The Night Gardener (31 page)

Doctor Crouch watched beside Molly. “Wh-wh-what’s happening to it?”

The Night Gardener was doubled over, writhing in pain. Leaves darted over his head, slashing this way and that in a flurry of confused rage. Molly looked up at the tree. Black sap covered the place where the branch had been torn off, like blood from a wound. “I dinna think he liked that,” she said.

The Night Gardener planted his hands on the ground and slowly, painfully, brought himself to his feet. He teetered from side to side, his weight unsteady. He saw the broken branch atop Hester’s body. He released a roar that shook the very ground.

Doctor Crouch forgot about the horse and scrambled to his feet. “It was all their idea!” he cried out. “It’s them you want!” He started running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

The Night Gardener pointed his skeletal hands toward the stables. Molly heard a sharp wrenching sound as a gust ripped the wide stable door clean off its hinges. The Night Gardener snapped his arms in the direction of the doctor, who was halfway to the bridge. The giant door soared across the lawn, spinning toward its target—

“Don’t look!” Molly grabbed Kip, covering his eyes. There was no scream—only a sharp crashing sound. She looked across the lawn; where the doctor had been there was now only a door with two unmoving feet sticking out from beneath it.

She stared back at the Night Gardener, who wore on his face a look of icy satisfaction. “You killed him …” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Killed him in cold blood right in front of us …”

The spirit tipped his hat as if accepting a compliment. He stepped
to the place where Hester lay. The old woman turned over, groaning under the weight of the branch. “You pups best run,” she croaked. A shimmer of blood trickled from her mouth.

Kip grabbed Molly’s arm. “I can get the horse, but that rope’s still tied to her—if we run, it’ll kill her.”

Molly scanned the moonlit ground, searching for something, anything that might protect them. She remembered what Kip had told her before, that the Night Gardener didn’t like fire. She needed a torch or lamp or even a match—

Then she saw it.

Lying among the splintered bits of the doctor’s camera was the metal flash pan. “Cut the rope from the wagon!” she called. “I’ll do the rest.” She scrambled across the dirt, nearly tumbling into one of the graves. She grabbed the flash. Inside the pan was a small amount of white powder. Molly hoped it would be enough.

The Gardener had removed the branch from on top of Hester’s body and set it beside the trunk. He held out a hand, and his shovel flew into it.

Molly charged at the man, holding the flash in front of her. “Over here!” She pulled the trigger, and a burst of fire erupted in her hands.

The Night Gardener staggered backward, thrashing his arms as flames swept over his body.

Molly coughed, shielding her face from the smoke. She scrambled to Hester’s side. “We’re gettin’ you outta here,” she said. She grabbed
Hester’s shears and cut the net away from her body. The woman groaned in pain as Molly hoisted her up on her shoulder. Molly half carried, half dragged the woman to the wagon. Kip was there, waiting with the gate down.

The Gardener roared behind Molly. She looked over her shoulder to see him staggering toward them, his body smoldering in the moonlight. The flames had burned away his cloak, and Molly gasped to see the man’s leg; it was twisted in on itself, the bone splintered at the knee. Black sap ran thick down his trousers and boot, staining the grass as he moved.

“Get in front!” Molly shouted, holding Hester’s body. “I’ve got her!”

Kip scrambled through the bed of the wagon and grabbed the reins. Molly braced her shoulder against Hester’s weight and, with a strained cry, lifted the woman onto the cart. “Go!” She scrambled in after her.

Kip snapped the reins, and they bolted ahead. Molly gripped the side rails as they raced over the hills toward the gravel drive.
Not hills
, she thought,
graves
.

She could see the Gardener coming after them. Even with his broken leg, he was inhumanly fast.

“Hold tight!” Kip yelled as the wagon hit the drive and shot forward.

The Gardener—still right behind them—raised his hand, and a
gust of wind brought Hester’s shears into his open palm. He flung them at the wagon—
thwunk!
—Molly rolled to one side as the blades sank into the wood behind her, quivering like an arrow.

“Faster!” she shouted at Kip as they rattled onto the wooden bridge.

The Gardener reached out a bony hand, snatching her leg. Molly screamed, kicking herself free. She heard a sharp howl and saw the Gardener’s body jerk backward. It fell to the bridge with a crash. Molly nearly fell with him as Kip turned onto the road on the far side of the river. She clung to the side of the wagon, eyes fixed on the Gardener. He snarled, pacing back and forth along the far end of the bridge—furious but, it seemed, unable to cross over.

Molly, Kip, and Hester rattled up the path and around the bend. She could hear the Gardener’s howls echoing behind them.

hey rode for what felt like hours. The sky above was limpid and black; it shone with pinprick stars that did little to light their path. Molly sat beside Hester, holding her hand. The old woman’s fingers were stiff and sticky with blood. She hardly moved, only sitting up occasionally to release a rattling cough. “You’re all right,” Molly whispered, stroking her hair. “You’ll be all right.”

Hester swallowed. “I know enough to know that’s not true.” She smiled and then coughed again. Molly wiped fresh blood from the edges of her mouth. She tried not to let the old woman see the worry on her face. A bloody cough meant she was bleeding on the inside.

The wagon rounded a narrow bend, turning away from the river and toward the village. “Stop the cart …,” Hester murmured, raising her hand.

“We’re takin’ you to the village,” Molly said. “We’ll find you a warm bed and hot meal and—”

Hester coughed. “You’ll be hauling a corpse by the time you get there,” she said. “This’ll do.”

Molly rapped against the side of the wagon. “Pull over,” she called.

Kip nodded and steered to the side of the path. Molly watched as he grabbed his crutch and slid down from the bench, his face a picture of stony resolve. In the faint moonlight, he almost looked like Da. Molly wondered when he had become so grown up. She gently lowered herself off the wagon. Her whole body was sore and bruised. It hurt to stand. She looked at the woods around her—they were in a small clearing where the path broke into three parts. “The crossroads …,” she said. “It’s here we first met you.”

Hester propped herself up on one elbow, peering around. “So it is.” Even now, even in pain, she had a coy glint in her eye.

Molly and Kip helped the old woman off the back of the wagon. She was still wearing her pack of junk. It dangled from her shoulders, a mess of splinters and shards. In the moonlight, it was hard to tell where the pack ended and Hester’s body began.

“I’ll find some firewood,” Kip said.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that after, dearie.” Hester grimaced, doubling over in pain. “Help me get this thing off,” she said.

Molly and Kip gingerly removed the pack from her shoulders and set it on the ground. Without it, the woman looked absurdly small. Hester stared at the pile of wreckage and gave a wry chuckle. “No need to search for firewood; you got all you need right here.” She pulled her briar pipe from the pack. The stem dangled from the bowl, snapped off but for a few fibers. “So much for old friends.” She tossed the pipe back into the pile.

Hester nodded at a rotting stump and limped toward it. Molly rushed to her side and helped her sit. “Thank you, luv.” She groaned, gripping Molly’s hand tight.

Molly knew she should have been angry at Hester, should have yelled at her for ruining their trap. But right now, she only wanted the old woman to live. She brushed a strand of silver hair from her wrinkled brow. “Where does it hurt?”

“Where
don’t
it hurt? That’s the fairer question.” Hester chuckled, and her chuckle turned to pain. She hunched over, her eyes clenched tight.

Molly watched her coughing and felt a swell of nausea. “This is all my fault,” she said. “If that net hadn’t been there—”

“Hush, you.” The old woman waved her off. “It wasn’t any net or fall or even phantom Night Gardener. It was curiosity that killed Hester Kettle, plain as that.” She stared into the trees, shaking her head. “Oh, I knew it was dangerous—why do you think I stayed away all these years? But in the end, I just
had
to go. Had to see it with my own eyes. And I’ll tell you right now: it was worth it.” She gave a sort of vague smile, her eyes fixed on some invisible plane. “What’s a storyteller but someone who asks folks to believe in impossible things? And for one perfect moment, I saw something impossible. And that’s enough for me.”

Kip had tied Galileo’s reins to a branch and joined his sister and the old woman. “But you didn’t just go there to
see
the tree,” he said, his voice tight. “You wanted a piece of your own. You wanted a wish—same as everyone.”

Molly looked at him, dread rising. “How do you know about wishes?”

Kip ignored her and turned back to Hester. “So let’s hear it: What was your big wish?”

“Kip, not now …,” Molly said.

“He’s fine.” The old woman bobbed her head. “It’s foolish, really. Do you remember all those pretty things I said about Aesop?”

“You called him the king o’ storytellers,” Molly said.

Hester knotted her fingers together. “I suppose I wanted to be the queen.” She peered up at the dark sky, her eyes bright. “I wanted the world to remember me for the stories I told.”

Molly heard this and felt a pain within, for she knew what it was to see a story vanish even as she told it. “You could just write ’em down,” she said. “Make a book.”

“A book!” Hester laughed. “Can you imagine it? Me hunched over a little desk, quill in hand, putting down all those fancy scratches on paper?” She shook her head. “Truth is, I never learned my letters.”

“I can write,” Molly said. “I could teach you. We could start right now.”

The old woman shook her head. “Afraid there’s no time for that … or much else, for that matter.” She groaned, pulling herself to her feet. “Though, there is time for one last thing.” She limped to her pack. “Most folks don’t value a good story, and they pay accordingly. But every once in a while, something a little more special comes my
way …” She plunged her arm right into the heart of the pack, feeling her way past pots and birdcages and lightning rods. “Here it is,” she said, standing up. “Been carrying this for goodness knows how long. Don’t think I’ll get around to it now.”