The Garden of Darkness

by Gillian Murray Kendall

  “This is my special collection,” said the Master.

  “I want to go home,” Clare said. Her voice was weak. She swayed on her feet, and Jem put his arm around her waist to steady her.

  “You want to go back to Thyme House,” said the Master. “Yes, I know. You want the cure, and you want to desert us, too. But we can bring your friends at Thyme House here. We can make them part of this larger family, and they’ll be safe. I’ll care for you all until you’re older.”

  “We could go back and forth between here and Thyme House,” said Jem. “We could come and visit when the time for the cure comes.”

  “Maybe,” said the Master. “But maybe you think so because you’re so very young. Maybe what you want isn’t what you need.”

  Clare did not want to move to Haven. Yet she heard something in the voice of the Master that made her believe that maybe what he said was true—maybe what she wanted wasn’t what she needed. She glanced at Jem.

  “We’re doing pretty well,” said Jem. “We just need a cure.”

  “It isn’t that easy,” said the Master.

  Of course not, thought Clare. Nothing had been easy, not since Pest. She missed the before time—the hours gossiping on the phone with Robin; the number of back flips she could do; Reading King Lear in the middle of the night. Or reading The Hunger Games as Chupi pecked at the margins. Or Jane Eyre for the millionth time. And talking with Michael. It seemed as if she hadn’t thought of Michael in a long while.

  “Who are you?” Jem asked the Master. “What were you before Pest?”

  Clare wasn’t listening. She was drifting on a flow of her own thoughts. She looked at the paintings. One showed two adults in a house, the woman knitting. Outside on the lawn stood a child, but she wasn’t playing with her toys, she was standing by what looked like a pet sheep and looking away with her ice-blue eyes. The eye-color looked as if it had been added to the painting. And the shadows around the toys were all wrong, as if she were in a different world than the adults. The plate screwed into the frame was blurry to Clare, but she stared at it until the words became clear. ‘Mourning Picture. Smith College Art Museum.’

  Clare turned her attention to the Master again.

  “I was and am a doctor,” said the Master. “A pediatrician, originally. There’s a certain irony there, don’t you think? But at the end I was a research scientist. And I think it’s safe to say that I know more about Pest than anyone living or dead. I was close to a cure before Pest shut everything down. A real cure. My name is Doctor Andrew Sylver.”

  “The patches on the Cured,” said Jem, after a pause. “‘SYLVER.’”

  “Yes.”

  “You made those people insane.”

  “Yes. But not on purpose, of course. The side-effects are unfortunate, but soon enough there’ll be no Cured in the world—the patches were only ever designed to last a year, while we developed a real cure.”

  “Can’t you cure the Cured as well?” asked Jem.

  “Well, no,” said the Master. “No. Their madness is too far advanced. Their brains are like, well, like cheese.”

  Clare seemed to rise to the surface for a moment, out of the tide of her thoughts.

  “Why blue eyes?” she asked.

  “I love my blue-eyed children,” said the Master. He shook his head as if bemused, and his hair fell back from his neck.

  “You’re wearing a patch,” said Ramah.

  “I had to endure the Cure, yes,” he said quickly. “I needed the Cure to gain the time to find a real cure. Which I have.”

  Clare didn’t think this was a good time to point out that the patch had made him insane.

  She slid quietly to the floor. Such weakness. And nothing to be done.

  Almost immediately, she could feel Jem’s arms around her, pulling her up onto his lap. Then he was unbuttoning the top buttons on her shirt, and she could feel his cool hands on her burning neck.

  He was so gentle, so tender. She was grieved for him when she felt him touch the telltale blisters that she had discovered less than an hour before.

  “Pest,” he said softly.

  “I’m sorry,” said Clare.

  And it occurred to her, now that it was too late, that she loved Jem, and that she had loved him for a long time. Knowing she loved him was like knowing her heart was still beating. Clare would have given a lot to have the time to talk about it with him, not least because he was her best friend. And Clare wanted to explain to him how he had saved her from the danger of her silly, selfish self.

  She closed her eyes and as she did she felt something wet on her face. Someone was crying.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ASHES, ASHES

  CLARE CAME OUT of her delirium to find that they were back in their bedroom. She stared up at ‘Diana and the Hunt’ and ‘The Royal Picnic.’ She turned her head then and saw Ramah and Jem by the bed, watching her.

  “She’s coming out of it,” said Ramah.

  “For now,” said Jem bitterly.

  Clare propped herself up on her elbows.

  “I feel better,” she said hoarsely.

  “I’m glad,” said Ramah. Jem was silent. Clare looked at him.

  “It’s the kind of feel-good that comes before the final relapse,” said Clare. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Jem, finally. “It is.” This time Ramah was silent.

  “I guess it won’t be long, then. I don’t even get three days.” She touched her face with her hand and felt the lesions on her skin, especially around her eyes and mouth. Soon she wouldn’t be able to speak.

  “I guess I’m pretty ugly,” she said.

  “Not to me,” said Jem.

  “The Master brought us here and left,” said Ramah. “He says he’s going to announce that you have Pest. He wants to show you to the children; he wants to scare them. We don’t know where Bear is. Still in the compound, maybe.”

  “I wouldn’t have minded,” Clare said.

  “What?” asked Jem.

  “Being matched with you. I wouldn’t have minded.”

  “We can talk about that later. You’ve been delirious.”

  “There is no later.”

  Clare thought of the first time she had seen Sarai and Mirri and Jem. She had thought of Jem as a little kid. She remembered further back, to the cabin she had lived in, first with Chupi and then alone, to the stag in the cabbages, to Bear’s breath on her face.

  “I don’t want to die here,” said Clare.

  “Clare,” said Jem.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t see it before.”

  “Didn’t see what?”

  “I’m glad, Clare,” said Ramah drily, “that you’ve started to realize the obvious, but we are still, as always, deeply in need of a plan.”

  At that moment, the door opened. Clare was expecting the Master, but it was a very small and frightened looking Dante. He took one look at Clare’s face and stepped backward. A very pissed-off looking Ramah caught his arm.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Don’t hurt me.”

  “Then do something useful.”

  He paused. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to tell us everything. I want you to explain why Master isn’t rushing in here and trying to cure Clare.”

  “I’m really sorry,” said Dante, and he burst into tears. Ramah took him by the shoulders and shook until he stopped.

  “Explain. Now.”

  “Master doesn’t really have a cure.”

  “Then why are you all here?” asked Jem. “What’s the point of all this?”

  “Master cares for us. He takes good care of us; he can’t help it that when we get older the Pest blooms, and then we die. But we don’t tell children about that when they first come in. They get used to it here, and then they stay. And it’s a haven here. You’ve seen the outside world. What difference does it make if there’s no cure?”

  “A lot,” said Jem. “It makes a lot of differe
nce.”

  “That’s why he wants to match up children so young,” said Dante. “So that, when there’re enough of us, we can breed a new, young world. He’s going to be careful who he selects; he wants survivors.”

  “Blue-eyed survivors,” gasped Clare.

  “You know an awful lot,” said Ramah to Dante.

  “I’m not stupid,” said Dante.

  “You’re stupid and spineless,” said Ramah.

  Clare was impressed. Not much got to Ramah.

  “I listen to things,” said Dante. “And Master tells the kids who’ve been here awhile some of the facts. Not the facts about the blood; I figured a lot of that out on my own. From what Britta told me.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Jem. “What about the blood? What blood?”

  Dante cringed. “He likes it. Blood. From the blue-eyed ones. I saw him with Eliza once; she’d cut her hand in the kitchen.”

  “You are kidding me,” said Jem.

  “He kills them, doesn’t he?” said Ramah.

  “Yes,” whispered Dante.

  “I can’t believe Britta told you this,” said Jem.

  “Master trusts her absolutely completely totally—and she’d do anything for him. But she still told me a lot; see, she likes me. And she shows off.”

  “Both you and Britta have brown eyes,” said Clare thoughtfully.

  “Yeah,” said Dante. “Master’ll never match us up. Thankfully. Britta likes me, but I don’t like Britta.”

  “Lordy,” said Clare. “It’s like high school.”

  “Tell us what you know,” said Jem.

  “The blue-eyed girl children are different,” said Dante. “Master told Britta that their recessive gene blood keeps him alive, but that, as a cure, it won’t work on children. Just on him.”

  “He drinks their blood?” said Jem. “He kills them because they have blue eyes?”

  “Not all of them,” said Dante. “Some live. He wants to match them up. Until there are as many blue-eyed children as he needs. It’s scientific.”

  “And you believe his little excuse for murder.” Ramah’s contempt was crushing.

  “Well, he’s alive,” said Dante.

  “He’s alive because he’s a Cured, you idiot,” said Ramah. “He wears the patch. That blue-eyed-blood-is-a-cure stuff is nonsense. He just likes killing blue-eyed children.”

  “I bet he’s obsessed with Clare,” said Dante. “I bet Clare’s eyes are in a different category from anything he’s ever, ever seen. I mean, who’s seen a blue like that? They’re—”

  “Shut up,” said Jem.

  “It’s a good life here. Even for the blue-eyed ones. For a while.”

  “No,” Jem said. “It’s not.”

  “We need Bear,” Clare said. It was bizarre to feel so normal when she knew she was dying. The relapse was in the shadows, waiting, but she still had a little time.

  “Britta locked your dog in the courtyard,” said Dante.

  “Is there anything else you’re forgetting to tell us?” asked Ramah. “Because it would give me great pleasure to hit you.”

  “I’m sorry, Ramah. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Go and find out what the Master’s up to,” said Ramah. “Then come back. Quickly.” Dante left the room, but not without casting a curious glance at Clare.

  “Your eyes are really blue,” he said. “I’m sorry you have Pest.”

  “Get out of here,” said Jem.

  Nobody said anything as he left. Finally Clare broke the silence.

  “He’s sweet on you, Ramah.”

  “He’s an idiot.”

  “He’s still sweet on you. Really. Trust me. In high school I was an expert.”

  “I’m ten.”

  “So’s he. But maybe he can get you and Jem out of here.”

  “You’re not going to die alone in this place, Clare,” said Jem.

  Now that Clare was sitting up, she could see the yard outside the window. Doug and a girl with dark curly hair looked like they were trying to erect a tire swing. A girl with a braid was jumping rope. Clare could just hear the girl singing and jumping to the rhythm of the song

  “Ring around a rosy

  A pocket full of posies

  Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.”

  Britta walked into the bedroom. Clare started to get up, but the movement brought on the full weight of Pest. The fever and the pain began to settle over her again, and she was suddenly blanketed in agony. Jem eased her back down on the bed.

  Ashes, ashes.

  “Master’s coming,” Britta said. She looked at Clare. “You don’t know how much I wish I had your eyes. Maybe I could pay him back then.”

  “What on earth do you think you owe Master?” Ramah asked Britta.

  “I owe Master everything.”

  “I’m not going to let him murder Clare,” said Jem. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “She’s dying anyway,” said Britta. “She’s not going to walk out of here. And we’re going to show her to the other children. They can see what disobedience to the Master looks like.”

  Clare felt Jem’s hand on her head as he smoothed back her hair. She wished she could see him, but her eyes were almost swollen shut.

  “I’m taking her home,” he said.

  “It’s over, Jem,” said Clare.

  Clare knew she was growing weaker. She had to get Jem and Ramah back to Thyme House, but there was only one way, and that way was very bitter.

  Clare abruptly pushed herself off the bed. She almost fell, but she knocked away Jem’s hand. Then she was on her feet and moving, unsteadily, towards the door. She found it hard to see her way.

  “No,” said Jem. “Don’t do this.”

  “I’m going to Master,” said Clare. “Thyme House is for you and Ramah and the others.”

  Clare reached the door. Then she was teetering at the top of the stairs. Jem reached her and took her arm, but she shook free of him. The Master, now visible at the bottom of the stairs, began to bound up. A moment later Clare was in the Master’s arms, her face cradled against his chest.

  “I’ve got you,” said the Master quietly.

  “It’s not supposed to be this way,” Jem said.

  “This is exactly how it’s supposed to be,” said the Master.

  Then, with what effort she could, Clare reached up and clawed at the Master’s shirt, just enough to open it so that they could all see his Pest rash and the Cured patch.

  “He’s made it all up about the blood of blue-eyed children being a cure for him,” she said. “He just likes killing.”

  “You can’t do this,” said Jem, and Clare didn’t know if he were speaking to her or to the Master.

  “Britta,” said the Master slowly, “I’m not done with these house guests. You and Doug get Jem and Ramah nicely tied up, will you? They should co-operate; if they don’t, I can make the end unpleasant for their friend.”

  “Let Jem and Ramah go,” said Clare. “That’s why I came to you now. So you’d let them go.”

  “Didn’t work out, did it?” said the Master.

  Then the Master looked down into Clare’s eyes, and she could see her newly misshapen face reflected in the washed out blue of his eyes.

  How do you like your blue eyed boy Death, she thought. ee cummings, she thought. no caps.

  INTERLUDE

  THERE WAS A flash of light that seared through Clare’s brain. The flash lit up her whole mind and burned it and left her weak and panting. A familiar voice was yelling something about convulsions.

  Clare roused herself. Before the final sleep, she must tell Jem how she loved him. With a cure, there might have been a full lifetime in which to do it. Now she wished only for a week, a day, an hour. But you can’t always get what you want. You can’t always get what you want. And sometimes, even if you try, you can’t get what you need.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  JOURNEYS END

  CLARE SLEPT FOR a while in the M
aster’s arms. She couldn’t help it. When she awoke, she was in the collection room in the basement, lying on a cot. The light in the room was bright; hurricane lanterns were everywhere, and the tapestries, paintings and statues stood out sharply. She saw that Ramah’s bow and quiver were on the large table, and she wondered if Ramah had tried to threaten the Master.

  Then she saw Ramah and Jem. Their backs were against the wall, and their arms and legs were bound. Their mouths were sealed with silver tape. Jem had a black eye and a large scratch across his cheek. There was no sign of Bear.

  Jem struggled in his bonds when he saw she was awake. The Master looked at him dispassionately.

  “I’m killing Clare first, and then I’m killing you,” he said. “For purely practical reasons. But as Shakespeare says, ‘journeys finish when lovers meet.’”

  “‘Journeys end in lovers meeting,’” said Clare. “Twelfth Night. You got it wrong. Asshole.”

  Clare watched as the Master turned away from Jem and Ramah. And then all of his attention was on her.

  “I want to look into your eyes while I do it,” he said. And then he was kneeling in front of her. “They are so very blue. I’ve never seen eyes like yours—not in thirty years of looking. Maybe yours won’t fade at the end.” And she saw that he had a knife in his hand.

  She tried to swallow, but her throat was too swollen. She tried to think of something she could say to stop him, but a high-pitched whine in her ears kept her from being able to think. She hoped that Jem and Ramah would somehow get away—they were strong and filled with ingenuity. Surely they would.

  “I need to drink the blood before you die,” the Master said. “That’s Part One; I have to do that. Then I’m going to kill you. That’s Part Two, that’s recreation, but I have to do it, too.” He sounded apologetic. Then his knife was under her ear. She felt a trickle of blood run down her neck as the cold metal touched her. The Master leaned down and licked it up.