The Deadly Nightshade

by Justine Ashford

  “An incentive?”

  “Here, I’ll tell you what. If I bring back enough food for the both of us, you have to answer five personal questions. If I don’t, I’ll leave you alone forever. Promise.”

  I consider his proposition for a moment, knowing there must be some kind of trick here. I know for a fact he doesn’t know how to hunt or set traps, not that there’s any way he would be able to catch anything with that graceless gait of his regardless. He has to know he has no chance of succeeding. But then again, he is an idiot—an idiot I’m closer than ever to being rid of, nonetheless. And if by some miracle he does come back with enough food for the two of us, he might not be a complete lost cause after all.

  “Alright, you’ve got a deal,” I say. “Be back before dusk or I’m leaving without you.”

  “Alright,” he agrees. He turns to leave, but after taking a few steps he pauses and turns on his heels. “Give me one of your swords.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need some insurance so I can be sure you won’t hightail it out of here the second I turn my back. Give me one of your swords.”

  Maybe he isn’t as stupid as I thought.

  “Nobody touches my swords but me, Connor. People who do have a funny habit of ending up dead. I’ll stay right here, I swear.”

  “Your word isn’t good enough. I need a guarantee.”

  I look at him for a long time, meeting his measured stare as he holds out his hand to take my katana. Of course I won’t give him one of my swords, but if he really insists on having some form of insurance to ensure I won’t ditch him then I will have to part with something. As I ponder which of my belongings I would miss the least, I remember the black machete that hangs from my hip, unhook it from my belt loop, and hand it to him.

  “This weapon belonged to the leader of that gang. It’s important to me and I want it back after you come back empty-handed, understand?”

  Connor grins and places the weapon in his own belt beside Angelica’s knife, then goes on his way. I realize the mistake I have made as soon as he turns to leave. Now I’m stuck here, just like he wants. I could still leave, of course, but I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted that machete back. Whatever, it’s not like it matters anyway—waiting a few hours for him to return won’t kill me.

  I sit down with my back against a tree trunk, hidden by the tall grass that surrounds me, debating how to pass the time. Dusk seems a long way away. Suddenly it occurs to me that without Connor around I may have a chance at catching some game today after all, so I head back in the direction we came, wondering how long it will take for him to give up. From what I know about him, he is a strong-willed, stubborn little thing, and he will probably stay out as long as he can trying to catch something, anything. He won’t succeed, of course, but he will try. But I know he will return empty-handed, and I have to be ready when he does.

  He promised to stop following me if he couldn’t complete the task, but the chances of that actually happening are slim to none. He will keep trailing behind me until the day he dies if I let him, and the longer he is with me the greater danger I am in. It’s only a matter of time before someone hears his stomping feet or his loud, obnoxious voice and decides we are easy pickings. If I don’t get rid of him, this boy will be the death of me.

  But can I kill him? Surely it wouldn’t be a crime to end his life; he threatens my survival, and I kill to survive. But Connor isn’t like the others I have killed—he doesn’t mean to harm me and probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He’s not a bad person, not in the slightest, so can I really take his life?

  I recall one of the novels my father made me read years ago, Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, a story in which the main character murders both a greedy, evil pawnbroker and her innocent yet moronic sister who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The protagonist believes what he did was right at first, but slowly his guilt begins to consume him until he drives himself to madness. I had always thought about that pawnbroker, and how if it had been me who killed her I would feel no remorse. But the fact of the matter is that Connor is more like the sister than the old pawnbroker, just some misfortunate soul who happened to cross paths with a killer. The last thing I need is to remember what guilt feels like, so I cannot take that chance. No, I cannot kill Connor.

  So how can I get rid of him without killing him? As I meander back to the clearing after setting up half a dozen snares, a large gray stone sitting half-sunken in the mud catches my eye. It is about the size of a brick, maybe a little smaller. I pry it out of the ground and weigh it in my hands. One good knock on the head with this and he would be out cold, giving me plenty of time to put some distance between us. I could grab him and it would be over in an instant.

  But what if someone or something finds him like that? It wouldn’t take much for some hunter or animal to come across him lying on the ground and kill him . . .

  “Oh, so what?” I say aloud, although there’s no one around to hear me. “So what if he dies after the fact? It’s bound to happen eventually. It’s not my problem if he gets killed as long as I’m not the one who kills him. I could do a hell of a lot worse than leaving him here. We’re all left for dead in this world, anyway.”

  I turn the stone over and over in my hands as I walk, contemplating how I will do it. I could run up as soon as I see him and bash him over the head, but that might give him enough time to react; I already know how quick he is. Maybe I could wait for him to get close and then do it while he’s distracted, but chances are he will notice the rock in my hands before I have time to hit him. It’s probably best to get it over with as quickly as possible. Hopefully he won’t suspect a thing.

  After returning to the clearing, I pace back and forth as I wait, finding the movement comforting; I don’t like to stay still as long as I can help it. All the while, I plan how I will knock Connor out, how I will drag him into the thick grass where he will not be seen, and how I will leave him there and finally be free from that walking prison forever. My feet dig a muddy rut half an inch deep from my treading, and suddenly I realize how long he has been gone. The sun has already begun its descent and the sky is growing a dark mix of violet and orange, the colors that precede dusk. Connor has been away for hours now, and his time is almost up.

  He is dead, I know it. Someone or something must have found him wandering around alone out there. I shouldn’t have sent him out like that, with just a knife and a machete to defend himself with, and no knowledge of how to use either. I should have realized I would be sending him to his death. What a stupid idea, giving him The Leader’s machete. Like the idiot I am, I sent him out there into the wilderness with my trophy and didn’t even ask which direction he was going. If he’s dead it could take me days to find the body, which means someone else might get to it first and take what’s mine. That machete was my prize for doing to that gang what they would have done to me, and now it may be lost forever.

  I decide to check on my snares, still clinging to the faint hope that Connor will return by the time I come back. When I reach them, I discover my efforts have finally paid off—though two have been left untouched and three have collapsed, one trap contains a large black squirrel—not as substantial of a meal as I was hoping for, but definitely enough to satisfy me. With my catch tied to my belt, I make my way back to the clearing for the final time. Again, I find it empty.

  Where could he be? Lost, or dead, or soon to be dead, most likely. Great, first Ivy and her family and now this. I’m nothing but a walking force of destruction lately, aren’t I? Picking up my stone from where I left it by the tree trunk, I take a seat and turn it over and over in my hands as I give Connor the benefit of the doubt and wait just a little longer. Fifteen or so minutes pass. Then another fifteen. Then another. I’m waiting for a ghost. He isn’t coming back.

  I am about to leave to find a place to set up camp—nightfall is fast approaching, so I need to build my fire soon—when a loud, rhythmic thrashing catche
s my attention. I jump to my feet, clutching my stone behind my back because I do not want to risk dropping it and alerting whatever person or creature is lurking nearby of my presence, but as I notice the grass to my left rustling wildly, I realize whoever it is already knows I am here. Tensing, I ready myself for a fight.

  A scrawny, black-haired, blue-eyed boy wearing a knit woolen hat and a gray T-shirt that is much too big for him pushes through the vegetation. A wave of relief floods over me as soon as I recognize Connor’s familiar features, but the stone still remains in my hands. He too has his hands folded behind his back, but unlike mine I know his are empty. He looks up at me blankly, his expression revealing neither satisfaction nor disappointment. I watch him as he walks toward me, waiting patiently for him to get close enough so I can give him a good knock on the head before he knows what’s coming. I am just about to spring when he removes his hands from behind his back with a satisfied grin.

  The stone drops from my hands and embeds itself in the mud with a loud thud. Beaming, Connor holds out his jacket like a bag. Piled in the center of it are dozens of wild blackberries—probably three or four pounds’ worth. For a moment, words fail me.

  “Impressed?” he asks, practically radiating pride. “I found about a dozen bushes full of these babies just ripe for the picking. They’re probably the last we’ll see this season. Sorry I took so long, you know how it is.” Then, catching sight of the stone, he adds, “What were you doing with that rock?”

  “Berries. That’s what you brought back?”

  The grin does not fade from his face for an instant. “And to think you had so little faith in me. See, Nightshade? I’m not completely useless.”

  I emit an exasperated groan, wishing I had hit him over the head after all.

  Chapter 15

  “You’re kidding me,” I say.

  “I’m really not.” Realizing I am displeased, Connor frowns. “Why? What’s wrong with them?”

  “If I wanted blackberries I would’ve gone and picked the damn things myself, and I wouldn’t have taken hours to do it, either. Anyone with fingers can pick berries off a bush, Connor.”

  “Look, you said to come back with enough food for the two of us, and the last time I checked blackberries constitute as food.”

  “Um, yeah, maybe if you want to shit your brains out, which is exactly what’s going to happen if we eat an entire meal’s worth of those.”

  “Well what did you want me to do, Nightshade, hunt? We’ve already established that I can’t do that. Besides, I tried to make traps like the ones you use with the twigs and stuff, but they kept falling apart, so—”

  “You tried to build a snare?” I interrupt, intrigued by something he said for the first time since our meeting. So he isn’t an idiot after all—no, it takes a fairly intelligent person to casually watch someone build something and replicate it on his own without any instructions or even the proper materials. Of course, it’s obvious I’m not in the presence of the modern day Albert Einstein, but I admit I may have underestimated him.

  “Tried and failed,” he grumbles. “Look, these berries are the best I could do. They’ve got to count for something.”

  I pick one of the overly ripe fruits from the pile and place it in my mouth, sucking the sweet purple juice from my fingers and savoring its deliciousness. He does have a point—I didn’t specify what I wanted him to bring back, just that it be edible and enough to nourish us both. But he still hasn’t proven his usefulness to me, only that he has ten fingers and knows how to pluck fruit from a bush. A trained animal could have done the same.

  As if reading my mind, he adds, “I get it, Nightshade. I know you think you aren’t going to profit from this relationship at all. I get that. But I’m willing to learn. If you teach me how to make those traps like you do, I’ll be able to carry my own weight and maybe then some. I mean two hunters are better than one, right? Think of it as an investment—I’m a quick learner, and if you put just a little time and effort into teaching me then you’re going to see results. I promise.”

  I consider this for a minute. While I could easily tell Connor to hit the road and get the hell out of my life right now, there is no guarantee he’ll do as he’s told. Of course, if he does continue to follow me then I could just starve him out; it wouldn’t take long—he’s probably halfway there already. But the idea of having to watch him go through that kind of painful, drawn-out suffering in such close proximity is distasteful to me. Say I do teach him how to hunt—maybe he’ll become self-sufficient enough that he won’t have to depend on me for survival anymore and he’ll finally crawl out of my ass and leave me alone. And even if he still insists on remaining by my side, at least he’ll be able to pull his own weight. After all, Connor was right about one thing: it is exhausting being on my own sometimes.

  “Alright,” I agree. “I’ll give you a lesson or two, but that’s it. I’m not going to waste any more time on you than that, understand? If you pick it up, great. If not, then I’m dumping you. Seem fair?”

  “Absolutely,” he says, that stupid grin returning to his face. “Thank you, Nightshade. You won’t regret it.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes, knowing more likely than not I will regret it. But I suppose I’ll just have to see how it all plays out. Right now my growling stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten dinner yet, and Connor’s blackberries appear more and more tempting by the second.

  Noticing me staring at the berries, he smiles wryly and adds, “One more thing.”

  “Hm, what’s that?”

  “I did what you asked, which means you have to follow up on your part of the agreement and answer my questions.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Come on, Nightshade, a deal’s a deal. You are going to eat half of these, aren’t you?”

  I sigh. “Fine, but here’s how this is going to work. Tomorrow we get moving at the crack of dawn and I teach you how to build a snare. While we’re out there I’ll answer your five questions, but I get to choose which ones I want to respond to. If I don’t like the question, I’ll make you pick a different one, is that clear? And I won’t go back on my word—from now on I’ll stop trying to get rid of you. No more running, no more sneaking away in the middle of the night, nothing. It turns out you might not be as useless as I originally thought.”

  As I speak these last words, Connor grins, and I swear I have never seen a boy look so proud, so happy that he might amount to something, that he might have a purpose. He doesn’t stop smiling all night long, even as we sit down to devour my squirrel and his blackberries, eat until the point of sickness, and find a place to camp. As we settle down between the roots of an oak tree to sleep, I happen to glance in his direction and catch a glimpse of his little smirk in the darkness, and I cannot help but smile too. I smile because although Connor is a pain in the ass and although he seems like the most annoying human being on this earth sometimes, I could be stuck with someone a whole hell of a lot worse.

  Chapter 16

  We both wake up before dawn the next morning, me because I am eager to be on the move and Connor because he hears me stirring and still doesn’t trust me not to leave him behind. After eating a breakfast consisting of yesterday’s leftover blackberries and my last can of tuna, we pack up our things and get moving before the sun has fully risen. Despite the relaxed pace I set for us, Connor moves at a near jog, evidently eager to start learning. I can’t help but find his enthusiasm amusing, remembering when I was that keen on being taught everything my father knew.

  We walk a few miles before we are fortunate enough to happen upon a small stream. I decide to follow its snaking path, explaining to Connor that bodies of fresh water such as this one make for prime hunting ground because this is where most of the nearby animals come to drink. As we walk, Connor stops and calls out to me every now and then to insist I check out some flower or shrub he finds particularly fascinating, trying my ever-thinning patience. For him, each and every plant we pass is noteworthy a
nd merits my attention, but I fail to understand how he can find so much beauty in literally everything he sees. I suppose it would be an admirable trait if it didn’t slow us down so much, but for the most part it’s just annoying. He wants to enjoy everything—every leaf, every blade of grass, every speck of dirt, every gust of wind—and maybe that’s good for him because he might not be able to enjoy those things much longer. I, on the other hand, intend to see and feel these things everyday for the next few decades.

  When we reach an area with enough foliage to hide a few traps in, I demonstrate how to make a snare using two sticks, two pieces of shoelace, and a bent sapling. I explain that the noose must be made of something strong enough to hold the weight of a struggling animal—wire, string, fishing line, metal coil, or even certain plant fibers will do. Next, I illustrate how the trigger works and teach him the importance of finding a strong young plant to use as an engine. When I have built, dismantled, and rebuilt my snare, I take it apart again and ask Connor to try. He seems unsure of himself at first, but after some hesitation he takes the materials and begins to reconstruct the trap. Although he has trouble tying the noose, everything else goes surprisingly smoothly; he wasn’t lying when he claimed to be a fast learner. I remove my last can of fruit from my bag, open it up, and place a piece of pineapple in the middle of the loop to entice whatever animals are nearby. Together we set up a few more snares throughout the area, and I remind him to keep a mental note of where we have placed each one, since it is easy to forget. Once we are done, we sit down to finish what fruit is left in the can.

  “Now what?” Connor asks as he sucks the pineapple juice from his fingers.

  “Now we wait.”

  “Oh,” he says, seeming disappointed, as if he expected this experience to be more exciting. We sit in silence for a moment as we slurp up the last of the sugary syrup, but, of course, Connor is incapable of remaining quiet for more than a few minutes. “Hey, so while we’re just sitting here why don’t we start on those questions?” he suggests.