Cerise paused, swallowing with effort, and kept reading.
William zoned out, listening to the words but not understanding. There was something about the moss and the gastric juices of some sort of cavity and combining the moss with the previous plant he’d screwed around with. Finally he raised his hand, feeling like he was ten years old, sitting behind the school desk. “Can you explain it to me?”
Cerise paused.
“There is a plant that looks like moss,” Petunia said, scratching at her eye patch. “We call it burial shroud. It’s not really a plant, more like an odd cross between plant and animal. It’s native only to the Mire and it needs magic to survive. Burial shroud feeds on corpses. Its spores settle on the carcass, and then its shoots pierce the dead animal’s skin. It then siphons the liquids from the corpse through its shoots, takes what it needs, and dumps the rest back into the body.”
“Like a filter?” William frowned.
“Just like that,” Petunia nodded. “These shoots are very, very tiny, but there are so many of them, they can filter all the liquids from a carcass several times within one day. With me so far?”
He nodded.
“Vernard needed a fast way to introduce his miracle algae into the body, fast and in large numbers. He stumbled onto burial shroud and tinkered with it until he managed to get his algae inside the moss and used magic to get it all to play nice. So, he ended up with burial shroud full of regeneration algae. Makes sense?”
William nodded again.
“Then he built himself a casket and lined it with burial shroud. Let’s say you put a person into the casket. The burial shroud will attack and start pulling liquids out of this person. It will take some proteins and other things, and dump the rest back into the body. But!” Petunia raised her finger. “As it returns liquids to the body, it will add the miracle algae to it.”
“It would hurt,” William said.
“Oh, yes. It would hurt like hell, but if you’re dying or getting old, you wouldn’t care.” Petunia grimaced. “Keep going, Ceri. I’m guessing your grandfather experimented with putting creatures into the casket.”
Petunia proved right. Vernard had designed five test subjects: a cat, a pig, a calf, someone he called D, and E. Before he could stick them into his coffin, he made them drink some sort of herbal concoction he called the remedy. Cerise’s face jerked as she read the ingredients.
“ ‘One-quarter teaspoon crushed redwort leaves, one tube of fisherman’s club in full bloom, one-quarter teaspoon minced burial shroud, one cup water. Let steep for twenty hours.
“ ‘Today I’ve taken the cat, subject A, and slit its side to cause massive bleeding. I’ve placed it into the Box and shut the lid. I will check on it tomorrow. Tonight I must go fishing. I promised Cerise, and one must always keep a promise given to a child . . .
“‘The cat is alive. The gash has healed completely, and a new pink tissue marks the location of the wound I had inflicted. I’ve beheaded the cat, and upon dissection, found its heart still beating. The pulse continued for nearly six minutes and stopped, I suspect, because the body ran out of blood.’ ”
The cat wasn’t the only victim. William growled in his head. He could see where this was heading. Once Grandpa started putting things into the damn Box, he would crawl into it himself eventually. First, the cat, then the pig, then the calf . . .
“ ‘The calf lives. The bones of its broken leg have healed. It stands renewed in the back corral, together with the piglet. It is time for a true test. Tonight I enter the Box.’ ”
Ignata buried her head in her hands. “Oh no. No, Vernard, no.”
“ ‘Words fail me. At first I felt the agony of each sting puncturing my skin. My world shrank to a red daze and I floated in it, buoyant in my pain, twisted, battered, mangled by it, and yet somehow supported and made whole. The pain tore the very fabric of me, unraveled it strand by strand, and wove it back together anew. As it consumed me, I found deliverance in its red mist. I found strength and vigor. The universe had opened like a flower to my mind, and I saw its secret patterns and hidden truths. I stand before the Box now. My mind is clear, but the insight has left me. The secrets gained have slipped away, beyond the veil of consciousness. I can feel them, yet they pass through the fingers of my mind like smoke coils. I must return to the Box . . .
“ ‘It’s easier to breathe. The budding arthritis in my hands troubles me no longer . . .
“ ‘I ran three miles in the morning to test myself, and discovering myself free of fatigue, I ran three more . . .
“ ‘The visions of the red daze haunt me. I must enter the Box again . . .
“‘I shall speak nothing of what I glimpsed beyond the red curtain. I must understand it before I commit it to the page . . .
“ ‘ The scar on my shin is gone. I’ve had it since I was a child ...
“ ‘And then I picked her up into my arms and danced across the house, danced and danced. She laughed, throwing her head back . . . Gods, I haven’t seen her laugh like that since we were twenty ...’ ”
Cerise’s voice kept on, flat and steady, reading Vernard’s thoughts as he slid deeper and deeper into delirium. The Box was addictive, and the addiction came with a price. It unhinged Vernard’s mind.
“ ‘I’m becoming violent. My moods, my rage are growing difficult to control. I screamed at Genevieve this morning when she brought us drinks. She had spilled my mug of tea. I didn’t mean to lash out, yet my body did it seemingly on its own, while I watched it act from the depths of my consciousness. It is as if I’m steering a boat with a broken rudder . . .
“‘The remedy failed me. The toxin proved too potent . . .
“ ‘ Too late. It’s too late for me.