The Night Gardener (25 page)

“Is that so?” The old woman was watching Kip with a look that Molly could only describe as hunger.

Molly put a hand on her brother’s shoulder, but she did not stop him. Kip hopped closer, swallowing. “You know every story there is around these parts. So tell us: Do you know one about a man and a tree?”

The woman looked at Kip and then at Molly. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

laiming that an open market was no place for a proper story, Hester led them both to a tavern at the end of the road. Molly looked up at the wooden sign above the door. It had a carving of a crescent moon dipping below some waves. “The Moon Under Water,” Hester said, pushing open the door. “There’s no better spot for a pot of ale and good conversation.”

Molly stepped inside. The tavern was dark and warm. What little light bled in through the shuttered windows was soaked up by the thick cloud of smoke that floated above the tables—so thick that it hid the rafters. Men and a few women sat in chairs, talking in hushed tones. Every so often, the silence was broken with a startling burst of laughter or a clanking of plates or the sharp scrape of a stool against the wooden floor.

“Ho there, Hester!” one man called. “Come to treat us with a song?”

“Not today, William.”

Molly and Kip followed her to an empty table in the corner that
seemed to be waiting for them. “Make yourselves comfortable,” she said, carefully removing her pack from her shoulders and setting it beside the table. When she was seated, the pack was nearly as high as her head. Kip, who had never been in a tavern, eagerly slid into the corner chair, where, Molly supposed, he would have the best view of the other patrons. This suited Molly just fine because it meant she could better protect him, if trouble came. Trouble did not come, except in the form of a fat barmaid with yellow hair and a broad smile. She set down three mugs of cider, which sloshed as they landed. “On the house,” she said.

Hester put her hands to her breast. “Bless you, Franny. I’ll be sure to tell folks all about how your mince pies cured a blind man Sunday last.”

The woman chuckled. “I wouldn’t stop you if you did!” She wiped her hands on her apron and went back to the bar.

Molly watched this exchange, somewhat confused. It seemed like all Hester had to do was threaten to tell a nasty story or promise to tell a good one and folks did whatever she wanted. But if everyone knew that Hester’s stories were made up, then why did they pay her any mind?

Molly had had cider once and didn’t like the taste. Kip, however, seemed to show a natural affinity. He was nose-deep into his mug before she could blink. “Aren’t you a thirsty one?” Hester said, chuckling.

“It tastes like apples!” Kip said, licking the foam from his top lip.

Molly sniffed her own drink. “Rotten ones.”

The old woman raised her cup. “To differing opinions: may they ever stay apart.” She toasted and then sipped in a manner that could only be described as ladylike.

Molly pushed her drink aside. “You promised us a story.”

“Indeed I did.” Hester set down her mug and dabbed her lips on the edge of her cloak. “But first there’s the question of what kind of story it’ll be.”

Molly rolled her eyes. The woman had a way of answering questions without answering questions. “What
kind
of story?” she said. “You mean like happy or sad?”

“Stories come in all different kinds.” Hester scooted closer, clearly enjoying the subject at hand. “There’s
tales
, which are light and fluffy. Good for a smile on a sad day. Then you got
yarns
, which are showy—yarns reveal more about the teller than the story. After that there’s
myths
, which are stories made up by whole groups of people. And last of all, there’s
legends
.” She raised a mysterious eyebrow. “Legends are different from the rest on account no one knows where they start. Folks don’t
tell
legends; they
repeat
them. Over and again through history. And the story I have for you”—she sat back on her stool—“why, that one’s a legend.”

Molly was trying to follow. “So legends are true, then?”

The woman shrugged; again, not an answer. “Who’s to say? Truer than the rest, I suppose.” She raised a finger. “But you should know: legends are very expensive.”

Molly sighed. “We haven’t got money, as you’re well aware.”

The woman waved her off. “I don’t want your money. You’ll pay Hester the same way everyone does.” She gestured to her pack beside her. Molly looked at the jumble of trash and bric-a-brac, realizing for the first time that every object there represented a story. She wondered what sort of story might have been bought with a pair of baby shoes or a tortoise shell or hedging shears.

“If you dinna want money, what do you want?” Molly said.

The woman’s eyes drifted to Kip’s crutch propped against the wall. “I could always do with a fine walking stick—”

Molly put a hand on her brother’s leg. “You canna have that,” she said.

The woman chuckled. “I didn’t think so. So let’s see …” She rolled her fingers on the table, screwing up her face in thought. “I couldn’t help but notice: ever since I showed up, your brother’s had one hand buried in his pocket.”

Molly looked down at Kip and saw that he did indeed have one hand in the pocket of his coat. It was balled up in a little fist, as though he were holding something. He shifted, uncomfortable. “My hand’s cold,” he said.

The woman smiled. “Cold or not. You give me whatever’s in there, and we’ll call it even.”

It was obvious that Kip did not want to do this. Molly leaned toward him. “We got no choice,” she whispered. The truth was, Molly was grateful that the woman had asked for the contents of Kip’s
pockets and not her own. In her pocket were the letters from Ma and Da—she would never be able to give those up.

Kip bit his lip. “All right.” He pulled his fist from his pocket and placed something small on the table. “It’s a wishin’ button. Molly gave it to me.”

“You don’t say.” The woman whistled. “Two pups come to me wanting to know about a man and a tree … and of all the things they could pay, they give me a button to wish on.” She picked it up, holding it between her fingers like a jewel. “I’ll take good care of it.” She reached over to her pack and removed a short length of string that seemed to have been put there just for this occasion. She carefully laced the string through the buttonhole and then tied it around her neck.

Molly squeezed her brother’s hand. She knew it meant something to give up that button, even if it was just make-believe. “We paid your price,” she said. “Now let’s hear the tale.”

“Legend,” Kip corrected.

“Indeed,” Hester said, leaning close. “We’ll call it the Legend of the Night Gardener.”

Night Gardener.
Just hearing those words sent bumps along Molly’s arm. It was as if the woman had given a name to the man in the fog. Molly looked at her brother, who was staring at the woman, eyes wide.

Hester Kettle produced a pipe from her sash and stuffed it with tobacco. She lit the bowl and puffed slowly. Smoke curled up from the end, dissolving into the cloud above them. “Like all legends, it’s very old. Goes back further than anyone can tell, before saints and
scrolls … Might even be the first story there ever was.” She raised her brow. “Picture that, if you can.”

Molly knew what the woman was doing. She was creating a
mood
. It was something Molly did when she wanted people to really listen. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what the world might be like before boats and roads and kings and wars. A world fresh and new.

The woman cleared her throat, and when she spoke again her voice had a sort of music to it. “There once was a wise man who lived in a garden. The man had a magic touch about him, and his plot was filled with all manner of strange plants—the like of which hasn’t been seen before or since. People called him the Night Gardener, and that was because his garden would only blossom under the light of the full moon.”

Molly looked at Kip, who was looking at her. Did this woman somehow know about the flowers in the woods? Was she teasing them? “Did … did the flowers glow white?” Kip asked.

“I hadn’t heard that,” Hester said. “I suppose they might have. Glowing or not, the man loved his garden, and he cared for it year in and year out. He sang to his plants and trimmed their leaves and talked to them as though they were his own children—which they were, in a manner of speaking.” She leaned closer. “And then one day there grew a new child: a tree. This tree was different from everything else in the garden. This tree was
alive
.”

Molly heard Kip gasp. “Did it have roots that moved?” he said.

Hester puffed at her pipe. “Again, I can’t say. The curious thing about this tree was its fruit.”

“What was its fruit?” Molly asked despite herself.

“Anything.” The woman opened her eyes wide. “The tree would give you whatever you wished for.” She shook her head as if she, too, had trouble believing it. “Can you imagine?”

Molly swallowed. She thought of the letters in her dress pocket. “But … but the things it gave were real, right?”

“Real as you or me. People came from all around to have their heart’s desire granted to them. The poor found riches. The ugly found love. The sick found strength.” Molly heard Kip shift in his seat. “And all the tree asked in return was a single drop of your soul—”

“Your soul?” Kip said, clasping his finger.

“Just a drop, mind you. There’s folks who’ll pay much more than that for much less.” She drew on her pipe. “At the end of each day, after all the people had gotten their wishes and gone home, the Night Gardener would make his own wish: ‘I’ve everything a man could want,’ he’d say. ‘Stars overhead, soil below, and my children around me. All I ask is that it might never end. Just as the blossom turns to seed, I wish that I might never die.’ And every time he uttered these words, the tree would always answer the same way:

“‘Help me grow tall, and you shall receive

All that you wish inside of me.’”

“Wait.” Molly wrinkled her nose. “The tree could
talk
?”

Hester gave her an irritated look. “Legends are not helped by the
literal mind. The tree spoke; that’s all I know.” She relit her pipe, which had gone out. “So the Night Gardener spent his days caring for the tree, and the tree spent its days caring for people. And at the end of every day, when the sun fell from the sky, the Night Gardener would make his wish of the tree, and the tree would answer as it always had:

“‘Help me grow tall, and you shall receive

All that you wish inside of me.’

“Years passed, and the tree grew stronger and taller. The other plants in the garden withered and died, but the man did not care. He wanted only to tend his beloved tree.

“And then one day, when the man was very old, he came to the tree one last time. He fell before it, hobbled and weak. ‘All I have is gone,’ he said. ‘My garden is bare. My body is broken. I have given my life to help you grow. In all these years, never once have I tasted your fruit. And now I ask with my very last breath: Will you grant my wish?’

“The tree was now enormous; its branches nearly scratched the sky. And this time, it answered a little differently:

“‘Now I am tall, so now you’ll receive

All that you wish inside of me.’

“And with that, the tree spread its branches and leaned over with its great, broad trunk. It opened its mouth wide and”—she clapped
her hands together—“swallowed the man whole.” The old woman sat back in her chair, looking spent. “And that is the Legend of the Night Gardener.”

Molly sat for a moment in confused silence. “That canna be all,” she said. “What happened to him after that?”

“He died, I suppose. Or he didn’t.” The woman shrugged. “The legend doesn’t tell that part.”

Molly felt a flush of anger, the way she did when someone had tricked her. “But it has to! It has to end proper.”

“Stories don’t
have to
do anything; they just have to be.” She leaned forward. “But imagine if it
were
true, hmm?” She stared between them, her eyes shining. “Imagine what a person could do with just a little clipping from a tree like that.” She wet her lips. “Why, she’d be queen of the world …”