The Shepherd of Weeds (42 page)

“A little too lifelike for me.” Ivy shivered, rolling the tapestry carefully. She knew what mischief such tapestries might bring. “We’ll let Six keep an eye on this one.” It was propped in a corner, where the cat began sharpening his claws upon it.

Axle laughed merrily. “Another toast!” he called. Mulberry wine was poured, in ancient tribute. “To life’s rich tapestry.” The trestleman raised his glass, and the room followed.

Still, one question remained. It was a big one.

Ivy looked around the room. “What of my father? Flux?”

Lumpen glanced at Cecil and lit her pipe. Then she began her story.

The well keeper had made it inside the gates, she explained, but was shot with a pointed barb in her thigh. According to Peps, who was listening from within the barrel, Snaith ordered her thrown in the catacombs, where he left her to die.

“I guess he underestimated me.” Lumpen exhaled a few smoke rings, and continued.

She awoke to a strange sight. A wisp of an old man hovered over her, and he visited with her, sitting beside her for some time. They chatted unhurriedly. He told her of the sea, its great tides, describing it in detail—a place where water stretches out as far as the eye can see!—and then he was gone.

Soon after, Lumpen heard voices, and she crept forward. There she spied the Guild’s Director in the company of a yellowish scarecrow. The scarecrow was in a foul temper, stomping its feet and shouting. She had no problem sneaking up and capturing it—and only then did it become clear to her that it was the fugitive taster Flux.

With Flux under one arm, she threw the Guild’s Director, weeping, into a cell—the very one that once imprisoned the forger Dumbcane. Verjouce gave her little trouble. She jangled the keys loudly, and hung them on a rusty nail nearby for the Outriders to find.

“His power gone, the Outriders are no longer beholden to him—in fact, just the opposite. I suspect, in the utter dark, he found himself swept away by rough hands. They have a score to settle. These are the very men Verjouce had silenced by stealing their tongues,” Axle explained.

But the scarecrow captive was a different story, the well keeper continued. He was loud and impertinent, and Lumpen found holding on to his scrawny collar to be more difficult than she imagined. She thought for a while about what to do with him. Ignoring his bleating, she grabbed Flux by his straw scruff. She would bring him with her.

“I figured you’d want a word with him, miss,” Lumpen explained.

Only, she had no idea how to get out, and the weasely one could not be relied on for directions.

As they began the journey through the mazelike catacombs, Flux protested heartily. He talked absurdities, dreams of crowns and thrones. He offered bribes, then threats. They walked for hours—and when Flux refused to walk any farther, Lumpen carried him. Soon enough, Flux abandoned his complaints, his indignity complete.

“He was a wisp of a thing—even lighter than you or Rue.” Lumpen looked mournful.

Lumpen and Flux continued on in silence until the well keeper finally reached the stone steps marking the way out of the land of the dead.

Here the well keeper paused her tale, looking down dejectedly.

“Where’s Flux, then?” Ivy asked.

“Miss, when we got above that wretched ground and into the light, I looked into my arms. There I carried not that scoundrel but a scarecrow—mind you, a scarecrow made to
look exactly like him, yellow hide and all—but a scarecrow, all the same. Blank, button eyes. Hat sewn right upon his head, straw inside and out. You can be sure I tore him open to be certain, but I found only a rock where his heart should be.”

The well keeper removed a small stone from her bosom, black and jagged, and placed it on the table, where it languished in the withering looks from the guests.

“Flux escaped?” Ivy asked sharply.

“It’s hard to say for sure,” Axle admitted, pocketing the dark stone thoughtfully.

A distant cry of a seabird filled the silence, and Ivy straightened.

“Well, then.” She smiled brightly at her friends, reserving a particular look for Rowan. “A little fresh air, perhaps?”

Outside, Ivy cast an expectant look at the skies, but they held only a few scarce clouds. From a nearby maple, a flock of red-winged blackbirds lifted from the branches, darting in consort through the spring air, only to settle again in the tree. Ivy and Rowan navigated the rails and wide gaps of the train trestle, as they had at the beginning of their adventure, Rowan more tentatively than his friend.

“Do you have it?” She turned to him when they reached land.

Rowan nodded, digging deep into a pocket. He produced
a small, silvery object, holding it out to her in his open palm.

“Where should we plant it?” he asked.

Ivy looked around. There was the Hollow Bettle, her childhood home, bright and lively—brighter and livelier than she had ever seen it, with the aid of her royal staff. A new well garnished the exterior, courtesy of Lumpen and her yarrow stick. It was marked by a tidy outcrop of stones, and a sturdy rocking chair sat to one side.

Ivy’s rabbit peeked out from her robes, sniffing the air timidly.

“Here,” she indicated, after the pair walked along the riverbank. “Wasn’t this where we first met?”

Rowan smiled. How could he forget?

They dug a quick hole in the earth, and Ivy dropped the silvery acorn from Pimcaux into it. As they waited together, Ivy reached for her friend’s hand.

As Ivy smiled at him knowingly, he saw something new in her face—she seemed older, different—but it was a fleeting thought, replaced by the excitement of new arrivals. Rowan’s eyes grew wide as a familiar noise filled the air, for great wings were settling upon the arched roof of the trestle. The albatrosses Klair and Lofft called out their sharp greetings in voices of faraway seas. In their midst, a small warbler, Teasel, flitted about.

Soon Axle, Cecil, and the rest of the welcoming party
gathered expectantly, their attention drawn downriver. Peps gestured with his small arm, excitedly. Work ceased on the tavern and the grounds as everyone waited with great anticipation.

Down the river, a distant boat approached. It was still far enough away that its elegant lines appeared wavy—watery, even. Billowing flags, the color of seafoam, crested the mast. White gulls escorted the ship, soaring beside it like kites. Soft, dreamlike chimes filled the air.

Ivy smiled. The alewives were coming home.

Here was the last gift from King Verdigris: the crumbling of the doorways had begun. A mingling of Caux and Pimcaux. At Ivy’s feet, the acorn had begun to sprout, silvery flashes reflecting off its young leaves, lighting up the hems of her impeccable gown. It would grow someday to be a marvelous oak—rarefied and pure—with potent healing properties. And beneath its vast canopy, two old friends might be seen sitting in its shade, marveling as the sunlight casts thousands of prisms down upon them off its polished leaves.

Please complete as many of the following questions as you can before you die.

1. The contents of my goblet are
   
   1. Bitter
      
   2. Burning
      
   3. Caustic
      
   4. All of the above
      
2. As my life flashes before my eyes, I am surprised by
   
   1. The grade I will receive in Irresistible Meals—I thought I deserved more.
      
   2. How short and meaningless it all was.
      
   3. The quality of care in the Infirmary.
      
   4. The fact that Kingmaker betrayed me in the end.
      
3. As you writhe in agony, how would you rate your professor’s performance in this class?
   
   1. Genius
      
   2. Evil genius
      
   3. All-knowing
      
   4. I wouldn’t dare—for who am I to judge things I know nothing about?
      
4. My opinion on cats is that they are
   
   1. Awful, needy things.
      
   2. The devil’s spawn, filthy with fleas and dander.
      
   3. Rats with hairy tails. No—that would disparage the entire race of rats.
      
   4. Excellent creatures upon which to test my questionable potions.
      
5. Are you still alive? You obviously have not drunk enough ink. See me.
   

The three books of Caux were, in many ways, a lifetime in the making, and there are many people to whom I am indebted.

My chorus—the very important cheerleaders along the way: Karmen Ross, Steph Whitehouse, Mark Shaw, Jana Potashnik, Lisa Jack, Marissa Rothkopf-Bates. Jim Anstey and Jessica Golke for the late-night huddles, Marcy Pianin, Monika Wuhrer. Ray Bradley (and Seven and Not Seven) and Iris Kimberg—for meals even a trestleman would envy. Moshe Siegel for inexhaustible help with the hardest part. Alysa Wishingrad, Robin Jacobowitz—my early and thoughtful readers—Virginie Lefeuvre.

I am forever grateful for my husband, Neal, and my children, Harper and Henry. How hard it is to have a writer in the family! I am so thankful for their patience with my early-morning absences and scattered retreats. Caux would not exist without my father, David—distinguished scholar of Cauvian affairs. My brother, Joshua, and the lovely Katy Bray. Kate Hamilton for, among other things, bringing Poison Ivy to life in costume.

And most importantly, I am beholden to Craig Tenney for answering a note not addressed to him and then following it up with such perseverance, and to Joan Slattery for her thoughtfulness, expertise, and encouragement. And finally, to Allison Wortche for all of the above—and for being the first at the door when she heard Ivy’s small fist pounding.

Susannah Appelbaum

(With apologies to both W. C. Fields and the very real, and very glorious, city of Rocamadour.)

Susannah Appelbaum comes from a family of doctors and philosophers, which instilled in her both an early fascination and a great deal of caution with bottles marked “Poison.” She worked in magazine publishing for many years and now lives with her family in New York’s Hudson Valley and in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, where her garden prefers to grow weeds.

The Shepherd of Weeds
is the final book in the Poisons of Caux trilogy, following
The Hollow Bettle
and
The Tasters Guild
. To learn more about the author and her work, please visit
susannahappelbaum.com
.