The Poison Diaries

by Wood, Maryrose

While I speak he stays facing away from me, his body curved around his knees as if he were encased in the hard husk of a seed.

  “So,” I say, nudging my stool an inch closer, “now you have met Father and me. That means you have met my whole family, for my mother is dead, and I am an only child. My father and I live here alone together.”

  I see a finger twitch, flex.

  “This place we live in, this house, which I call our cottage—it is very old. some would say it is a sacred place. The Catholic monks used to live and worship here.”

  He turns, and his mouth moves as if he would speak.

  “Bells,” he breathes.

  His voice is so soft it is not even a whisper. More like the rustle of a leaf.

  “Yes,” I say encouragingly, in case I heard right. “Centuries ago, in this very place, there were church bells ringing, and Mass bells, and the call to vespers. When the monastery was here there must have been bells ringing all the time.”

  “Bells.”

  I am nearly sure that is what he said, but it was so soft, a mere flutter of air. “Bells?” I repeat gently. “Do you mean Canterbury bells? They are such pretty flowers, I grow them in my cutting garden.”

  Weed’s whole face brightens. “Garden?” he asks, quite clearly.

  His green eyes pierce me like emerald daggers. “Do you like gardens? We have many,” I say in a rush.

  “In the kitchen gardens I grow all our vegetables and herbs for the table, and there is a small orchard for fruit, and a bee garden so the bees will make delicious honey, and a dye garden so I can make dyes to color the wool. And Father has his apothecary garden of plants that he uses to make medicines and cures—but we may not enter there, for Father’s work is secret, and many of those plants are poison—”

  “Jessamine!” Father stands silhouetted at the top of the cellar stairs. “What on earth are you telling that boy?”

  “Nothing—”

  “Do not lie, Jessamine. I heard you speaking. A person cannot speak nothing.”

  “I am sorry, Father. I should have said, ‘Nothing of importance,’” I reply with false cheer, to cover the shame I feel at being scolded in front of Weed. “I was telling Weed about us, and our home, and about the gardens—he ought to know where he is, and in whose care, oughtn’t he?”

  Father ignores my reply. “since he is ready to speak, bring the boy upstairs to my study. At once, please.” Then he leaves, letting the door close behind him. The shaft of daylight coming down the stairwell is snuffed out.

  I take a deep breath to compose myself and give my eyes time to adjust to the sudden darkness. Then I make myself smile reassuringly at Weed. “Father can be stern, but you mustn’t be frightened of him. Will you come upstairs?”

  I extend my hand. Weed takes it and rises gracefully to his feet, unfolding his long legs in a single fluid motion. The dim light gives his pale face an unearthly beauty that takes my breath away—the dark, unkempt hair, his wide, impossibly green eyes, his weightless form as willowy as a sapling.

  “Come,” I say, steadying my voice. “Perhaps he will let you see the belladonna berries; they are quite lovely. He keeps some in a jar on the shelf.”

  “Belladonna,” Weed says, looking at me so intensely his green eyes nearly light up the dark. “A beautiful lady.”

  I know he does not mean me, but I blush anyway, and go first up the stairs so he cannot see my scarlet face.

  Father sits behind his desk, scribbling in one of his notebooks, but when I bring Weed into the study he slams the book shut and springs to his feet.

  “Sit down, boy,” he says, not unkindly. He pulls an armchair next to the desk and gestures for Weed to take it. I perch in the window seat. “If you are to live under my roof, I must know some things about you. Will you do your best to answer my questions?”

  Weed glances at me, then at Father, and gives a slight nod.

  “You go by the name of Weed. Do you have any other name?”

  Weed shakes his head no.

  “Any family? Parents, brothers, sisters?”

  No.

  “And what about that Tobias Pratt? He was kind to you? He was like a father to you, perhaps? You must have grown very attached to him.”

  Weed lifts his eyes and gazes steadily at Father.

  “No,” he says. “He is an awful man.”

  Father nods. “Excellent. Telling the truth will serve you well, with me, and elsewhere, too. Now I wish to ask you about the friar you once lived with. Do you know who I mean?”

  “Yes,” Weed’s voice slowly gains confidence. “Friar Bartholomew.”

  “You did like him, I can see it on your face.”

  Weed nods. “He cared for me.”

  “How long did you live with him?”

  “For as many seasons as I can remember.” Weed glances at me before adding, “He found me in a basket.”

  Father nods. “It was once the custom to leave foundling children on the doorstep of the monasteries. Perhaps someone thought a friar would do just as well in a pinch. Now I must ask you, Weed: This Friar Bartholomew—was he a secret Catholic? You can tell me the truth; the man is already dead, so no further harm can come to him.”

  I realize what Father is thinking: If this friar posed as an Anglican but secretly practiced the old faith, he might have been a repository for the ancient wisdom of the monks. Perhaps the friar was a hidden link in a long, secret chain, preserving the knowledge that was thought to have been lost centuries ago—the knowledge Father has sought all his life.

  Weed shrugs.

  “Does that mean yes, or no?” Impatience creeps into Father’s voice.

  “I don’t know,” Weed says flatly. “I don’t know if he had a secret.”

  Father walks back and forth, caged by his own frustration. “Did this Bartholomew have any books, Weed? Old, musty books, perhaps? Books having to do with plants?”

  “No.”

  Father stops pacing and fixes Weed with a look. “This is important, Weed. This knowledge is priceless. If you knew of the existence of such books, it would not be right to keep it to yourself.”

  “No books.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Friar Bartholomew kept no books,” Weed says firmly. “Just beer.”

  That silences Father, but not for long. He strides across the room and back again, pauses, and then pulls up a chair very close to where Weed sits. He slips into the chair and regards Weed with a friendly, open expression.

  “Weed, Mr. Pratt says you know how to prepare certain types of medicines. He claims you made a special tea, one that has the power to calm a sick mind.”

  Weed shakes his head, no no no no.

  “It is all right,” Father says quickly. “It is not wrong to know how to do these things. Forget how Pratt scolded you; he is a brute and a fool, a condition for which I fear there will never be a cure.” He gestures around his study. “I prepare many types of medicines myself, Weed. I would not punish you for doing the same. Now tell me,” Father presses on.

  “What did you put in that tea? How did you know which plants to use, and in what quantities? And if you did not gain this knowledge from books, or from your beer-soaked friar, then from where?”

  “I made the tea, yes,” Weed replies carefully.

  “How, Weed? Who told you how to cure the inmates?”

  I can hear how hard Father is trying to mask his impatience, but the vein on his forehead is beginning to throb. Inwardly I will him to be gentle.

  Weed presses his lips together and says no more. Father leans closer. His voice grows more urgent. “Who taught you how to poison the well water?”

  Weed leaps to his feet; he looks ready to bolt. “No! I did not poison anyone—”

  “Father.” I step forward and lay a hand on his arm. “I’m sure he will tell us everything in time. First we must earn his trust.”

  Father looks at Weed, then back at me. The blue vein in his forehead goes taut momentarily but quickly fades.<
br />
  “You are perfectly correct, Jessamine.” He stands. “For now our only purpose should be to make certain Weed is happy here. He must be well fed, well cared for, and safe. He needs time—time to become part of the family. After all,” he adds, to Weed, “families have no need to keep secrets from one another, do they, Weed?”

  Weed stares at his feet. “I would not know, sir.”

  It has been nearly a week since Weed came to live here.

  I have spent hours with him every day, in speech and in silence—every hour I can spare from my work in the gardens and the cottage. He no longer turns away when he sees me, and (I hope I am not imagining it!) he even seems to like it when I come. He always answers me when I talk to him, though his answers sometimes sound more like riddles.

  Still, I am so used to being alone that even his moss green stare feels like eloquence to me. I tell him all the things I know, about the old monastery and hospital, the lost books of the monks, my work in the gardens, and Father’s work as an apothecary. In truth I am afraid to stop talking, for if I do he may hear how my heart pounds and my breath quickens whenever I am near his strange, dark beauty. so I talk and talk, while Weed listens and gazes at me, unblinking as a cat. These conversations seem to satisfy us both.

  But he will not go outside and has not ventured upstairs since his visit to Father’s study. He takes water but will not touch most of the food I offer him. A hard-boiled egg, some broth, a slice of cured ham—this is all I have been able to persuade him to eat. Yesterday when I asked him why, all he said was, “I do not wish to hurt.”

  “What hurts?” I asked, alarmed. “Your stomach? Or a tooth, perhaps?” He shook his head and would say no more.

  Today for breakfast I bring him a bowl of porridge, which he refuses. I ask him again: Why will he not eat? To my surprise he answers me.

  “It is alive. It would hurt. It would be wrong.”

  “Alive? The porridge, you mean?”

  He nods, and looks at the bowl with revulsion. “Oats.”

  I try not to smile. “When they were growing in the field, the oats were alive, I suppose. But they were harvested long ago. Now they are dried and cooked.”

  He shakes his head. “There is no difference.”

  This is a riddle, indeed. But I will solve it.

  “What else is alive, then?” I ask. “Bread?”

  “Yes.”

  “Turnips?”

  “Yes.”

  “Carrots?”

  “Yes.”

  “Raspberries? Apples?” He nods.

  “Bacon?”

  He stops, thinks for a moment. “No.”

  I jump up. “Stay here; I will be back very soon.”

  I run to the storehouse and find some bacon. It takes me only a few minutes to fry it in the pan. The smell of it fills the house and drifts down to the cellar. By the time I return to Weed with a plate, his eyes are bright with expectation. He devours the thick, greasy slabs as I watch, trying to make sense of it all.

  “Weed,” I say gently when he is almost finished. “Why do you feel so strongly about the carrots and apples but not about the bacon?”

  “Bacon,” he says through a full mouth, “is not my friend.”

  I am overjoyed to see him eat, but Weed cannot live on bacon and hard-boiled eggs. For one thing, meat is costly and we do not have that much bacon put aside, and the chickens can only lay so many eggs each day.

  But as I sit in the parlor, watching the sunlight filter through the many panes of those tall, arched chapel windows, an idea comes to me. I go into the root cellar and choose some fine, firm potatoes. Back in the kitchen, I peel and quarter them and drop them in a pot of boiling water. When they are cooked, I drain them and sprinkle them with coarse salt.

  I put the boiled potatoes in a covered tureen, to keep them warm. I grab a small tin plate and fork and take the whole picnic downstairs to the coal bin.

  “Weed, I cooked something for you.”

  “What is it?” he asks warily.

  “Potatoes.”

  He turns away, disgusted. “No,” he insists, shielding his mouth with his hands. “I cannot eat that.”

  “Yes you can. You must. There is a way to eat that is proper. Once you learn what it is, you will be able to enjoy all the fruits of the earth with no fear of harming any living thing: potatoes and carrots and apples, too.”

  Is that a flicker of hope in his eyes? The potatoes do smell delicious.

  “What way is that?” he asks at last.

  “With gratitude. You must learn to say grace. Like this.” I demonstrate. “Thank you for all that I am about to receive.” Slowly I place the potato in my mouth.

  He looks away, repulsed. I remain calm.

  “See?” I say after I swallow. “Nothing bad happens. Now you must try.”

  With trembling fingers, he takes a piece of boiled potato. The first time I say the words with him: “Thank you for all that I am about to receive.”

  He takes a small bite and then stops, as if he does not know what to do next.

  “Again,” I gently urge. “Say it.”

  “Thank you for all that I am about to receive.” Weed takes another bite, chews, swallows.

  “See? It is all right.” I let him hold the tureen. “It is what nature intends.”

  “Thank you for all that I am about to receive.” A new expression crosses his face as he eats. I can see it in his eyes, the flood of ecstatic feeling as the food hits his empty belly.

  “Thank you for all that I am about—”

  “You don’t need to say it before every bite,” I interrupt. “Just once before dinner is fine.”

  He nods, and shoves more potato in his mouth.

  6

  8th April

  A fine, clear day. The sun shines with a welcoming light.

  Everywhere the trees shyly display their newly opened leaves, so tender and green. The willow tree is already in bloom, heavy with catkins. The rhododendron buds have swollen to bursting; razor edges of pink and violet show through at each seam. New blossoms appear in the meadow every day and make a kaleidoscope of the grass: bluebells, violets, and butter-yellow daffodils.

  It is spring, and the world awakens. I can hardly bear to stay indoors—I would sleep beneath the stars if I could—but Weed remains dormant, buried in his coal bin like a kernel in the husk.

  I must persuade him to awaken, too.

  “HOW OLD ARE YOU, WEED?” I ask when I bring down his breakfast: a bowl of porridge, a boiled egg, two apples and two strips of bacon, tea, and a cup of fresh milk. Now that he has made his peace with eating grains and fruit, he eats a great deal. I thought he was younger than I am when I first saw him bundled up in those rags, but now, as he gains color and flesh, I suspect he may be my age, at least.

  He tucks the napkin under his chin and shrugs. “How old is the grass?”

  His breakfast tray rests on a plank of wood we prop across the coal bin; he sits on the stool, and I perch on the bottommost stair. “Your question has no answer,” I say in return. “The grass dies every winter and comes back every spring. It has no age in years; it is both newborn and everlasting.”

  “That must be how old I am, then.” He lifts his fork and recites, “Thank you for all I am about to receive.”

  “So you are as old as grass, and as young as grass?” I tease. He does not smile.

  “The truth is I do not know,” he says after a moment. “Found in a basket by a drunken friar is not much of a birthday.”

  “From now on, then, the loveliest day of spring can be your birthday,” I say impulsively. “And you can be my age. Sixteen now, seventeen next month. That means you are older than I am, for I do not turn seventeen until autumn.”

  “Sixteen,” he repeats. “All right.”

  He eats, and I watch. After a few minutes he offers me a slice of apple.

  “Thank you.” I take it between two fingers and lift it to my lips.

  “Eh!” he cries. “Fi
rst you must say it—”

  “Thank you for all I am about to receive,” I say obligingly, and pop the apple slice in my mouth.

  It takes him only a short while to finish every bite on the tray. “Come.” I hold out my hand. “The sky is the most wonderful shade of blue. You must come upstairs with me, and we will take a walk in the meadow.”

  He drops his fork. “I like it down here,” he replies.

  “But you must come see! The tulips are in bloom, and there are rowan trees growing from the ruins.”

  “I like the quiet,” he says softly.

  “It is quiet outdoors, too. All one hears are the pleasant sounds of the world going about its business: the wind blowing, and the sheep bleating, and the meadow grass rustling in the wind.” I lean forward so my face is close to his, and whisper, “If you prefer it to be quiet, I will not say a word, I promise.”

  He pays no attention to me. Instead he gazes up at the cellar door, which I had left ajar when I came downstairs, as I needed both hands to hold the breakfast tray. A barely perceptible current of air wafts down to us.

  Weed closes his eyes and breathes in the clean scent of spring. Then he cocks his head, as if listening.

  “All right,” he agrees. “It is time.”

  Father’s old shirt is loose on Weed but otherwise suits him well. The trousers are too long, so I help him roll them up at the leg. There is no need for a coat today; the sun soaks into our skin until it feels as if the warmth radiates from our very bones.

  We walk slowly. In my mind, I explain every detail of my world to him: how the fishpond, now drained and covered with a heavy wooden board, once served as a place to store live fish until they were to be eaten. How, as summer comes, the clematis vines will climb and weave all over the ruined walls inside the courtyard and turn them into flowering monuments, blanketed in deep purple and crimson.

  I could point out the marigolds that must be moved into a sunnier spot this year, and the patch of bee balm that has grown too big and needs to be divided. Too, I could show him the path up the slope that leads to Father’s locked apothecary garden, where we may not enter, though I suppose we could go look through the gate if Weed is curious.