking sound, and he caught a faint aroma of licorice. He opened his eyes to find a long glob of black spit dangling just above his nose. Alistair and Penny hovered over him, blocking out the blue sky.

“Get offa me!” Kip shouted, shoving Alistair back with both arms.

Alistair fell onto the grass and the spit landed on his own shirt, a sight that made Penny burst into laughter. “Wait until Mummy sees what you’ve done to your clothes,” she said. “Then it’ll be
you
who needs the funeral.”

Kip pulled himself up, blinking against the morning sun. He had been asleep on the lawn; his back and sides were wet with dew, and he could feel the imprint of grass against one cheek. His left leg was stiff with cold. Molly was beside him, curled up against the well. He touched her arm—

“No!” She jolted awake, eyes wild with terror.

“It’s just me.” Kip knelt in front of her, taking her shoulders in his hands. “We’re all right, Molls.” He tried to make his voice calm, the way his father used to when Kip got frightened by storms. “We fell asleep outside, but
we’re all right
.”

Molly blinked her eyes, still breathing heavily. “And …
him
?” she said.

Kip knew exactly what
him
she was speaking of. He grabbed his crutch and stood up, ignoring the pain shooting into his hip. He gripped the well for support as he and Molly looked toward the house. In the daylight, everything appeared normal, peaceful even. The new hole around the base of the tree was now hidden under a bed of leaves.

Penny forced her head between them. “Why were you two sleeping out here?”

Kip exchanged a look with his sister, who smiled at Penny.

“You never slept under the stars, miss? Why, there’s no softer blanket than an evenin’ fog.” She stretched her arms in an exaggerated manner and yawned. “One night out here, and I’m as rested as a rock.”

Alistair glared at her dress, now visible under her open coat.
The green velvet was ruined beyond repair. “Is that one of Mother’s dresses? Did you steal it?”

Kip hopped toward him. “The mistress made it a present. And if I hear you accuse my sister again, it’ll be more than just spit on that shirt of yours.”

Molly stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine, Kip.” She pulled her coat closed and looked back to the house. “What time is it?”

“Nearly ten,” Penny answered. “We missed breakfast and there’s no hot water
and
I had to dress myself.” Kip thought this last bit might explain why her frock was on backward. “Mummy’s having a proper fit. She’s gone twice through the house looking for you.”

“She’ll probably fire you both,” Alistair said.

“Wouldn’t matter if she did,” Kip shot back. He remembered what Molly had told him the night before. They were leaving this place. Leaving and never coming back. He looked back at his sister. “Tell ’em, Molls.”

Molly leaned toward him. “Not like this.” She lowered her voice. “We canna up and leave like bandits. Let me square things with the mistress first. I owe her that.”

Kip stared at her, uncertain. He had thought they would run at first light. Now she wanted to wait. Still, he knew it was the honorable thing to do. And it would take him at least until noon to prepare the wagon. So long as they got away before nightfall, they would surely be fine. “Tonight,” he said.

Molly nodded. “Tonight.”

’mon, Gal.” Kip pulled open the heavy stable door. “We got some gardening to do.” A plan was forming in his mind. If he had one day left in this place, he might as well make use of the time by learning what he could about the tree. He splashed water on his face and changed into some dry clothes. He loaded the wagon with everything he might need for his tests: a hand spade, two feed bags, some rope, a wooden rake, a watering can, and several flowers in clay pots.

Galileo was reluctant to approach the tree, and so when Kip got the wagon close enough, he unhooked the horse, who trotted gratefully back to his stall. Kip unloaded his tools and laid them carefully on the grass. Now he was ready.

He picked up one of the dry leaves around the base of the tree. It was brittle and had a starlike shape that he didn’t recognize. A breeze swept past, pulling the leaf from his grasp. He stared at the blanket of orange and brown leaves surrounding the trunk. Everything else in the valley was lush and green, but this tree was bare. “Why would you be shedding in the middle o’ spring?” he asked.

Kip had noticed that no grass or weeds grew near the base of the tree. He had assumed that this was because the house blocked the sun, but now he suspected it was something more. Using a hand spade, he dug a hole about the size of his fist in the soil. He unpotted one of Mistress Windsor’s flowers and planted it in the hole. He pressed the soil around the roots and stem, packing it firm but not too firm.

Kip pulled himself up with his crutch and went to retrieve his watering can. When he turned back around, he caught his breath. “You little sneak!” The flower he had planted just moments before was now slumped over, its red petals turned brown. He dropped the can and hobbled closer. He knelt down, feeling the limp stem and withered leaves. There was no question: the flower was dead.

Kip spent the rest of the morning repeating his experiment, with similar results. He planted more than a dozen blossoms of all different kinds. No matter how deeply he planted them or how carefully he packed the earth or how much he watered them, every one of the flowers expired. By early afternoon the tree was surrounded by a garden of decay. The strangest thing was that Kip never actually
saw
it happen. He would get up to fetch a tool or glance away for a moment, and when he looked back, the flower would be dead.

“It ain’t natural,” he said after discovering that his thirteenth and final plant had shriveled away. He peered up at the tree towering over him. Everything in its shadow seemed to die. But why?

Kip hobbled to the trunk, studying its rough black hide. He
touched the bark, and a sharp wind rushed past him. He took his hand away from the tree, and the wind stopped. He shivered; it had felt like a warning.

He had noticed a number of low branches around the base of the trunk, which he thought might provide a boost to reach the higher limbs. He reached for a branch but stopped short of touching it. The branch was dark and smooth and slightly curved. It wasn’t a branch at all—

It was the handle of an axe.

The handle looked very old and had become a part of the tree. Kip could see the swollen knot of bark where the tree had swallowed the axe head. He stared at the other “branches” sticking out from the base: a crude hatchet, the stub of a hunting knife, a rusted bucksaw, even what looked like the hilt of a broadsword. Some of the handles looked centuries old, others looked more recent—but every one of them had failed in its purpose. “It’s like a regular battlefield,” he said, his voice a whisper.

Kip hobbled back from the tree. He had no idea what stories might be behind these different handles. It was clear that many people had tried to cut down the tree, and something—or
someone
—had stopped them.

There was just one more place to look for answers, a place Kip had been avoiding all morning. Even now, he could feel it at his heels, calling to him, taunting him. He swallowed, turning around to face the pit.

He and Molly had spent half the night listening to the night man dig into the earth—his movements slow and steady, like the rhythm of a keen. Why was the man digging holes? Was he planting something? Searching for something? Hiding something?

Kip raked the area until he found the spot where the night man had been digging. Just as on that first afternoon, it was filled to the brim with dry leaves. He stared at the leaves, imagining what might be waiting beneath them. He adjusted his grip on the rake and started the slow work of clearing the leaves from the hole.

By the time Kip finished, he had created a pile of leaves as big as he was. The hole was actually more of a trench, twice as long as it was wide. He put down his rake and peered over the edge. It looked ordinary enough—he could have dug one just like it with a good shovel and enough time. Still, as he peered into its shadows, something made him uncomfortable.

Kip sat on the ground and swung his legs into the hole. He hesitated, knowing what he had to do next. The hole was not too deep. He could get down there if he wanted. But he did not want to. He took his crutch and tossed it over the edge. His precious Courage, the one thing he had from his father, lay at the bottom of the hole. “Now I
have
to go down there,” he said.