The Garden of Darkness

“You know about the patches?”


“Of course. I know about a lot of things. But here’s my offer: I know that if you come with me, tonight, now, we will get the real cure, and you will see Thyme House again.”

“I’d have to talk it over with the others.”

“I don’t mean the others. I’m not interested in the others, although you can give them the cure if you want. Just come with me and everything will be all right.”

Everything will be all right. When Clare had been a child, her real mother had always told her that. But then her mother had died.

“And if I don’t come with you?”

“Then we’ll meet later, anyway,” he said finally.

Clare thought of what would happen if she left now, in the night. Jem and Ramah would wait for her as she had once waited for Robin. “How do you know that everything will turn out all right if I come with you?”

“You’ll have to trust me.”

“I need to get my pack out of the tent.”

“No,” he said. “Leave your pack. You need to come with me now.”

“Not without Bear,” she said, and suddenly she became acutely aware that they had somehow moved from a discussion of whether or not she would leave (how did they get there?) to a discussion of what she could take with her.

“All right,” he said. “The dog can come.”

“You’re not a Cured?”

“I’m not.”

“Are you the Master?”

“Of course I’m the Master.”

At that moment, Jem called out in his sleep, “Clare.”

His voice brought her back to the moment. The fire was almost out; the glamour that had hung around the man was gone.

At that moment his game seemed perfectly obvious to her.

“I won’t make them wait for me; I won’t scare them like that,” she said.

The man stood. From the opening of the tent, Bear growled, an echo to Clare’s thoughts.

“You’ve made an interesting choice,” said the man as he moved towards the trees. And then he was out of sight.

Clare sat by the embers. The memory of the man was fast disappearing into the world of dreams.

But the dream had been a strong one, and she realized that the apparition had been infinitely more powerful than she was. But she thought she had finally won their little game. It was true that the stranger was older, stronger, and, perhaps, wiser. But then she remembered in some corner of her mind that the battle is not always to the strong, nor the race to the swift. Time and chance come along and screw with everything.





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE





HEAVEN





THEY KNEW THEY were close when they reached the gardens—beautiful gardens that seemed to serve no useful purpose whatsoever. A profusion of flowers tumbled together in a jumble of colors—Clare made out yellow daffodils and purple irises. There were no vegetables, no herbs and no weeds. Not one.

Following the path, they turned a corner to see a child not far from them chopping at the dirt with a hoe. Nearby, they spotted two more children trying to pull along a goat. The goat head-butted the girl leading it, and she turned and smacked it on the rump.

“Children,” said Clare. “I can’t believe they’re real.”

The goat head-butted the girl again, and she let out a cry.

“They’re real,” said Jem.

At that moment, the children with the goat stopped and stared, and the child with a hoe stood and looked at them.

“Let’s talk to the one with the hoe first,” said Ramah. “The ones with the goat look older.”

“Maybe we should talk to the older ones first,” said Jem.

“No.” Ramah was seldom this firm.

“Why?”

“Little kids aren’t as easy to brainwash as adolescents,” she said. “The Emperor’s New Clothes. And all that.”

“You know about some weird things, Ramah,” said Jem.

As they approached the little boy, he raised his hoe, alarmed.

“You can put down your hoe,” said Jem. “We’re not Cured.” The boy’s look of fear was replaced by a sheepish grin.

“Sorry,” he said. “In that case, I’m supposed to say that you’re welcome here and to go ahead to Master.”

“Where is the Master?” asked Clare.

“Just keep going. Straight ahead, beyond Britta and Doug—the ones wrestling the goat, you’ll come to the gate.”

“Who are you?” asked Clare.

“My name’s Dante.”

“Like the poet?”

“Like the poet. My father’s choice.” He leaned forward to rest on his hoe, and Clare could see the sprinkling of red freckles on his chest.

“You still have the Pest rash,” she said. “Does it stay even after the cure?”

“I’m not cured yet,” said Dante before turning away from them.

The older children struggling with the goat barely acknowledged them.

“We’ll see you inside,” said the one Dante had called Britta, and then she got behind the goat and started to push. Doug got in front and pulled. The goat didn’t move.

“Try scratching it under the chin for a while,” said Ramah.

“Thanks,” said Doug and then ignored her advice.