Read The Poison Diaries Online
Authors: Maryrose Wood,The Duchess Of Northumberland
The Poison Diaries (17 page)
The parade of humanity passes, singly, in twos and threes. I watch, and wait. And mourn, for what I must now do to save Jessamine’s life makes me unworthy of her love. Whether she lives or dies, I know I have lost her.
I have lost her, forever.
Accepting the bitterness of that truth steels me against all compassion. My newly opened heart slams shut with an iron clang, and is sealed with a lock that has no key. Once more I am cold and unfeeling, as bloodless as the plants I have preferred to humans all my life.
Now, at last, I am ready to kill.
Soon a man in a long dark coat and odd hat approaches; when he reaches the crossing he pauses and addresses me. “Repent, friend,” he warns. “The
heavens are filled with omens, and sin runs rampant on the earth.”
The sun disappears, blotted out by the dark wings of a raven that circles overhead.
“Repent,” the preacher says again, with a nervous glance upward. “Repent, for the end is near.”
“Nearer than you know,” I reply. I tackle him to the ground and drag him behind the hedge where we cannot be seen from the road.
“Do not rob me, sir! I have nothing—repent! Repent!” His ceaseless chatter makes it easy to slip the poison between his lips. He gags, then swallows, and looks at me, aghast, confused. Then the convulsions begin.
I close my eyes and pin him to the ground as the life thrashes out of his body. I hold fast, and soon the flesh beneath my hands is soft, yielding, springy as wool.
I feel the gorge rise in my throat. As I was once sickened at the thought of eating a carrot, now I am revulsed by taking a human life. I think of Jessamine—how
glad she would be to know that, and how much she would hate me if she knew what I have done.
Forgive me, my beloved, I am doing this for you—
I look down. It is no preacher at all. It is a young ewe that I imprison in my murderous hands, plump and covered with fleece.
Have I gone mad?
I close my eyes, then look again. It is the preacher, eyes bulging, wordlessly begging for mercy.
“What is it that I kill?” I cry in despair.
Does it matter?
The answer comes back, soothing, seductive, reasonable beyond measure.
Death is death. If your victim lives, Jessamine dies. If it dies, she lives. Since all lives are of equal value, what difference does it make which one you save?
KRAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
A raw, cruel cry fills the air—is it me who screams? Or the raven?
I release my prey and stand. The convulsions have stopped, but the preacher is not yet dead. He pants and flops about on the ground, helpless as a fish as the
paralysis spreads through his body, and stares at me, wild-eyed with fear.
It must end. I have no weapon save my hands. I could beg a branch from a tree and fashion a club from it, or a sharp stake, but I will make no other living thing party to this wretched deed. I find a heavy stone, sharp edged. I do not even bother to hide it, for I know my victim can neither fight nor flee.
I raise the stone above my head.
The ewe gazes up at me with its trusting brown eyes. It gives a soft bleat of welcome.
“No!” screams the preacher. “Spare me, friend—God forgive you—”
“Thank you for what I am about to receive,” I gasp, and strike the death blow.
We have arrived. Listen carefully, my lovely: Can you hear?
Shrieking. Moaning. All I hear is suffering. What is this place? It is like a museum of death!
Not a museum. Think of it as a laboratory.
Is it yours?
No. Only a person who thirsted to know—who insisted on knowing, no matter the cost—would create a place such as this.
You mean, a person like my father?
There’s an interesting notion. Your father knows a
great deal about plants. So does your beloved Crabgrass, come to think of it. Why, if I were you I would be very suspicious of both of them! People like that are prone to do anything to get the knowledge they crave.I don’t understand—
Look around you. If one wished to determine, for example, how much strychnine it would take to kill a grown man—or how many hours a generous dose of hemlock would take to paralyze, but not kill, the victim—there really is only one way to find out.
Where are we, Oleander? Who are these people?
You need not concern yourself with who they are; no one else does. A madhouse is a very convenient place to find people whom no one will miss. And the madhouses in London are overflowing! The city alone is enough to drive a man out of his wits.
Then—we are in London?
Why the stricken face, Jessamine? You always wanted to visit London, did you not?
I thought Father might take me someday—he goes there—often, he goes there—he does not tell me what he
does there, though. Oh, I do not like this! Is this what you wish me to think? That my father experiments on madmen to learn about the poisons he grows?He is a clever man. And that would be a clever plan.
It would be murder!
Life and death, death and life, is that all you flesh bodies can think of? Look at the plants: We die back to the ground every winter. We wither and fade; our leaves turn to ash and blow away. And yet you do not hear us complain. Happily we return to the earth and die our little, temporary death, for we know we will come back, one way or another.
That is because you do not die like we do. For you death is not even real.
Death is real, make no mistake. But it is also an illusion. An interesting paradox, is it not? Why do you weep, my lovely?
My father—a murderer, a poisoner!—surely it cannot be true—
If you did not think it were true, you would not be weeping. Another interesting paradox! But cry, cry as
much as you like—we have to fly again, back the way we came, but we will travel faster now, for time is running out—and there is one more thing you must see—Here we are. Unfortunate creature. Open your eyes now, Jessamine: do you see? The resemblance is striking; she looks just like you. Poor girl, she must be in agony. See how she screams and screams, and begs for her suffering to be over—have all your questions been answered yet?
Oleander, tell me the truth—who is she?
The truth? I fear that is unwise, but if you insist: She is you, my dear. You seem to have taken a turn for the worse. That dimwitted fiancé of yours is certainly in no rush to cure you of whatever it is that ails you.
Stop this! I cannot bear it anymore, please—
You see why it is better to leave the frail flesh body behind? Imagine being trapped inside all of—that. The mess, the noise. The pain! Truly, you are much better off here, with me. Stay with me, Jessamine. Stay … no answer? You are considering my offer, though, I can see how it tempts you—I hear it in the terrified flutter of your heart, fast as a bird’s—
From the look of it I will soon be dead. You will have to find another companion.
Perhaps I will, or perhaps you will change your mind—oh, dear; it appears your incompetent caretakers have found some new, vile potion to force down your throat. Come away now, this is not something you ought to watch … it is much, much too upsetting….
I
STAGGER BACK TO THE GARDEN, STICKY WITH BLOOD.
“Dumbcane? Snakeweed? I have returned.”
There is silence. I sense only the chilling silver mist, enwrapping me in its tendrils.
“Moonseed? Larkspur? Speak, Poisons! I have performed the tasks you asked of me. Now you must give me the cure I seek.” I shout in anger to keep myself from weeping, for I know my soul is lost. I have killed, and killed, and killed again, and there is no amount of grace that can save me now.
“My subjects—the ones you call the Poisons—are not here.”
A young man rises from the earth. Some might
call him beautiful. His hair is silver as wormwood, his lips are stained red as a yew berry. Twinned dark shapes—can they be wings?—lie folded against his back. He approaches me with outstretched arms.
“Welcome home, Weed,” he says.
I am exhausted with games and trickery, and murder still flows in my veins. It takes all my strength not to strike out at this smug creature and let his own crimson blood dye the earth beneath our feet.
“Who are you?” I hiss in fury.
The dark shapes on his back rise and flex. They are enormous wings made of dark, leathery leaves, stretched over a skeleton of branches that are gnarled and forked as a witch hazel tree. Only now does he lift his eyes to mine. They are wide and vividly green, like my own.
“Don’t you know me, Weed? We have met before, more than once. Surely you remember—the first time was long ago….”
The hypnotic power of his voice is impossible to resist. I close my eyes. My nostrils fill with the tang of salt air.
“I remember,” I say, dazed, as the long-forgotten images wash over me. “When I was a boy I used to run off; one time I made it to the docks and stowed away on a trading vessel bound for the Low Countries. A fortnight into the voyage, the ship was boarded by pirates. The crew bargained for their freedom. They offered to hand me over as a slave. I was terrified. I prayed for some way to defend myself.”
“And your prayers were answered. Remember?”
The horrors of the past flood my senses:
The sudden, violent illness that swept over our captors but left us untouched, the vomiting, the stench of decay, the bodies thrown overboard one by one as the pirates died in agony …
“Our attackers grew sick and weak,” I answer in a daze. “Their numbers dwindled, and soon we were able to defeat them.”
“There is more, Weed. Remember?” His sinuous voice lures the memories from my mind. “The pirates were starving; they had been sailing for weeks with no provisions left but hardtack and whiskey. After seizing
your vessel, they bound the crew in ropes. They took you for the ship’s boy, and ordered you to the galley to prepare a meal.”
“I remember,” I whisper hoarsely.
“You made a stew, and seasoned it with rare spices from the hold of the ship—the same precious cargo they had hoped to steal. It was I who guided your hand that day.”
“It seems my thanks is overdue.” I bow my head, more in shame than in gratitude.
“You are most welcome. And now that your memory has been rekindled, do you recall my name as well?”
I close my eyes once more and conjure the smell of the sea. “Oleander,” I whisper. “I remember now. But I called you Angel—because of the wings.”
“And I called you Weed.” His wings spread and arch upward. “Poor, straggly Weed. Because no one ever wanted you, no matter where you went or how many seeming ‘miracles’ you performed. How was I to know the name would stick?”
“Will you come to my aid again now?” My heart twists with a last, agonizing surge of hope. “I seek a cure for Jessamine Luxton. I have done all that was asked of me in exchange for it. Time is short—I beg of you—”
He ignores my pleading. He looks up at me, and I am again startled by the emerald color of his eyes, so similar to my own. “Poor Jessamine,” he murmurs. “She was truly quite lovely.”
“What do you mean?” I cry, stepping toward him. “Is it already too late?”
“Not yet. Not quite. Foolish, brave girl! She is so near death, on the precipice, really. And oh, how she suffers! Unlike your many victims, Jessamine still bears the full burden of life in the flesh. It is terrible, terrible. Most people would rather die than endure what she now endures.”
“Give me the cure,” I say thickly. “Please.”
“There is something we need to discuss first.” His wings rise and flex again, chilling me with their shadow. “Time and again you have entered my realm
to bargain for a cure for your beloved. You have demanded it, begged for it, you have even killed for it. But you have never bothered to ask: What is it, exactly, that ails your sweet Jessamine?”
“To save her is all that matters to me.”
“But aren’t you the least bit curious? Is it the dropsy? The ague? A rare intestinal parasite, perhaps?”
“Enough!” It is all I can do to keep from throttling him. “She is near death, you said so yourself. There is no time left for talk—”
“I find your lack of curiosity … curious, that is all. Almost as if you would prefer not to know.” He looks at me intently. “Humor me. Ask me what ails her.”
This is a trick, I can feel it, yet once again I have no choice but to play along. “What ails her?” My voice is hollow.
“She is being poisoned.”
“It is impossible,” I retort, but fear plummets through my body like a stone. “I have scarcely left her side. No one has been to the cottage. No food or drink has passed her lips except what I have fed her myself.”
“That’s just it, my dear Weed. Those vile potions you keep dribbling through her tender, kissable lips—
blech!
Enough poison in there to paralyze a cow.”
“That medicine was prepared by her father! No one else has been near her.” But already my hands begin to clench with rage
—it cannot be—
Oleander’s powerful wings beat in a slow, accusing rhythm. “Think, Weed! Did you never wonder what truly happened that night, the night you and your bride-to-be went half mad with passion and entered her father’s study to taste the forbidden fruit, as it were? Did you not suspect for one moment that there were forces more powerful than your simpering calf love at work? That, perhaps, there might have been something in the tea that Jessamine’s beloved father so carefully prepared for you both before he left for London?”
“How do you know this?”
Oleander’s eyes flash as if they would burst into flame. His voice soars with rage. “I know because it was here he came—without my permission!—to my realm, knife in hand, to shear the tender growth from my loyal
subjects and mix their very limbs into an elixir of love that would inflame the blood and erase inhibition! A few sips would all but guarantee that you, you callow, ardent misfit, and that perfectly ripe, lovestruck girl would lose all reason, abandon all restraint—”
