The Night Gardener by Jonathan Auxier
She handed Molly a small oilskin bundle wrapped tight with twine. Molly turned the package over in her hands. “What is it?”
“Something special. I never had much use for it, not being the settling-down type, but you two? I’ve a feeling it might be just what you’re after.” Molly started to unwrap the bundle, but the woman stopped her. “There’ll be time aplenty to open that later.” She coughed into her fist. “Once I depart.”
Molly looked up from the gift. She knew what the woman meant by “depart.” “You’re not gonna die, Hester.” Her voice was shaking. “You’re gonna live and tell stories. You’re gonna be the queen of stories, remember?” She did not know why, but she could not bear the thought of a world without Hester Kettle in it.
The old woman patted Molly’s hand. “That’s a heavy crown for this old brow.” She turned back to her pack. “Well, lookee here!” She lifted her hurdy-gurdy from the wreckage. Two strings were broken and it had a giant hole in the body. She plucked one of the remaining strings, which obliged with a faint tone. “Let it never be said that Hester Kettle wasn’t a lucky woman.” She slung the instrument over her shoulder. “Much as it pains me, I’d best be moving on.”
Kip hopped to Molly’s side. “Where’re you goin’?”
Hester took a deep breath, facing the black woods. “It’s time for old Hester to tell one more story. It’s one I’ve been working on for a long time. Maybe my whole life. Call it ‘The Last Story.’”
The phrase put a chill through Molly. “What’s it about?”
“Apologies, luv.” She sounded genuinely sorry. “This one’s for me and me alone. That’s the way it goes with Last Stories.”
Molly wanted to tell her that she could stay, but she knew the truth—there were some places you could only go alone. She blinked, her eyes burning with tears. “I bet it’ll be a real grand one.”
The old woman smiled kindly. “It ends well enough.”
Molly looked at her. In the blurred moonlight, she could almost see Hester as a young girl with yellow hair and plump cheeks and scraped knees. Molly would have liked being friends with such a person. “I’ve a feelin’ someday,” she said, “when I tell my own Last Story, it might have an old woman with a pack on her shoulders in it.”
Hester raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that be a thing?” She bowed her gray head in a half curtsy. “You pups take care.” She swung her instrument from her shoulder and turned the crank. A low, sonorous melody filled the air, echoing through the darkness. With that, the manikin woman turned and hobbled slowly into the trees, humming to herself secret things that no soul would ever hear.
Molly held Kip’s hand in her own. They stood together in silence, listening as Hester Kettle’s song receded farther and farther into the night.
And then it was gone, and the woods were silent.
olly and Kip picked over Hester’s discarded pack, salvaging what food they could. They found dried beef and nuts and berries and even some cheese—enough to last them several days on the road. The rest, they burned.
Molly stared into the flames, watching the last of Hester Kettle’s life smolder into nothing. Hester Kettle, who only a few hours before had been alive. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the woman’s weathered features. Already her face was slipping from Molly’s memory—a shifting landscape of eyes and nose and mouth and hair that refused to fix itself into a living thing. “I never seen a person die before,” she said. “Tonight I saw two.”
“Good riddance to the doctor, I say.” Kip stabbed the end of his crutch in the fire. “He left us to die out there.”
Molly wanted to chastise him, to tell him it was wrong to say something like that, but she stopped herself. What right did she have to tell him anything? “I saw it happen,” she said. “Saw the door come down on him like a house. He couldn’t even scream. One minute he’s running, and the next he’s not.”
“Just be thankful it wasn’t us,” Kip said, though he didn’t sound thankful. “So what’s next? Back to the orphanage?”
“Never. We’ll go to another town and find work. Someplace safe. Maybe a nice cemetery? Or a coven?” She tried to smile, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“Maybe you could tell stories like Hester,” Kip said.
“Aye, maybe,” she said. There was a time when Molly would have enjoyed the idea of roaming the world, telling tales to strangers. But that was before tonight. Before she knew what the world was really like. What could a story possibly do in the face of a thing like the Night Gardener? Hester had told stories her whole life, and what did it get her? She looked at the oilskin packet that the woman had left them. She couldn’t bring herself to unwrap it.
Kip prodded the flames. “Fire may burn bright, but it makes the world darker. Can’t hardly see a thing out there.” He shivered, eyeing the shadows. “I keep thinkin’ I can hear him out in the trees.”
“The Night Gardener?” Molly shook her head. “I been goin’ over what happened on that bridge. He was in the cart, right behind us, but when you hit the road, he fell back—like somethin’ stopped him. And remember when he was after you in the woods? Maybe he didn’t hurt you because he couldn’t reach. So instead he gave you that key, to lure you back in.”
Kip shifted his weight. “So you think he’s tied to the tree, like a leash?”
“I think it’s deeper than that. I think they’re connected. You saw what happened when that branch broke. He howled like his own leg had snapped clean off. He’s a slave to that tree, and the only way for him to go on livin’ is to keep it alive.”
“I hardly call that livin’.” Kip pulled his coat tight. “But that’s how the tree works, ain’t it? It gives you what you wish for but not in a way that makes things better. I suppose that’s the difference between what you want and what you need.”
Molly nodded. “Maybe that’s what Hester really meant when she said it takes your soul.” She thought about Master Windsor’s money. She thought about Constance’s ring and Penny’s stories and Alistair’s candy. She thought about the letters from her parents. She had been given what she wanted. But what did she need?
Kip, as if reading her thoughts, spoke. “What should we do about Ma an’ Da? If they’re comin’ to the house, shouldn’t we warn them?”
Molly opened her mouth to agree, but the words caught in her throat.
He looked up at her. “Molls? You all right?”
Molly stared into the darkness. She swallowed. “Kip … there’s somethin’ I been meanin’ to tell you. Somethin’ I need to tell you.” She finally met his eye. “It’s about the letters.”
Her brother resumed poking the fire. “It’s all right,” he said. “I think I know where you got ’em from.” He leaned to one side and dug a hand into his pocket. He removed a small tin. It was roughly the size of a biscuit. “Same place I got this.”
Molly didn’t understand. She scooted closer and took the tin. It was cold to the touch and smelled like tree sap. A paper label ran across the front:
DOCTOR ROOTLEY’S WONDER-BALM
“It’ll cure what ails you!”
Below the words was a picture of children dancing and running and singing. She looked at a drawing of one little boy leaping into the air, his crutches thrown above him.
“Everythin’ I wished for,” Kip said, taking the tin back.
Molly felt dread grip her stomach. “How long have you known?”
“Since that night in the village. I wanted to tell you before … but I was afraid.”
Molly looked at his leg, which looked as it always did—thin and turned the wrong way. His crutch rested on the log beside him. “You didn’t open it?” she said.
“No. I wanted to. So bad.” He swallowed, touching the label. “But then I thought: Even if it works, what happens when I run out? I’d go back for more. And more after that. It’d never be enough.”
“Aye,” Molly said, and she knew he was right. She remembered even now the longing to read another lette
“Tell me somethin’ …” He was looking at her now. “Why was the tree givin’ you letters from Ma an’ Da?”
Molly looked down at her skirt and ran her fingers over the muddy, frayed fabric. “Sounds like you already know,” she said.
“I need to hear you say it.”
Molly clenched her jaw, recalling the things she had fought so hard to banish from her mind. Somewhere in the darkness, she could hear the river flowing between black trees. “Every time I hear that river, it brings me right back to the sea.” She could hear them now, screaming over the crash of waves. She swallowed. “You dinna remember when we left Ireland. By the time we reached port, you was sick with fever.”
Kip hung his head.
“It’s not your fault. Lots o’ folks were gettin’ sick. And that boat didn’t help none. It was shameful the way they packed us in—kept us locked belowdecks like animals—barely any food or water. I s’pose we were animals to them.” She clenched her fists, remembering. “The second night, it was all four of us huddled in one little bunk. There was a storm. The boat was rockin’ so violent, folks were slidin’ right off their beds. We could hear the rain outside. Wind and thunder shook the whole sea. Black water started comin’ in through portholes; the crew was runnin’ and shoutin’ on the deck. We called for ’em to let us out of the hold, but nobody listened. That whole time, Ma kept you in her arms, singin’ to you softly, the way she did when we was little.”
Molly blinked into the flames, hearing her mother’s voice. “Finally there was a huge crack, like the spine of the earth breaking in two. Water started pourin’ in from the deck above, fillin’ up around our ankles. Da and some other men broke through the door and everybody ran to the deck. I helped Ma carry you up. One of the masts had snapped right in half. White sheets was all ripped to rags. The rain was comin’ sideways. Waves big as mountains all around. The crew was gone—they’d deserted us, left us to die.”
Kip was holding his crutch. “There weren’t no lifeboats?”
“Aye, there was one left—with enough room for maybe twenty. People fought like beasts to get into it. But Da, he fought harder. We reached the boat just before they was gonna cut it loose. The men said there was only room for two.” Molly looked away from Kip. Her heart was pounding in her ears. It was hard to breathe. It was harder to speak. She took a slow breath. “Ma an’ Da put you in my arms and put me on the boat. I screamed at ’em not to, but they wouldn’t hear me. Ma pulled me close. ‘Take care o’ him,’ she said. ‘He’s yours now.’ She let go, and then …” She blinked, tears spilling from her eyes. “And then they were gone.”
Molly crumpled, her face in her hands. The tears she had been storing inside her for so long broke free. The sobs took hold of her entire body. If Kip spoke, or moved, she did not hear it. She swallowed, wiping her face. “I meant to tell you, I swear. But when we landed and you woke up and you asked where Ma an’ Da was …” She shook her head as a new wave of tears came. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t say the words.” She pressed her lips together. “And … so I told you a story.”
“You didn’t tell a story,” Kip said softly. “You lied.” Even in the orange light of the fire, his face looked pale.
“I know there’s nothin’ I can do to fix this.” Molly reached toward him, but he pulled away. “I was scared. I wanted it to be true. I wanted to think of them out there in the world, havin’ adventures. And part o’ me thought it could be true. Their ship was lost, aye, but maybe they got away.”
“They didn’t,” Kip said; he sounded firm.
Molly nodded. “I know, I know. And I was gonna tell you the truth, but then … I found the tree. And I found the letters—writ in Ma’s own hand—and I thought … What if they were real? What if a miracle had happened, and Ma an’ Da were still out there? If somehow they survived? It would mean my lie wasn’t a lie at all. It would mean we weren’t alone. I dinna expect you to forgive me—not now, maybe not ever. But I need you to understand that I was tryin’ to protect you … I was tryin’ to do right.”
Kip released a heavy breath. “How many folks buried round that tree thought they was doin’ right?”
Molly did not answer. She couldn’t answer. Her brother glared at her and lowered his head. “I wanna hate you. I wanna kick and scream at you for lyin’ to me. But the lie wasn’t really for me—that was your wish. I had somethin’ else in my heart. Somethin’ I longed for even more than Ma an’ Da.” He clasped the tin in his hands, and when he looked back at Molly, his eyes were shimmering with tears. “So what kinda person does that make me?”
Molly grabbed hold of him, pulling him to her. “It makes you a regular person. No more, no less.” She felt his arms clasp tight around her ribs. She pressed her face into his messy red hair. They held each other for a long moment, arms tight, faces buried. It was a different sort of embrace. There was no coddling: it was strength upon strength—Kip held her up as she held him up.
“I think I figured it out.” She sniffed, looking up at the stars. “Hester asked me what the difference between a story and a lie was. At the time, I told her that a story helps folks. ‘Helps ’em do what?’ she asked. Well, I think I know the answer. A story helps folks face the world, even when it frightens ’em. And a lie does the opposite. It helps you hide.”
She felt Kip’s arms loosen. “S’pose that’s all the tree does, really?” He pulled back to look at her. “It helps you lie to yourself and pretend the world ain’t there.” He reached for the medicine, which was resting on the log beside him. He gave a wistful smile, perhaps for a moment imagining himself whole, and then tossed the tin into the fire.
Sparks flew up into the darkness as the tin began to crackle and hiss. His dream, burning into nothing. Molly stared at him, watching as he stoically stirred the charred remains with his crutch. “Kip, you’re the bravest person I ever met.”
Kip wiped his nose and stared into the fire. “You know what I wish for?”
“No.” Molly shook her head. “No more wishes.”
He turned toward her. “I wish that Ma an’ Da could see us right now.”
“Oh!” Molly laughed, wiping her eyes. “They’d be horrified.”
“Nay.” Kip shook his head, smiling. “They’d be so proud. Especially of you.” Molly looked away, not wanting to cry again. “And do you know what they’d say to us?”
Molly pressed her lips together. “Tell me.”
“They’d say, ‘Kip, Molls: we love you dearly, and we want you both to live a good, full life’”—he stared out at the woods—“‘but there’s a whole family at that house that needs saving.’”
Molly looked at him. In the warm glow, she could almost see the lines of her father’s profile. Even more, she knew Kip was right. Escaping the Night Gardener meant deserting the Windsors. She thought of Constance, her skin pale, body wasting away. She thought of the graves. She thought of Penny.
Kip caught her eye. “Those folks are in trouble, Molls. Someone needs to go back to warn ’em before it’s too late. And we’re all they got.” He nodded toward the wagon. “Well … us and Galileo.”
Molly took a deep breath. She longed with everything in her to leave this valley and never return. But she knew that running solved nothing: they had to go back. She squeezed his hand tight. “Let’s hope that’s enough.”
ip and his sister decided to wait until daybreak before returning to Windsor Manor. They had only ever seen the Gardener appear at night, and they hoped that the light would protect them. After a few fitful hours by the fire, they awoke with the first rays of dawn and set out on the wagon. They rode into the valley without speaking—silence to match the silence. Kip clutched the reins, going over the plan they had discussed the night prior. He would collect their things from the stables and—if he could be found—give Doctor Crouch a proper burial. Molly, meanwhile, would go into the house and make one final attempt at convincing Master Windsor to leave with his family. It wasn’
The job seemed simple enough, but when they rounded the final bend and Kip saw the house, he felt his entire body tense. “You sure it’s smart to go back there?” he said.
“I’m sure it’s not.” Molly reached down and squeezed his hand. “But there’s what’s smart and what’s right. And Ma an’ Da would want us to do what’s right.”
“Hold your breath,” Kip said, and they rolled over the bridge. He eyed the river beneath them. He remembered his first time crossing this rotting bridge, the unnameable dread he had felt upon seeing the manor and grounds. It seemed like years ago, when, in fact, it had been only a little over a month. When they reached the other side, he stopped the cart.
“What’re you doin’?” Molly said as he climbed down from the bench.
“There’s somethin’ I want to look at.” An idea was coming to him. Maybe there was a chance to do more than just warn the family. He slid Courage out from beneath his seat and fit it under his arm. “I won’t be long.”
“You’d better not be,” she said, taking the reins. He saw her nervously glance toward the river. “You be careful near that water.”
Kip smiled. “You be careful near that tree.” He eyed the sun over the sourwoods. “Mornin’s half over. If we want the family out by sundown, you’d best get movin’.”
Molly nodded, snapped the reins, and continued toward the house. Kip watched her shrink into the distance: a tangle of wild hair atop a slender frame. She looked so different now, less like his big sister and more like a grown person—not a stranger, exactly, but like someone he knew only in passing, someone with thoughts and joys and pains that were hidden to him. His gaze shifted to the tree. It rose up like a tower in the harsh morning light, offering welcome shade on a hot day. And, scattered around it, a bed of comfortable leaves to lie upon. He shook his head, thinking about what was waiting beneath those leaves. “Watch your step, Molls,” he said under his breath.