Chapter Eleven

WE LEAVE THE COTTAGE SILENTLY, BY DAWN’S light. Father is still asleep. If he rises to find us gone, will he think something ill?

The thought comes to me unbidden: It does not matter what Father thinks.

Weed does not say where he leads me, but except for the early hour, the walk is our familiar one. We arrive at a not-too-distant meadow and lower ourselves on to the dew-soaked grass. Indifferent to the wet, Weed stretches out on his back, his whole form pressed against the earth.

I take my place next to him. Goose bumps rise on my flesh from the cold earth, and from my anticipation too. What horrifying truth does he intend to show me? Ought I to be afraid? Perhaps, but my sense of excitement far outweighs any fear.

Finally Weed speaks.

“As we walked here, did you see the grass?” he says. “The trees? The dandelions? The fields of oilseed?”

“I did.”

“Can you hear them?”

I think he means the soft, oceanic rushing, the wind in the grass, the fluttering of leaves. “Yes,” I reply. “When there is a breeze, I hear them.”

“But do you hear them in words?”

“No, of course not.”

“I do,” he says quietly. “I hear everything they say.”

“I do not understand—”

He holds a hand up, to silence me, and raises himself up on one elbow. “Look over there, in the shade beneath the hedgerow. Do you see the mat of broad leaves against the ground, the fresh green spike that will soon be covered with flowers?”

“It is foxglove,” I say, also rising. “Father sends me out to gather the leaves sometimes. They are useful to him in his work, and the wild ones are better than what we might grow in the garden.”

“They do not like to be tamed, that is true.” He cocks his head as if listening. “And they are very vain about their flowers when in bloom.” He flinches a little, as if being scolded. “But they have every right to be, as they have just reminded me.”

Is Weed playing a game with me? I turn so that I can see his face. “What are the foxgloves saying now?”

He meets my gaze with reluctance. “They say they know you. You have spent many hours lying near them, in the arms of the meadow grass. They say they hope I am not jealous. And they think you are very pretty. Too pretty.” He listens again. “ They are being rude now. It seems they are the jealous ones. You should not pick their leaves any time soon; they would be sure to give you a rash.”

He is mad, I think in despair. This is his monstrous secret. Unless – unless what he says is true – and if it is, dear God, what would Father make of such a power – to gain knowledge directly from nature itself? But I cannot imagine any further. Instead, I will myself to respond calmly, as if conversing with clumps of leaves were a perfectly normal thing to do.

“Is it the same for all the plants?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

“Each one is different,” he explains hesitantly. “If I concentrate I can hear most of them – sometimes only in cries and moans, or as a constant buzz of chatter. But it is the plants that have special powers to cure, whom I hear most clearly. They have always sought me out, for as long as I can remember.”

“Sought you out?” I exclaim. “How can a plant seek you out?”

“They speak to me. They have to – for if no one of human birth knew of their powers, how could they make use of them? They need me,” he explains simply. “They chose me because I can hear them – or perhaps I can hear them because they chose me; I have never truly understood how it came to pass. But it did.”

The silence between us grows heavy with the weight of Weed’s revelation. I do not know what to think, or to say – can such a tale possibly be true?

After a moment he continues. “I was perhaps four or five before I realised that not everyone could hear what I heard. At first I was thought a strange, silent child with too much imagination. Later people started to think I was possessed, even dangerous. I learned to hide my gift. But it is difficult. Maddening, often. The voices are always there: humming, talking, singing, teasing, warning. There are times when I must get away from it, or I fear I will lose my mind.” He smiles wryly. “The plants themselves gave me a cure for that: they taught me to bury myself when I need to regain my strength. It is what they do – return to the ground, rest and begin again.”

Suddenly I understand. “As you did when you first came here, by hiding in the cellar?” I ask.

“Yes.” He rolls on his back, facing the sky. “One of the many times I ran away from the friar, I made my way to the docks and stowed away on a ship. I thought that if I went far out to the middle of the sea, I would be free of all those voices. But I was wrong. Even the oceans are full of growing things, did you know that? Some are so tiny you can scarcely see them, but they mass together in great blankets of green that float on top of the waves. They droned like bees, all the time. It was deafening. It nearly drove me mad.” Abruptly he sits up. “Jessamine, do you believe me?”

I waver. What he describes is impossible, beyond belief – but have I not also sometimes thought I heard whispers in the rustling of leaves, or felt the calm strength of the trees in the forest? And he is Weed. He is not like anyone else, and what is impossible for others need not be impossible for him.

“I do believe you,” I say.

He gazes at me steadily, probingly. To be one of a kind, to be ceaselessly addressed by voices that no one else can hear – I thought I understood loneliness, but now I realise I can scarcely begin to imagine the depth of his.

“And what of the plants in the poison garden?” I ask suddenly. “They are different, aren’t they? Is that why they sickened you?”

He pauses and looks away. “Yes. They are powerful. Heartless. They wish to possess.”

“Possess what?”

“Me. You. Everyone. That is their nature.” A crease of disquiet snakes across his brow. “Your father plays with fire to gather them together like that. They are too clever. They form alliances. They develop – ambitions.”

He looks so solemn I wish to soothe his fears. “You worry too much, I am sure,” I say lightly. “After all, they are still rooted in the ground, are they not? They cannot pull themselves up and march around wreaking havoc, like an invading army.”

“Maybe,” he says, though he sounds unsure. “I have not met their like before; that is all. It disturbs me.” He gestures around. “And not only me. The forests, the fields, the moss that grows on the rocks – none of them are happy about that garden. Nature would have kept those plants safely apart, scattered over the continents, separated by oceans. But your father has summoned them from the corners of the earth and locked them together, side by side, hidden behind walls, where they can grow in secret. It is wrong, Jessamine – I fear it is dangerous—”

“Promise me then,” I interrupt, for he is growing agitated. “Promise that you will never go in that awful place again. If it disturbs you so, then no good can come of it.”

“I promise.”

We fall silent. The morning has arrived in earnest now. One can almost hear the hiss of steam rising from the grass as the dew vanishes into the air.

I look around. Meadow, trees, hedgerows, patches of wildflowers here and there. I close my eyes and listen. Leaves rustling in the breeze. Birds singing. My own breath, rising and falling. Nothing else.

“You are right, Jessamine,” Weed exclaims with sudden bitterness. “I am a freak.”

“No!” I reach for him. “Forgive me, Weed, I never should have spoken those words. I was angry because I did not know the truth. You have a gift. A precious gift.”

“You are the first person to think so.” There is both sadness and anger in his voice.

“Who else have you told?” I ask, suddenly fearful.

“I told Friar Bartholomew; I was only a child and knew no better. He did not believe me. He pitied me, I think, as a halfwit, and now he is dead in any case.”

“But you did give something to Pratt’s patients, did you not?” I press. “And what about the villagers?”

“I was foolish to try to help.” His fingers play lightly in the grass. “But I hated Pratt, and wanted to teach him a lesson. And the plants asked me to do it. They want to make use of their talents – as we do.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know now it was wrong to put anything in the well. But at the time, the villagers were not as real to me as – all this.” His gaze encompasses the green growing things that surround us. “You have already taught me so much, Jessamine. Your grief yesterday at the castle, the grief of the others, of that poor mother – it was something I did not know before.” He takes my hands. “I too would weep for the child now. I promise you, I would.”

A soft smile lights up his face. “Before I met you, Jessamine, I never thought any human soul could understand. If you truly believe me, and are not afraid – that is the true gift, Jessamine. You are a gift.”

“Weed, I will keep your secret as if my very life depends on it.” My heart flails wildly in my chest and I reach for him to steady myself. He takes my hands in his own, lifts them to his lips and kisses them.

“I trust that you will.” Still holding my hands to his lips, he murmurs, “I know your father already suspects something.”

The heat of his breath burns my skin. Here is where the road divides, I think. Where does my loyalty lie? It does not take me even a single heartbeat to decide.

“I will not tell Father. I promise.”

Right away I wish to explain myself, to justify my decision to lie: Father is a good man, but knowing of your gift would drive him mad with envy. It would be too much for him to bear.

Weed requires no explanation. He releases my hands and draws me close to him. Now there is no turning back. The architect of my future has been switched, from father to lover. But is this not precisely what nature intends? There is a time for growth, and a time for blossoming. Father, of all people, should understand that. I fear he will not though.

I skim my fingertips around Weed’s face as if I were blind. I trace the curved dark eyebrows, the firm cheekbone underneath the petal-soft skin. My lips move towards his as a bee to a flower, eager to taste.

We kiss, and kiss again. Dizzy, I lean against the earth, yet I fly.