The Garden of Darkness

“Not far to the city now,” said Jem. “After that all we can do is go by Rick’s map.”


As they walked by the side of the cart, Bird Boy gave an occasional excited leap, which startled Sheba, though she soon enough grew used to it. The road—ill-maintained as it was, marked by pot holes and frost heaves and littered with empty, rotting cars—seemed full of promise.

They soon fell into an easy, steady pace. Jem handed Clare a Slim Jim. Mirri slipped her small warm hand into Clare’s. Bird Boy sang a song about pretty little horses. And it occurred to Clare then that she might be perfectly content if they were never to reach the Master, if they were never to enter the city. She would be content to just walk—chewing a Slim Jim, talking with her friends—down the long road into forever.

But she still couldn’t let go of the old world completely. Michael was part of the old world. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She turned it over and over in her hands.

“What’s that?” asked Jem.

“I found this poem in my pocket the other day.”

“It looks like it went through the wash.”

“It did. I meant to give it to Michael, but I never got round to it. It doesn’t matter. He didn’t like poetry.”

“I’m sure he would have liked it.” Jem was being his most polite. “Did you write it?”

“No.”

“Poetry’s a nice gift.”

“Remember Robin?”

“The Robin everyone wondered why you bothered with? The National Merit Scholarship Finalist Robin?”

“Yes. Robin would say I tried too hard to please him.”

“I wish I’d gotten to know Robin. We might’ve been friends.”

“Oh, Jem.”

“Why don’t you stop waving it around and waste a little poetry on me? I like poetry.” Jem took the piece of paper from her. “This isn’t easy to read. What with going through the wash and all.”

“I know.”

“‘I am half-sick of shadows.’ I like The Lady of Shalott: ‘she hath no loyal knight and true.’”

“That’s not on there.”

“No,” said Jem. “But I like that part. What an optimist you were—giving poetry to Michael.”

Clare found she wasn’t angry. In fact, part of her wanted to laugh.

Tennyson and Michael. Perhaps not.

The buildings that bordered the highway were broken and desolate. Gutters had pulled away from the side of one house; a tree had broken through the roof of another. They passed an old motel that had been left to rot long ago, after the road lost its traffic to the new highway. The walls in the front of the motel had fallen away, revealing old plumbing, some toilets, washed-out looking graffiti. The sign in front of it still stood: ‘Wayside Motel—No V ca cy.’

When they found a small farm with a barn set back between two houses, Clare urged Sheba off the road.

The farmhouse was small, but it had a large larder full of canned goods, as well as candles and matches and a stack of mousetraps. There were also mattresses and blankets and quilts and pillows in all the bedrooms. Curled up on one of the beds and partially under the covers was a small woman. Her eyes and mouth, or what was left of them, were frozen open.

“I still can’t get used to it,” said Clare.

“Come on,” said Jem. “We’ll seal off the room from the others. I love Mirri, but I don’t think I could stand another funeral.”

Outside, in a small corral, they found a horse carcass. There wasn’t much horse left, just a sheeting of hide over bone.

“It had nowhere to go,” said Jem.

“Poor thing,” said Bird Boy. Bear went over and nuzzled Bird Boy before returning to Clare.

The loft of the barn was filled with hay, and Clare found the granary still dry and stocked with useable grain. The rest stop became a work stop, as they took corn, oats, horse nuggets and hay back to the cart. Ramah tested the horse nuggets on the goat, who found them very satisfactory. And Clare found some extra large bags of dog food to supplement Bear’s hunting. On one trip, Bird Boy noticed a brood of chickens disappearing under the porch as he tried to approach.

“Pets?” asked Bird Boy hopefully.

“Sorry,” said Jem. “Probably dinner.”

“Okay. Can I have the feathers?”

“All yours. Once Clare catches them.”

“Me?”

“Sure,” said Jem. “I’m going to have fun watching you running down those chickens. And fun is hard to come by these days.”

Ramah carefully and quickly wrung the necks of the chickens that Clare caught.

“Tonight’s dinner,” she said.