The Shepherd of Weeds (20 page)

“Six?” Ivy swallowed hard. The cat had been her traveling companion, and some measure of comfort on her journey to Pimcaux, and while he was smelly and unlovely to the eye, his loyalties were no longer suspect.

Klair and Lofft exchanged a meaningful look, and then Lofft spoke again, softly. “They were very clear on this point. The birds will wage war in the name of the Shepherd of Weeds, as it has been long foretold. But they will not align themselves with a cat.”

“What am I to do?” Ivy asked.

“You must make him go. There are those within the caucus who wanted a much stiffer resolution.”

“I see,” Ivy said meekly. How was she ever to make a cat to do anything other than what a cat wanted to do? She felt again the dark throbbing in her head and hoped her father’s voice would not awaken from its slumbers. “Lofft, Klair, can you take me to find my friend Lumpen?”

ow many millions of eyes regarded Ivy and Rue as they alighted again off the backs of the beautiful Pimcauvian seabirds? Surely it was a number unfathomable. With the caucus drawing to a close, the air was charged with a different feel, and as Ivy stepped upon the open moor, Shoo joined her, flapping solidly to her shoulder. The winter morning was arriving, and a thick coating of hoarfrost clung to the far trees; the facade of Jalousie was draped in white lace.

Ivy stroked Shoo beneath his beak. His feathers were as chilled as the air. She was dreading the sight of Six, for how was she to explain?

“Oh, Shoo,” Ivy whispered. “What I would give to be back with you at the Hollow Bettle, with Uncle Cecil! In the back room, my workshop—before any of this. Just me and you, my
experiments—and Axle! How unfair this all seems.”

The crow moved in closer on her shoulder.

From the east, the sun soothed ruffled feathers and glazed frost into polished prisms. Shoo’s own feathers were the deepest black, a blue-black, and their shine—his beauty—now bolstered Ivy. She walked with him to the very edge of the vast field where the young wood began.

These were hemlock trees, evergreens, and little grew in earnest beneath their low branches. Still, there was a soft, padded forest floor, one made of discarded pine needles, and the sensation of walking upon this was a pleasant one.

“Lumpen?” Ivy called into the soft wood. From the moors, the audience of bird eyes keenly watched her every move.

After a minute, Ivy noticed that there again was the undercurrent of rustling that she had heard nearly her entire journey from the orphanage—the rustling that had been following her since she met the well keeper. It came now from all corners of the hemlocks, indeterminate, the sound of distant brooms upon an earthen floor. She wondered if she should be scared.

At first, Ivy saw nothing in the dimness but a glowing red ember, which flared to bright orange and then seemed to snuff itself out. Then Lumpen stepped forward, her corncob pipe clamped between her lips.

Ivy’s heart surged to see her. If possible, Lumpen appeared wilder than before, the straw stuffing within her threadbare
casings growing untamed, poking through the inevitable holes like whiskers. It was difficult to discern where it left off and her own bushy hair began. The appalling inky smudge from Hemsen Dumbcane stood out starkly upon Lumpen’s thick brow. Her ruddy cheeks seemed strikingly red—a pair of berry stains upon the canvas of her face—and her yarrow stick was thrown over her wide shoulder.

In the filtered light of the hemlock trees, it seemed to Ivy that Lumpen
was
a scarecrow. And further: she was not alone. Behind her vast skirts and wide bodice, a silent crowd, clothed in grit and burlap, stepped forward. A flock of scarecrows—big ones, tiny ones, those with painted faces, or button eyes and pitched hats, and some with no face at all—emerged silently to stand beside the trees. And with them, the riddle of the rustling was solved. Curious field mice, a few chipmunks, and a small red squirrel peeped out from their pockets.

“At your service, miss,” Lumpen announced. “The true nature of plants is awakening, miss.” Lumpen pointed to the creatures made of hay, of weeds, of flowers.

Shoo flapped his wings and coasted over to the shoulder of a nearby scarecrow, cawing loudly. To Ivy’s astonishment, she recognized it at once. It was her own stricken scarecrow from the walled garden beside the Hollow Bettle—still wearing the work shirt her uncle had unknowingly donated, and sporting the dented pocket watch Cecil had discovered on a dead tavern guest.

“Jimson!” Ivy called out at the sight of him.

“You are our shepherd, miss. The Shepherd of Weeds. We are your flock. We are the Army of Flowers.” Lumpen curtsied.

Ivy looked around at the vast crowd of unlikely soldiers. Their numbers stretched as far as the eye could see. The scarecrows had made the particular rustling Ivy had heard along her journey.

All were standing still, as if they were propped there by an invisible farmer, their faces a study in blankness. Wildflowers grew from their pockets and rough seams. Blooms sprouted from top hats and buttonholes. The colors of their wind-worn clothing were muted, a spectacle of patchwork, of life’s rich tapestry.

ut where was the cat Six? Ivy wondered, looking through the spindling hemlocks and the worn cloaks of the scarecrows. Within her fist was another of Rue’s dried specimens, and Ivy crumpled this now and sprinkled it on the wintry pine floor. In the
Field Guide
, she had found it beside the entry for
Nepeta cataria
, and Axle had listed a few of its common names: catswort, hangman’s courage.

But Ivy knew it as catnip.

“Kitty, kitty,” Ivy called. She felt like a traitor of the worst order, but the birds had given her no other alternative. She was conscious of a dull wish within her: that the cat would come quickly—or not at all.

Within the stand of scarecrows—motionless, eerie—Ivy saw something move, and her heart sank. For Six now emerged, rubbing his tatty fur upon the faded dungarees of a
nearby scarecrow, rearing slightly as he did so, and then treating Lumpen to the same.

The cat, true to form, was filthy. His passage through the Mind Garden had supplied him with streaks of sludge that greased his haunches and tail, while here in Caux he had quickly found himself a patch of burrs. He was covered with them—a fact that seemed to please him to no end. He purred a deep, raspy growl at the sight of Ivy and, in his own time, approached.

While the scarecrows had no effect upon the sea of birds (a fact any farmer would do well to note), the appearance of a cat caused a nervous twittering, which grew in strength, tinged in outrage.

“Oh, Six,” Ivy whispered.

Shoo had not left his perch upon her shoulder. Six and Shoo eyed each other for a length of time. Ivy watched as Six’s eyes eventually narrowed, finishing in a slow blink. From here on, he would diplomatically ignore the bird. The cat continued to approach, and Ivy looked nervously to Shoo, whose gaze had not left the beast, and then to Rue, who stood some distance behind.

Six reached Ivy, and he greeted her with a raspy meow and a dry, scratchy nose against her hand. He somehow managed to appear both indifferent and enthusiastic at the reunion, twining about her legs—his arched back and long unkempt mane easily reaching her waist, his weight causing her to stumble backward.

Ivy felt the caucus behind her growing impatient, and her nervousness grew.

She leaned down, scratching a torn ear, his chin. “Six, somewhere there’s a nice bowl of milk and a fish waiting for you, but that’s not here—not now. But I promise you this—the next time we meet, I’ll have them ready for you.”

Six was unimpressed.

“The birds insist you go,” Ivy pleaded.

Mid-nuzzle, the cat paused, suddenly alert to the acres of birds that carpeted the field behind them. His cheeks—pincushions of whiskers—tensed. A few of the more ornery birds, grackles and jays, began to taunt him with catcalls and cackles, shrill high-pitched whistles.

The cat crouched down, tail whipping back and forth, but Rue’s specimen of catnip beckoned for now.

Ivy reached down and stroked Six, pulling at a large clump of knotted fur behind one ear, whispering. She found another tangle and worked her fingers patiently through it as well. Shoo flapped to a nearby scarecrow, settling on its jaunty head, his tail levering for balance. Ivy held open her small hand, and the cat plowed his pointed chin into it, nuzzling himself against her with great delight. He rolled to the ground, on the carpet of carelessly torn leaves, indifferent to the squawking caucus. Six stretched out fully, his impressive length gilded by his glinting claws.

It was now that the birds attacked. Ivy felt the wind of
their wings upon her cheeks and stood, taking several steps away from the cat.

“I’m sorry.” Ivy choked back tears.

The smaller birds buzzed him, and Six swatted at them in surprise, springing up hastily. But he was far outnumbered, and swarms of them dived and jeered as he crouched to the ground. Ivy saw him look at her, puzzled, a low growl escaping his bared teeth. Shoo, too, flew from his scarecrow perch and charged at him, a small thundercloud of black feathers and talons.

Several emotions betrayed themselves now upon Six’s haughty face, beginning with confusion, and ending finally in a rueful look, his ears turned down in disgrace.

Ivy stood still, unable to help as the birds shamed Six farther into retreat—he fell upon himself, a rare stumble for the sure-footed cat, his humiliation complete. Picking himself up, he paused as Ivy stared back at him, tears running down her face.

And then, to both Ivy’s immense relief and great sorrow, the cat Six turned, and was gone.

The Field Guide to the Poisons of Caux,
in an early chapter on the home and hearth, offers several pertinent pieces of advice. On page 311, under the subhead “Caring for Your Tapestry,” Axle tenders this:

So it was when the Four Sisters emerged into Underwood from the chimney-side passage and surveyed the mess their tapestries had
caused, they realized that indeed only one dramatic option remained
.

“All of our hard work!” Fifi complained
.

“Who is responsible?” Lola demanded
.

“Of all the exasperating, terribly disobedient things I’ve ever witnessed …,” Gigi proclaimed, and lapsed into silence
.

The scene before them was one indeed of utter natural chaos. What remained of the series of tapestries was little more than a few colored and frayed strings upon the cavern’s walls, a tattered, colorless canvas backing visible in places. Here and there a noticeable patch of weave persevered—a splash of brilliance—as did the silken edging that framed them all. But the scenery—once so thrilling and the picture of perfection—was missing. Or rather
, displaced,
for one need only to look about the vast great room of King Verdigris’s underworld palace to uncover the whereabouts of the tapestries’ contents
.

A dewy patch of irises sent their voluptuous scent into the air beside the Four Sisters, and its very tempestuousness angered Lola so that she kicked the stalks cruelly aside. A heaving pear tree dropped a bushel of smooth, ripe fruit, but this, too, was received as an affront by the Sisters. Everywhere—nothing but unmanageable fertility!

A patch of colorful toadstools punctuated the carpet of rolling moss. A pure white rabbit, unaware of the visitors, paused to nibble grass beside an arched garden gateway, through which the careful observer might see a mere blur of falling stars or catch the occasional smell of sea air, for this was the thorn door by which Ivy and Rowan had returned from Pimcaux
.