The Shepherd of Weeds (18 page)

hould you be so inclined, you might, on a nice spring evening, remove yourself to the outdoors and listen. With very little effort, you are sure to hear music. The songs might even fill the air. Birds are nothing if not precise, and were you to speak the language of the birds, you would find it quite complex—with many words, for instance, for describing food, and intricate directions for arriving at it. But also—and more interestingly—words that resist translation entirely.

Ivy did not speak Bird.

Klair and Lofft
did
speak Ivy’s language, however, and but for this bit of fortune Ivy and Rue would have been entirely in the dark while the caucus continued on deep into the night. A yellow moon was perched in the hills in the distance, and although Ivy could not be sure, she felt certain that was the direction of Templar, of Cecil.

The old crow Shoo began to speak. “Welcome, creatures of the air.”

The clucking, trilling, lilting, and whistling all ceased as a profound respect for the caucus’s leader set in.

“There is a bitter wind that blows through Caux. Our skies have grown dangerous,” Shoo cawed as Klair translated for Ivy and Rue. “Great burning fires and billowing black fog menace the air above the city of Rocamadour. The traitorous vultures grow daring; I have heard unspeakable whispers that they make grotesque alliances.”

Shoo paused for a twitter of disapproval for the unwelcome beasts.

“Our own migration routes are threatened by drifting smoke and ash—vile emissions from the Tasters’ Guild. I have called each and every one of you here on wing to report, and to remedy what we can—if indeed it is not too late. It is therefore time for us to lay down our various conflicts, and assemble the fragments in our possession. The fragments, my dear friends, of the Prophecy.”

And then, according to long-standing protocol and the caucus’s set of arcane rules, Shoo began the lengthy process of welcoming the delegates. The crow named each and every one in attendance, neglecting not a soul.

Birds of the Southwind he greeted first, from the south lands of Kruxt, their colorful feathers and vocal songs jaunty and vain. Shoo thanked them for enduring the frozen winter for the
caucus. He turned then to the sharp-eyed, hook-beaked arctic birds of the Northwind, past the mountains. He was thoughtful about their long journey, and excited to hear their news from beyond the borders of the Craggy Burls. He hailed the wisdom and patience of the seabirds of the Westwind, calling on their knowledge of the tides and innate partnerships with the surf and sea. The birds of the Eastwind—the ground-dwelling, dancing birds of the prairies—he greeted as old friends. He congratulated each and every bird before him for the simple fact that their wings had held them aloft, and for answering his call. And then he turned to the albatrosses from Pimcaux.

“The doors are slowly opening again,” Shoo said. “May someday Caux and Pimcaux’s borders dissolve completely. It is my great pleasure to welcome the seabirds—emissaries from our sister land Pimcaux.”

And after much hooting and whistling, Shoo called the caucus to session.

Because a great many things had unfolded in their land since their last gathering, the old crow began with a history lesson. The History of the Birds is a long affair, and one occasionally open to interpretation, as most birds are generally opportunists and favor exaggeration. Crows, who never lie, are for this reason ideal keepers of the past.

But the History of the Birds does not concern us here and, indeed, is quite their own to tell.

There is one point in the history of the creatures of the air that intersects quite squarely with that of the people of the earth, and it is on this small footnote that Shoo eventually spoke. It was a sad end, an end to a life—in particular, the beloved Princess Violet.

Princess Violet had the distinction of being the daughter of the Good King Verdigris, and her death was a tragedy to everyone except the traitorous advisor to the King, Vidal Verjouce, and the subsequent rulers, the Deadly Nightshades. Indeed, Violet’s mysterious poisoning was Caux’s very first poisoning, and her death brought upon darkness—a suspicion that blanketed the land—and the people of Caux began to forage deeper into the ancient forests and use herbs to poison and kill. The Tasters’ Guild was born as the need for reliable tasters soon followed the Nightshades’ poisoned policies. Violet’s death remained unsolved as her father slipped deeper into misery.

Another death occurred that day—of special concern to the caucus—and this was the demise of the barnacle goose Fern.

Fern, in her time a plump mother of thirty-seven goslings, was inadvertently and unfairly the cause of the Princess’s tragic end, for Fern had been roasted by the cook and served—poisoned—to the princess. (At Shoo’s mention of Princess Violet and Fern, a kerfuffle broke out in the geese section, which took some time to settle. Barnacle geese, to this very day, are
known to be quite disagreeable: being the unwitting cause of a princess’s death will make anyone irritable.)

Ivy and Rue began to see that the caucus was going to be a long affair. The events of the day—Ivy’s grueling visit to the Mind Garden, Rue’s draining illness—had begun to take their toll. The caucus was large and, therefore, tended toward disorganization. Scattered flocks were still arriving, coasting in to land on cupped wings. Small disruptions would pop up as the tardy delegates settled in, or, as in the case of the geese, in reaction to Shoo’s narrative. A vast restlessness was thick in the air. The field of arrivals stretched on into the darkness, and although the excitement was palpable, it was tempered by a solemnity—a respect for the unusual proceedings and, even more astonishing, the presence of two human girls.

Despite the activity, Ivy was finding it impossible to stay awake against Klair’s warmth. Her eyes were shutting on their own accord, and Klair had ceased her whispered translations as a result. But Ivy sat up suddenly to search for both the well keeper and Six, wondering suddenly if the pair had made it away from the balcony at Jalousie. From her spot, she could make out the abandoned estate, but it was shrouded in night. She saw no one.

Klair and Lofft were speaking quietly to each other, their voices a pleasant windsong. Together, they had decided something.

“We are needed here in a moment,” Lofft spoke. “But now we will take you somewhere to rest.”

This is how Ivy and Rue came to miss a small warbler—an earnest fellow, full of pride and trembling with enthusiasm—give the very first speech.

easel took to the signpost and began to tell his story. His little legs hopped with some nervousness from point to point along the faded wooden sign, but he raised his head bravely and began to speak.

He began with the tale of Ivy’s arrival.

Teasel’s small, pure voice reported on the orphanage. He took some time to describe how it was that he lived there, his cage, and Mrs. Mulk. (The word
captivity
is an awful one between birds—there is arguably only one worse.
Captivity
is used only in the most serious of situations—and poor Teasel was loath to offend such a vast gathering.) He faltered, searching for the appropriate words for such an important occasion, but finally, after much inner debate, he did say it
—captivity—
and was heartened when the crowd erupted in sympathy and dismay.

He continued.

A scrawny man appeared at the door late at night, Teasel explained. This was in itself unusual—but even stranger was he had the coloring of a canary. (At this, several of the canary faction cheeped disagreeably.) The man had with him a package wrapped in something unpleasant. Teasel did not have a word for
tapestry
, but he knew that it was to be avoided, much in the way he would stay clear of a net.

The package, Teasel soon came to understand, contained a girl, and the girl was placed down in the dark room below. The warbler shivered at the memory. (In general, birds do not inhabit dwellings beneath the ground, as this is the realm of other, shadowy beings.) But the deliveryman remained in the parlor, and for most of the night, Teasel was positioned to hear their conversation. Here the sparrow faltered, and Shoo kindly urged him to continue.

It seemed to the sparrow that the human pair had a long history, Teasel reported. They discussed confusing names and events that came before Teasel had been tricked into the rusty cage.

(Again, a brief uproar.)

The topic seemed to involve a steady stream of lost and forgotten human children being shipped to Mrs. Mulk’s, both by the current visitor and through others arranged by him and the Tasters’ Guild. He approved pricey stipends for their care—although this arrangement had suffered of late. Mrs.
Mulk complained much on this topic, and the yellowish abductor pretended to soothe her, but to Teasel, he seemed more interested in refilling his small glass with something the man called sherry.

When Mrs. Mulk asked for a stipend with which to care for the newest arrival, complaining greatly about the costs involved, the man paused. Teasel had been forced to wait as the man poured more sherry down his bobbing craw. Finally, he shook his head—there was no stipend. Mrs. Mulk had sagged. But, the yellowed man continued, there was something better. Much better. The word he used was one unfamiliar to Teasel, but he dutifully reported it: the word was
ransom
. Teasel explained that the word must be a cheerful one, for Mrs. Mulk clapped her hands in a display of glee. After many more of these sherries, and much prodding by his impatient hostess, the visitor confided in Mrs. Mulk about the identity of this orphan he had delivered.

“The girl is the …” Teasel paused. He was about to use a very ancient phrase among birds.

“The Shepherd of Weeds.”

t the mention of the Shepherd of Weeds, a thrill passed through the crowd, a wave of alert feathers rising and falling like the sea.

Here, a few more words on the nature of the birds.

Birds, while quite happy to fly and hunt, forage and eat—and, of course, sing—are guardians of the forests and fields. By nature, they are alarmists, and in their numbers they make a watchful bunch. But more importantly, birds have long been entrusted with carrying the vital news of the day from sea to cliff. They take themselves quite seriously, as any novice birdwatcher might see. Why is this?

Because birds are keepers of the Prophecy.