The Poison Diaries

by Wood, Maryrose

  Weed stares at him, his bottomless green eyes glittering with defiance. “Go to the sawmill,” he says. “No time to waste.” Then, letting the leaves fall through his fingers to the floor, he turns and walks out of the cottage.

  I run to Father’s side and take his arm. The vein in his forehead throbs and his lips are pressed into a furious white line.

  “Father, do not be angry,” I plead. “He is only trying to help.” On hands and knees I gather up the torn leaves that have fallen at our feet and hold them out to Father.

  Slowly Father regains control of himself. He takes the leaves from me, seizes his satchel, and starts for the door.

  “Wait!” I run to Father’s study and stretch high on tiptoe to grab the glass jar of belladonna berries from the shelf. Cradling the jar like a baby, I race back to the parlor, breathless.

  “Here, Father—the belladonna—”

  His temper explodes. “Jessamine! Have you lost your mind?”

  “Take some with you, Father. In case the man needs them. Weed said two—two berries only—”

  I struggle to get the lid off the jar. In doing so, I lose my grip—it starts to slip from my hand—

  “No!” Father catches the jar before it falls and shatters. I snatch the jar from Father, pour two berries into my handkerchief, and tie them in a secure bundle.

  “Take these, too, please, Father,” I beg. “Do as Weed says. I know you will not regret it.”

  Cursing under his breath, Father takes the berries from me. He shoves them and the torn leaves roughly into his satchel and storms out of the cottage.

  After Father goes, I find Weed in the herb garden, sitting very still among the plants. I bring him some water. He takes it with a look of gratitude but says nothing, and I have no choice but to leave him be. An hour goes by, then another. At times I swear I can hear him speaking quietly—but with whom?

  Late this evening I walk through the house, candle in hand, to extinguish all the lamps. It only then that I notice the belladonna is still sitting out in the parlor. Carefully I secure the lid and return the jar to Father’s study.

  Before I put the jar back on the shelf, I hold my candle next to it so that I may admire the black orbs within. The soft light flickers across their glossy skin, making the berries look strangely alive. They are dark, spherical, shining, deadly. Beautiful.

  Like staring into the pupils of a murderess, I think.

  8

  23rd April

  No word from Father.

  Weed is not speaking to me, either.

  What has happened to my family, my new and only friend? I am bereft.

  WEED HAS BEEN OUTSIDE in the garden all night, and now it is morning. For the most part I have left him alone, though every now and then I look out my window to see if he is all right.

  I may be mistaken, but it seems that he pays special attention to the plants from which he tore leaves yesterday to give to Father: the rue, tansy, poppy, chamomile, and lavender. He sits quietly by each one in turn. His lips scarcely move, but his expression is that of a person in deep conversation.

  Seeing him out there fills me with dread. I am filled with questions that I am too afraid to ask.

  If he is mad, I think, at least it is a harmless kind of madness, to sit and talk to plants, as if they could hear one’s words, and comprehend one’s meaning, isn’t it?

  The sun is low in the sky. Weed has not returned to the house, nor is he in the garden. I suppose he may have taken a walk by himself. The thought brings tears to my eyes, and I am instantly ashamed—foolish, spoiled Jessamine! Surely I can keep myself occupied for an afternoon without weeping like a baby.

  In any case, I have had all day to think about what happened yesterday. I do not know how Weed knows the things he knows, or why he was so disturbed when I picked the dandelion, or what he was doing in the garden last night. And I can well imagine how infuriating it is to Father that Weed refuses to reveal the source of his knowledge.

  But one thing is clear: Father and Weed must become friends, for I cannot bear another incident of being torn between them like this. They are both too dear to me.

  And too alike, I think, with their mysterious moods and closely guarded secrets.

  They both are also very good at leaving me alone, it seems.

  It is after dark when Father returns. His mood is calm, even serene. But it has always been thus with Father; his moods pass like little storms: a brief, violent bluster followed by tranquil skies.

  “Did you save the man’s foot?” Quickly I heat up some dinner in a skillet. I know Father must be hungry after his journey.

  He nods. “They think I am a miracle worker, though you and I know who truly deserves the credit. Where is Weed, Jessamine? I wish to speak to him. No doubt he is afraid to face me now, but he need not be. Can you persuade him to come see me?”

  “I will try.”

  I was too proud and fearful to search for Weed earlier, but now that Father wants to reconcile I am prepared to wander all over the county in search of him. There is no need: Before I reach the footpath I find him lying on the ground, hidden among the plants of the dye garden. His hand rests lightly upon the bloodroot, almost as if he had been petting it.

  Where have you been? Why have you not confided in me? How could you leave me alone all day with no companion but my own fears and unanswered questions? My thoughts are as tangled and thorny as a hedge of brambles, and I force them down, deep inside, so that I may speak calmly.

  “Come inside, Weed,” I say. “Father has returned; he wishes to speak to you.”

  Weed scowls and turns away.

  “He saved the man’s foot because of your advice. Don’t you wish to know what happened?”

  “This is how it was at the madhouse,” Weed mutters. “I tried to help people who were sick. Then everyone became furious.” He looks up at me, anger and confusion in his eyes. “I do not understand. Is it wrong to help?”

  “No! Helping others is God’s work. It is what we are put on earth to do.” I hold out a hand, which he ignores. “Father is not angry with you, Weed. Do not misunderstand his strong feelings. It is only because he so passionately wishes to cure people who are in need, and he does not always know how.”

  Weed glances warily at the cottage. “Is that what he wishes to speak to me about?”

  “I think so. Will you come?”

  “Do you wish me to, Jessamine?”

  He gazes upon me, then, and his emerald eyes seem to take me in from top to bottom. I feel so bared, my hands flutter to my dress to make sure it is still on. It is, but I am suddenly, exquisitely aware of how the currents of warm air move against my skin.

  Weed rises to his feet. “Nature,” he says softly, “makes so many beautiful things.” He leans close to me, as if he would catch my scent. “But I did not know—until you—that nature could make a girl so beautiful.”

  His voice holds me in its tender spell. His eyes graze over my body without shyness—he takes me in as a landscape, a lush terrain of swells and valleys.

  He leans forward, then. My heart thumps so strongly in my chest I am sure he must hear it. His face comes close, closer to mine—so close, a stray lock of his wild hair caresses my cheek.

  I should move away. I do not. Instead, I close my eyes. My lips part and a sense of yearning fills me, a longing for something I cannot name. It is a force larger than myself that moves through me, ancient as the earth. There is no choice but to surrender.

  He kisses me. His lips are petal soft against mine, his body strong and lithe as a poplar. He smells of rich, fertile earth.

  After an eternity he releases me. Without waiting for my reaction, he turns and strides back to the cottage.

  When I regain power over my limbs, I make my way back to the cottage in fits and starts, like a leaf tossed about by the wind. I hesitate at the door—am I even recognizable? The news must be written all over me, illustrated on my flesh. The moment Father lays eyes on me he will know I a
m transformed, and demand to know how, and why—oh, my lips burn, all the skin on my body burns! A tisane of lavender and hyssop would calm me, but I do not wish to be calmed!

  I wish only for Weed, to see Weed again, to touch him, and I will, the moment I pass through the door of the cottage—

  Weed stands in the parlor, shoulders hunched, staring down at the table, upon which Father’s handkerchief lies. Father sits in his chair at the head of the table. Neither of them looks at me or says hello.

  Father flips open the white linen, revealing the belladonna berries.

  “As it turned out, I did not need the belladonna this time, Weed. Thanks to your poultice, the man’s wounds started to heal cleanly, with no gangrene or fever.”

  Father covers the berries again and slips the handkerchief into his pocket.

  “You have knowledge that can help people, Weed. That much is obvious. I wish to know where you acquired this knowledge, so that I may follow in your footsteps. But if you will not or cannot tell me, then at least teach me some of what you know.”

  Weed’s eyes stay fixed on the table. “I have nothing to teach,” he says in a low voice.

  “Your humility is admirable, but of no use to anyone.” Father rises from his chair and sits on the edge of the table, nearer to Weed. “It is time to be frank with each other. I value your knowledge, Weed. I admire it. I admit, I envy it. Think of it: belladonna, hemlock, black henbane—the lost formula for a twilight sleep! A sleep so profound a man would not feel his own limb being cut off.”

  He looks at Weed as if expecting some reaction, but there is none. Father seems to interpret this as interest, or at least a willingness to hear more, for he goes on.

  “Behind the walls of my apothecary garden are other rare and even more dangerous plants. Many I acquired without fully understanding their uses—perhaps I found a name mentioned in some obscure, ancient medical text, or came upon an old cure related by a beggar who claimed to have heard it from an ancient witch woman he met once. Based upon such vague hints and clues, and often following nothing more than my own blind instincts, I have bought and traded plants from all over the world. The most powerful ones live behind that locked gate.”

  Weed’s face is impassive; his attention seems to have turned inward. Undaunted, Father continues.

  “I have gone to great pains to try to learn the uses and properties of these plants. I have spent countless hours in pursuit of this knowledge. You could save me a great deal of time and effort, if you would only speak….” Father stops himself. He stands, and spreads his hands before Weed in a gesture of supplication. “Weed. I wish to take you into the apothecary garden. I want you to look at the plants that grow there and tell me what you know of them.”

  Weed recoils as if struck. “No!” he exclaims. “That garden is dangerous. Dangerous for me—dangerous for everyone.”

  Father scowls, puzzled. So far he has not even acknowledged my presence, but I step forward now to explain. “Father, even walking near the apothecary garden made Weed feel very ill. Perhaps he is afraid that some harm may come to him if he enters it.”

  To my amazement, Father places his hands gently on Weed’s shoulders. He speaks warmly, as a father would speak to a beloved son. “It may be a difficult thing I ask of you, but I implore you to at least try. Remember, it is not for me I ask. Think of the people who might be cured.”

  I have never seen Father speak so humbly, so earnestly, to anyone.

  Weed turns his gaze to me. Our eyes meet, and though the table is between us, it is suddenly as if our kiss never ended. Even now I am standing in his arms, our lips pressed together, breathing his clean, sunwarmed scent.

  “Jessamine.” His voice warms me, deep inside. “What would you have me do?”

  Father looks at me too, waiting for my answer. I know full well what he would have me say. Oh, I am torn! Heaven knows how much and for how long I have yearned to go inside that forbidden garden—but does Weed know something I do not?

  Think of the people who might be cured….

  That is what Father said, but in my heart I hear:

  It is too late to save Mama… but think of the others….

  “Father will not allow any harm to come to you,” I say firmly. “You must trust him fully, just as you trust me. And I will come into the garden, too,” I add, looking hard at Father, “and stay by your side every minute, Weed.”

  Father nods his assent.

  “As you wish.” Weed sounds reluctant but resigned, as if a long-dreaded fate he knows he cannot escape has finally come to pass. “Tomorrow it is, then.”

  With no warning, Father turns and hugs me, tightly, as if I were a child. I cannot remember the last time he has done that. I know it has been years.

  “Into the garden we go, Jessamine,” he murmurs into my hair. “It is time.”

  9

  24th April

  The weather is fair and mild.

  Father says I am not permitted to write about what happens today. The contents of the apothecary garden must remain secret.

  Did I mention that the weather is fair?

  THE KEY TO THE APOTHECARY GARDEN hangs on a large circular key ring that I have never seen before. Father slips it out of his pocket with practiced familiarity.

  Weed and I stand behind him. The morning air promises a warm day, but Weed seems frozen. I imagine he has steeled himself against whatever ill effects he fears the garden may have on him by cultivating a cold, blank exterior. How odd it is to stand so close to him and see no flicker of affection, no sign of our closeness of yesterday!

  Soon, I think. Soon we will be alone again, and the truth can finally be spoken.

  Father slips the key in the keyhole and turns it, until the lock falls open with a soft click. He shakes loose the heavy chain and lets it slip to the ground. In answer to a gentle push, the tall black gate swings open on smooth, silent hinges.

  At last! I long to whoop in celebration, but I dare not. Something more somber and dangerous is at stake. Weed stands near me, his face impassive.

  “Come inside; don’t be afraid.” Father gestures for us to follow.

  My high spirits give me the courage to tease Father. “All right, but aren’t you going to tell us not to touch anything?”

  He smiles faintly. “I assumed you knew that by now.”

  As we step inside, the temperature of the air itself seems to change, as if a great cloud suddenly blotted out the sun. Weed shudders, but he does not hang back, and together we proceed.

  Excitement courses through my every nerve. Is it because Weed is near me, or is it because, finally, after years of waiting, I stand inside the forbidden garden? Is the thrill of one any different than the thrill of the other? I cannot tell. He is with me, the garden is before me; my heart quickens with the rightness of it all.

  And yet, as I look about, I am forced to admit: On its surface, the apothecary garden is not so very different from any other garden. There is the smell of rich earth, the green plants growing quietly in their beds, the soft hum of bees making their rounds.

  Father walks ahead of us. He too seems charged with excitement; there is a spring in his step I do not often see. “My aim is to keep the plant families together as best I can, based on scientific principles,” he explains. “Weed, are you familiar with the work of Carl Linnaeus? His Systema Naturae describes a classification system for all growing things.”

  Weed’s eyes dart everywhere, probing every corner. “Unless he visited the madhouse, I never met him,” he replies.

  Father allows himself a wry smile. “Some consider him to be the greatest botanist of the century. I find his work useful, though no doubt future generations will call it primitive. I can instruct you in it if you like.” He sweeps his hand around. “Bear in mind that what I have done here is, at best, an approximation of a true botanical garden, but that is because of the unusual nature of my collection. There are many plants here that have been collected from the farthest parts of the gl
obe. Despite all my research, my knowledge of the relationships between them is scanty. Perhaps you will be able to enlighten me on that account, Weed.”

  Father does not wait for an answer. “Let us start our walk here, along the east wall. These are plants you may be familiar with. Some are native to England, and some were brought over from the American colonies a century ago—the United States of America, I suppose I ought to call it now. This plant, for example. Do you recognize it?”

  “Angel’s trumpet,” Weed breathes. “A plant of many dreams.”

  Father looks at him sharply. “Dreams, yes—some might say hallucinations. Angel’s trumpet, also known as datura. They say the name ‘datura’ comes from a Hindu word meaning ‘thorn apple’—but perhaps you already knew that.”

  Weed presses his forehead with both palms and squeezes his eyes shut. Does he not know, or is he trying to rid himself of what knowledge he has?

  “A craggy old fellow I met at the St. James fair told me that tidbit of lore,” Father continues. “He specialized in plants of the Orient, and claimed to be a survivor of one of Captain Cook’s expeditions. I suspect he was lying about that, but the specimens he offered were quite rare. And the prices he charged were exorbitant, I must say.”

  Father continues to stroll as he talks. He seems fully at ease here inside his locked garden—more at ease than I have ever seen him, in fact. “This is henbane. And this is poison hemlock. A painless death, but a particularly cruel one, don’t you think?”

  “From the feet it begins,” Weed intones.

  Father nods. “Death starts from the feet and travels upward, until it reaches the heart and finally kills you, and the whole time you are fully aware of what is happening. They say it took poor Socrates twelve hours to die. Ah, here is a favorite of mine: wormwood, the ingredient that gives absinthe its peculiarly intoxicating properties.” Father waves me closer. “Take a good look at the white bryony, Jessamine. It is all too easy to mistake its roots for parsnip. That would be the last bowl of soup any of us would ever enjoy.”