The shepherd of weeds, p.12
The Shepherd of Weeds, page 12
It was her turn to speak.
Her name was Aster, this poor, suffering hummingbird, and she was hardly bigger than a bee. Her wings fluttered so quickly they seemed to disappear, and she flitted about Shoo’s head for several moments in indecision. (Hummingbirds are not as nervous as they appear, but Aster, having been dealt this unkindness by Lumpen, found herself unusually wary.)
Aster and her mate had been traveling from Templar when tragedy struck beside Lumpen’s well, and she began by informing the caucus of this very event. For her loss, she received the appropriate amount of sympathy and outrage from the audience, and she continued. But hers was a mission of neither sympathy nor outrage. Aster wished instead to sow the seeds of doubt.
“In Templar,” Aster said as she flitted along the length of the weathered board, “they do not believe in the Prophecy.”
A low grumbling of disapproval met this news, but Aster stood firm. “They denounce Ivy Manx as a heretic,” she continued, wings humming earnestly now. “They say she hears voices. Sees visions.”
This piece of news was not as dramatic as one might think. Birds are unimpressed with madness in general, inhabiting a world where visions and voices are very much the norm. (Enchantments and magic of all kinds are like lightning—they are great forces assembled in the sky.) But Aster, having made the acquaintance of Mr. Sangfroid’s hummingbird feeder in Templar, received along with sugary water a differing outlook on the future of Caux were Ivy Manx to succeed. Beware what secrets are shared beside an open window!
Aster continued, taking a different tack. If the caucus was not receptive to her disparaging tone, she would speak, then, of one thing they were sure to agree upon: the Shepherd of Weeds’ current choice of company.
“Friends and neighbors.” She alighted again, wings still. “Look who she chooses to align herself with. Two bird killers! One, a hideous specter of a lady who eats birds for breakfast, and the other—the other, a horrible, malingering cat.”
(Cat is the only word more disliked by birds than captivity, and here Aster received the reaction she was hoping for.)
The hummingbird paused, dramatically turning to Shoo. “Tell me, where is it foretold that the Shepherd of Weeds travels with our enemies?”
Chapter Forty-one
The Rookery
vy and Rue were becoming accustomed to being airborne, as this flight was a longer one, but the heights brought along a great chill. There was a side-slashing frozen rain within the night clouds, and while the scourge bracken within Ivy made her impervious to cold, Rue was frozen to the bone. When asked where they were headed, Klair and Lofft did not reply, so the pair were left to fly on, huddling down against the broad backs of the seabirds.
Soon it was evident that they were very far up—either that, or the weather had changed significantly. The clouds that obscured the skies had vanished, and the stars that made up the intriguing Cauvian constellations shone brightly. As Ivy fixed her gaze on Vitis—a rare treat, for the constellation was far too north for her to usually see—she felt the voyage come to an end beneath the lowest star. Ahead, great pines rose from the side of a rock face.
At the top of the highest one, the girls struggled to gain their balance against the knee-high moss beneath their feet. They had alighted within some sort of bowl-shaped terrace, the sides of which were well-woven dark branches and mud, basket-like. There was the sound of wind, but none gained entry.
“What’s this?” Ivy asked, cupping a handful of the dried moss and playing it about her fingers.
“A rookery,” Lofft replied.
Ivy dropped the soft lining.
“A nest?” Ivy was incredulous. “How high up are we?”
“It’s quite safe.” Klair smiled, anticipating her next question.
“And secret,” Lofft inserted.
“And cozy!” Rue enthused as she slid down into the fluff, feeling the warmth return to her hands.
“My only worry is what to feed you two,” Klair fretted. “We have nothing of the sorts of foods consumed by humans.”
“What’s wrong with raw fish?” Lofft demanded. “There’s nothing like a herring slipping down your throat, still wriggling!”
“Ugh.” Ivy frowned. “I mean—I’m sure it’s quite tasty to you, but I prefer my fish cooked, thank you.”
“There might be some seed around, and we’re sure to find a cache of worms.…” The pair of albatrosses looked concerned. “Or perhaps some juicy grubs? The barn owls might be able to drum up a mouse or two.…”
“We’ll be fine,” Ivy said brightly, clutching Rue’s Field Guide to her chest. “I’ve got something else in mind.”
“All right. Well, we’ll be back for you in the morning, so until then, Ivy and Rue, eat, sleep, and rest your wings. There are hard winds ahead.”
Ivy sat down beside Rue in the soft moss lining of the giant bird’s nest. It was warm and safe feeling, and there was a pleasant swaying that reminded Ivy of her stay aboard the Trindletrip.
“What’s on the menu, then?” Rue asked. Her appetite had returned.
“Let’s see.” Ivy held the Guide, propping it on her lap. Rue’s botanical specimens poked out from in between the hefty pages. Ivy randomly opened the large reference book.
“Blisterbush?”
“I should think not,” Rue demurred.
“Sicklerod? Saberweed? How about some bearded-tongue?”
“After the wolfsbane, I was hoping for something a little more … edible.” Rue smiled.
“You tell me. They’re your specimens,” Ivy teased. “Hmm, I know. I’ll surprise you.”
She flipped through the pages eagerly, finding eventually a dried, flattened leaf and tiny, delicate white flower. “Perfect,” she said, holding it carefully in her closed hand, as she had done in Professor Breaux’s night garden and in Jalousie. Soon there was a pleasant tingling and warmth, and a quite promising smell—delicate, fruity.
Rue’s eyes opened wide—there was no mistaking the scent. “Strawberries!” she cried, delighted. “Grandfather told me about your … abilities. But, Ivy, this is amazing!”
Ivy nodded happily, clearing away a small area of the moss beside her and Rue. She carefully placed the unfurling shoot upon the mud-laden underlayer of the nest, and quite quickly, and to the girls’ utter delight, the plant began to flourish. Soon there were wild strawberries nestled beneath the small green leaves of the plant, and although there were at first only a few (of which Ivy insisted Rue eat), soon there were more than either of the two might desire, the greenery overtaking most of the nest. They fell asleep happily, smudges of crimson upon their chins and staining their fingertips—which was a fortunate thing in more ways than one. For in the open moors far beneath the rookery, where the birds of Caux met to discuss what it was they might do to help Ivy’s undertaking, a small hummingbird was plotting her revenge.
Where are the seeds of betrayal sown? For it cannot be said that Aster was born bad, or even brought up poorly. No, little Aster was neither. What happened to Aster was this: she suffered a great loss, which somehow curdled her instincts for kindness and sent her down the very path that many before her have passed (even royals are not immune to grief’s ravages, which, as it did with the Good King, can turn the tides against an entire nation). But it’s what you do with grief—not what it does to you—that matters.
Grief can be a mark, or a stain, that slowly creeps over you, subtly changing you in its wake. Or—and this is much harder—it can pass through you, eventually leaving you stronger and wiser.
Aster had succumbed to the first variety, and her little heart was now a hardened pellet. She remained at the caucus, however, for there was much in the world of birds—beings of air and wind—to discuss. She dutifully participated in the varying forums and events, all the while watching, noticing, dreams of vengeance and retribution growing like a stain within her chest.
Chapter Forty-two
One Condition
n the early sun of the next morning—a shocking red glow to the eastern edge, with grays and purples awaiting their turn—Klair and Lofft returned for the girls. Strawberries draped luxuriously off the edge of the giant nest, nearly everywhere, and Ivy and Rue looked sheepish at the lavish abundance they had caused.
But the albatrosses seemed tired and sad, and the excuse that Ivy was formulating stalled on her lips.
“The caucus has finished,” Klair began. “The fragments of the Prophecy were reassembled, recited, spoken aloud to the wind. The words are inarguable. The Shepherd of Weeds will lead us into battle.”
Ivy and Rue looked at each other.
“The Shepherd of Weeds?” Ivy asked Klair when it became clear that the great birds were not commenting further. “What is that?”
“It is an ancient and powerful name in the language of the birds.”
“A name for what?”
“The Child of the Prophecy. For you, Ivy.”
“For me? Why do they call me the Shepherd of Weeds?”
“The true nature of plants is awakening. You are their Shepherd.”
Ivy and Rue, sitting in the lushness of the giant crow’s nest, with the richness of strawberries growing in undeniable abundance, could not find a reason to disagree.
“We are of the air, we birds,” Lofft continued now. “Air is but one element. There are beings of water—the alewives—and those of fire and shadow, though these are neither helpful nor reliable. You, Ivy, you are the Shepherd of Weeds. You are of the earth,” Lofft explained.
“The caucus requires you to gather your forces of the earth,” Lofft went on. “You must ask the forest for help. It is time to assemble your army of flowers.”
“Army of flowers?” Ivy asked, alarmed.
Breathlessly Rue turned to Ivy. “A favorite poem of my grandfather’s! The Ballad of King Verdigris!” she said. “ ‘The air brimmed with sunlight and dew/His enemy lay vanquished/Behind him, an Army of Flowers.’ ”
Ivy’s mind raced. How was she to gather an army, here, in this desolate corner of Caux? She had no talent for this. “Surely this can wait until we get to Templar? My uncle—he will know.”
“Enough time has been wasted already,” Lofft said. “Call forth your allies, my Shepherd. On this, the birds are absolute.” Lofft shook his elegant head. And”—he looked down sadly—“there is something else.”
“What is it, Lofft?” Ivy’s heart sank.
“There is one other condition the caucus has put forth.”
Klair and Lofft were silent, and when Lofft finally spoke, his deep sadness had returned. “The birds will not align themselves with a cat.”
“Cats have for eons been, at best, disrespectful nuisances,” Klair elaborated.
“Six?” Ivy swallowed hard. The cat had been her traveling companion, and some measure of comfort on her journey to Pimcaux, and while he was smelly and unlovely to the eye, his loyalties were no longer suspect.
Klair and Lofft exchanged a meaningful look, and then Lofft spoke again, softly. “They were very clear on this point. The birds will wage war in the name of the Shepherd of Weeds, as it has been long foretold. But they will not align themselves with a cat.”
“What am I to do?” Ivy asked.
“You must make him go. There are those within the caucus who wanted a much stiffer resolution.”
“I see,” Ivy said meekly. How was she ever to make a cat to do anything other than what a cat wanted to do? She felt again the dark throbbing in her head and hoped her father’s voice would not awaken from its slumbers. “Lofft, Klair, can you take me to find my friend Lumpen?”
Chapter Forty-three
Lumpen’s Flock
ow many millions of eyes regarded Ivy and Rue as they alighted again off the backs of the beautiful Pimcauvian seabirds? Surely it was a number unfathomable. With the caucus drawing to a close, the air was charged with a different feel, and as Ivy stepped upon the open moor, Shoo joined her, flapping solidly to her shoulder. The winter morning was arriving, and a thick coating of hoarfrost clung to the far trees; the facade of Jalousie was draped in white lace.
Ivy stroked Shoo beneath his beak. His feathers were as chilled as the air. She was dreading the sight of Six, for how was she to explain?
“Oh, Shoo,” Ivy whispered. “What I would give to be back with you at the Hollow Bettle, with Uncle Cecil! In the back room, my workshop—before any of this. Just me and you, my experiments—and Axle! How unfair this all seems.”
The crow moved in closer on her shoulder.
From the east, the sun soothed ruffled feathers and glazed frost into polished prisms. Shoo’s own feathers were the deepest black, a blue-black, and their shine—his beauty—now bolstered Ivy. She walked with him to the very edge of the vast field where the young wood began.
These were hemlock trees, evergreens, and little grew in earnest beneath their low branches. Still, there was a soft, padded forest floor, one made of discarded pine needles, and the sensation of walking upon this was a pleasant one.
“Lumpen?” Ivy called into the soft wood. From the moors, the audience of bird eyes keenly watched her every move.
After a minute, Ivy noticed that there again was the undercurrent of rustling that she had heard nearly her entire journey from the orphanage—the rustling that had been following her since she met the well keeper. It came now from all corners of the hemlocks, indeterminate, the sound of distant brooms upon an earthen floor. She wondered if she should be scared.
At first, Ivy saw nothing in the dimness but a glowing red ember, which flared to bright orange and then seemed to snuff itself out. Then Lumpen stepped forward, her corncob pipe clamped between her lips.
Ivy’s heart surged to see her. If possible, Lumpen appeared wilder than before, the straw stuffing within her threadbare casings growing untamed, poking through the inevitable holes like whiskers. It was difficult to discern where it left off and her own bushy hair began. The appalling inky smudge from Hemsen Dumbcane stood out starkly upon Lumpen’s thick brow. Her ruddy cheeks seemed strikingly red—a pair of berry stains upon the canvas of her face—and her yarrow stick was thrown over her wide shoulder.
In the filtered light of the hemlock trees, it seemed to Ivy that Lumpen was a scarecrow. And further: she was not alone. Behind her vast skirts and wide bodice, a silent crowd, clothed in grit and burlap, stepped forward. A flock of scarecrows—big ones, tiny ones, those with painted faces, or button eyes and pitched hats, and some with no face at all—emerged silently to stand beside the trees. And with them, the riddle of the rustling was solved. Curious field mice, a few chipmunks, and a small red squirrel peeped out from their pockets.
“At your service, miss,” Lumpen announced. “The true nature of plants is awakening, miss.” Lumpen pointed to the creatures made of hay, of weeds, of flowers.
Shoo flapped his wings and coasted over to the shoulder of a nearby scarecrow, cawing loudly. To Ivy’s astonishment, she recognized it at once. It was her own stricken scarecrow from the walled garden beside the Hollow Bettle—still wearing the work shirt her uncle had unknowingly donated, and sporting the dented pocket watch Cecil had discovered on a dead tavern guest.
“Jimson!” Ivy called out at the sight of him.
“You are our shepherd, miss. The Shepherd of Weeds. We are your flock. We are the Army of Flowers.” Lumpen curtsied.
Ivy looked around at the vast crowd of unlikely soldiers. Their numbers stretched as far as the eye could see. The scarecrows had made the particular rustling Ivy had heard along her journey.
All were standing still, as if they were propped there by an invisible farmer, their faces a study in blankness. Wildflowers grew from their pockets and rough seams. Blooms sprouted from top hats and buttonholes. The colors of their wind-worn clothing were muted, a spectacle of patchwork, of life’s rich tapestry.
Chapter Forty-four
To Catch a Cat
ut where was the cat Six? Ivy wondered, looking through the spindling hemlocks and the worn cloaks of the scarecrows. Within her fist was another of Rue’s dried specimens, and Ivy crumpled this now and sprinkled it on the wintry pine floor. In the Field Guide, she had found it beside the entry for Nepeta cataria, and Axle had listed a few of its common names: catswort, hangman’s courage.
But Ivy knew it as catnip.
“Kitty, kitty,” Ivy called. She felt like a traitor of the worst order, but the birds had given her no other alternative. She was conscious of a dull wish within her: that the cat would come quickly—or not at all.
Within the stand of scarecrows—motionless, eerie—Ivy saw something move, and her heart sank. For Six now emerged, rubbing his tatty fur upon the faded dungarees of a nearby scarecrow, rearing slightly as he did so, and then treating Lumpen to the same.
The cat, true to form, was filthy. His passage through the Mind Garden had supplied him with streaks of sludge that greased his haunches and tail, while here in Caux he had quickly found himself a patch of burrs. He was covered with them—a fact that seemed to please him to no end. He purred a deep, raspy growl at the sight of Ivy and, in his own time, approached.
While the scarecrows had no effect upon the sea of birds (a fact any farmer would do well to note), the appearance of a cat caused a nervous twittering, which grew in strength, tinged in outrage.
“Oh, Six,” Ivy whispered.
Shoo had not left his perch upon her shoulder. Six and Shoo eyed each other for a length of time. Ivy watched as Six’s eyes eventually narrowed, finishing in a slow blink. From here on, he would diplomatically ignore the bird. The cat continued to approach, and Ivy looked nervously to Shoo, whose gaze had not left the beast, and then to Rue, who stood some distance behind.
