Doctor Crouch was already at the net, hopping from side to side like a lucky prospector. “I’ve done it!” he shouted. “I’ve done it!”
Molly blinked, her eyes still adjusting. The net dangled from the giant branch, the ropes groaning with the weight of its quarry, which twisted and rattled in protest.
Crouch held his camera in front of him like a weapon. “Back, beast!”
The net slowly turned around, and Molly saw a weathered face crowned by white hair and two fiendish eyes. “It’s you!” she said.
Hester Kettle gave a wry, toothless smile. “You were expecting someone else?”
hat are you doin’ here?” Molly demanded.
Hester dangled before them, her arms and legs jutting out of the net at odd angles. “Why, just hanging about.” She gave a sideways smile as she rocked past.
“Just as I thought!” Doctor Crouch thrust a finger in the air. “Your spirit is nothing more than a disease-ridden vagrant.”
“Storyteller, if it pleases,” Hester said.
“Contagious, no doubt. She’s probably given Crouch Fever to half the valley.” Doctor Crouch traded his camera for a large syringe from his belt and removed a cork from the end of the needle. “Now, children—hold the woman down while I collect a sample of her blood!”
“Save your time,” Molly said. “She’s not what’s makin’ us sick.”
The doctor hesitated, needle poised. “Are you quite certain? Because were I to imagine a source of Crouch Fever, it might look something like that.”
Hester batted her eyelashes. “You’re too kind, sir.”
Molly grabbed the net, turning Hester to face her. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doin’ here?”
The old woman hemmed and hawed. “Well, luv, it’s hard to say …”
Molly folded her arms. “Try.”
“She’s come for the tree.” Kip stepped beside Molly. “Just look at what she’s carryin’.” He indicated the sharp thing clasped in the woman’s hand. In the light of Doctor Crouch’s lamp, Molly could see that it was a pair of old shears. “She was gonna take a cutting of the tree,” he said. “Snip off a little bit so she could plant her own.”
Molly looked back at Hester. “That true?”
Hester sighed. “True or not, it’s clear you’re set on believing it.” She eyed the branch overhead, which was sagging perilously. “Perhaps you might let me down so we can hash it out like good neighbors.”
Much as Molly would have liked to let Hester dangle, she knew that if the branch snapped, their trap would be ruined. She nodded to Kip, who hobbled to Galileo and set to coaxing him back toward the house. The net jerked up and down as the horse fought against its reins. “Easy with that horsey,” Hester called. “You wouldn’t want to drop an old woman on her head.”
“Wouldn’t we?” Molly stepped back as the net slowly worked its way to the ground.
The doctor, who had evidently gotten his hopes up about finding a cure, was clearly out of sorts. He removed the tin plate from his camera and tossed it aside. “My dear woman, do you realize that you’ve just interrupted—I daresay ruined—an extremely important experiment?” He swatted a leaf from the air in front of him. “I am on the cusp of a discovery that could change my career. Have you anything to say for yourself?”
Hester looked as if she were about to oblige but stopped short. A hollow moaning filled the darkness. She widened her eyes, looking past the doctor toward the house. Her expression was a mixture of terror and fascination. “As luck might have it”—she swallowed, raising a trembling finger—“you still might get your chance.”
An icy gust of wind rattled the leaves around them. Galileo snorted, frantically pulling at his reins. The net swayed perilously from side to side, and the tree groaned overhead. Molly shivered, slowly turning around—
The Night Gardener was watching them.
olly stared at the Gardener, who was standing at the edge of the drive, the open front door behind him, the shovel and watering can in his hands. Even in the shadows, his skin shone with a silver light. He did not move but cocked his head, looking between them with patient curiosity.
“Like a story come to life …,” Hester murmured breathlessly.
“Keep still,” Molly whispered. “Don’t nobody move or shout. He’s just here for the tree. He won’t hurt us none.” She tried not to think about whether or not this was in fact true. She definitely tried not to think about the open graves at her feet.
Doctor Crouch grabbed his camera box and inched toward the Night Gardener. “I just need one photograph …”
“Doctor, no!” Molly reached for his arm, but she was too slow. Crouch was already on the other side of the tree. He uncorked a bottle from his belt and dumped some powder into the flash tray.
Hester leaned toward Molly. “You sure he won’t hurt us, luv?”
Molly swallowed. “I’m not sure of anythin’ anymore.”
Doctor Crouch was now only a few feet from the drive. The Night Gardener had not moved, but Molly could hear a low sough of warning.
“Crouch, old boy, say hello to history.” The doctor inched closer, like a man hypnotized. The spirit cocked his head, his black, black eyes fixed on the doctor. Dead leaves circled around him like a barrier. Doctor Crouch slowly aimed his camera at the Night Gardener—
Whoosh!
The leaves attacked, knocking the doctor back. He shouted as a gust of wind ripped the camera from his hands. The wooden box sailed through the darkness, flying straight past Molly’s head and smashing against the side of the house.
“So much for his experiment!” Hester called, her net swaying in the wind.
“Run, you fools!” Doctor Crouch was sprinting straight toward them, a look of bloodless terror on his face. “Out of my way!” He shoved Molly aside, nearly knocking her into one of the open graves.
“Step aside, boy!” he bellowed. “I’m commandeering this wagon!” He was fighting with Kip for control of the reins.
Kip, however, would not give up. “Let go, you fat gob!”
Galileo snorted, pulling against his harness. The wagon rolled forward and back. Molly heard a loud clatter as Hester’s net swung wildly to one side and slammed against the side of the house. She heard more shouting from the wagon, and the net slid high into the air. “Perhaps you might give your brother a hand,” Hester called down, the humor drained from her voice.
Molly looked back at the Night Gardener, who now had the shovel in his hand, raised like a weapon.
Molly looked to the wagon and saw that Doctor Crouch, who had knocked Kip to the ground, was now pulling himself onto the bench. She sprang to her feet and ran toward him. “The trap! We have to lower the net!” She grabbed hold of his apron—
“Unhand me!” The doctor struck Molly hard across the cheek. She gripped the side of the wagon, gasping. She could taste blood in her mouth, and her entire face throbbed with a pain she had never felt before. She tried to stand up, but her legs were too weak. Doctor Crouch stared down at her. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, taking the reins. “It’s survival of the fittest.”
“You don’t touch my sister!” Kip grabbed his leg, pulling him down from the bench. The man hit the ground beside them, the reins still in his hand. Galileo neighed, rearing up on two legs. Molly heard a sharp creaking sound as Hester’s net swayed from the tree and then—
Crack!
The branch snapped clean from the trunk. Hester cried out as her net plummeted to the earth. She hit the ground with a backbreaking crash, pinned beneath the branch.
Molly heard a windy snarl. The Night Gardener staggered forward, stumbling to his knees. He dropped his shovel and watering can, which spilled uselessly onto the grass.
Doctor Crouch watched beside Molly. “Wh-wh-what’s happening to it?”
The Night Gardener was doubled over, writhing in pain. Leaves darted over his head, slashing this way and that in a flurry of confused rage. Molly looked up at the
tree. Black sap covered the place where the branch had been torn off, like blood from a wound. “I dinna think he liked that,” she said.
The Night Gardener planted his hands on the ground and slowly, painfully, brought himself to his feet. He teetered from side to side, his weight unsteady. He saw the broken branch atop Hester’s body. He released a roar that shook the very ground.
Doctor Crouch forgot about the horse and scrambled to his feet. “It was all their idea!” he cried out. “It’s them you want!” He started running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
The Night Gardener pointed his skeletal hands toward the stables. Molly heard a sharp wrenching sound as a gust ripped the wide stable door clean off its hinges. The Night Gardener snapped his arms in the direction of the doctor, who was halfway to the bridge. The giant door soared across the lawn, spinning toward its target—
“Don’t look!” Molly grabbed Kip, covering his eyes. There was no scream—only a sharp crashing sound. She looked across the lawn; where the doctor had been there was now only a door with two unmoving feet sticking out from beneath it.
She stared back at the Night Gardener, who wore on his face a look of icy satisfaction. “You killed him …” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Killed him in cold blood right in front of us …”
The spirit tipped his hat as if accepting a compliment. He stepped to the place where Hester lay. The old woman turned over, groaning under the weight of the branch. “You pups best run,” she croaked. A shimmer of blood trickled from her mouth.
Kip grabbed Molly’s arm. “I can get the horse, but that rope’s still tied to her—if we run, it’ll kill her.”
Molly scanned the moonlit ground, searching for something, anything that might protect them. She remembered what Kip had told her before, that the Night Gardener didn’t like fire. She needed a torch or lamp or even a match—
Then she saw it.
Lying among the splintered bits of the doctor’s camera was the metal flash pan. “Cut the rope from the wagon!” she called. “I’ll do the rest.” She scrambled across the dirt, nearly tumbling into one of the graves. She grabbed the flash. Inside the pan was a small amount of white powder. Molly hoped it would be enough.
The Gardener had removed the branch from on top of Hester’s body and set it beside the trunk. He held out a hand, and his shovel flew into it.
Molly charged at the man, holding the flash in front of her. “Over here!” She pulled the trigger, and a burst of fire erupted in her hands.
The Night Gardener staggered backward, thrashing his arms as flames swept over his body.
Molly coughed, shielding her face from the smoke. She scrambled to Hester’s side. “We’re gettin’ you outta here,” she said. She grabbed Hester’s shears and cut the net away from her body. The woman groaned in pain as Molly hoisted her up on her shoulder. Molly half carried, half dragged the woman to the wagon. Kip was there, waiting with the gate down.
The Gardener roared behind Molly. She looked over her shoulder to see him staggering toward them, his body smoldering in the moonlight. The flames had burned away his cloak, and Molly gasped to see the man’s leg; it was twisted in on itself, the bone splintered at the knee. Black sap ran thick down his trousers and boot, staining the grass as he moved.
“Get in front!” Molly shouted, holding Hester’s body. “I’ve got her!”
Kip scrambled through the bed of the wagon and grabbed the reins. Molly braced her shoulder against Hester’s weight and, with a strained cry, lifted the woman onto the cart. “Go!” She scrambled in after her.
Kip snapped the reins, and they bolted ahead. Molly gripped the side rails as they raced over the hills toward the gravel drive. Not hills, she thought, graves.
She could see the Gardener coming after them. Even with his broken leg, he was inhumanly fast.
“Hold tight!” Kip yelled as the wagon hit the drive and shot forward.
The Gardener—still right behind them—raised his hand, and a gust of wind brought Hester’s shears into his open palm. He flung them at the wagon—thwunk!—Molly rolled to one side as the blades sank into the wood behind her, quivering like an arrow.
“Faster!” she shouted at Kip as they rattled onto the wooden bridge.
The Gardener reached out a bony hand, snatching her leg. Molly screamed, kicking herself free. She heard a sharp howl and saw the Gardener’s body jerk backward. It fell to the bridge with a crash. Molly nearly fell with him as Kip turned onto the road on the far side of the river. She clung to the side of the wagon, eyes fixed on the Gardener. He snarled, pacing back and forth along the far end of the bridge—furious but, it seemed, unable to cross over.
Molly, Kip, and Hester rattled up the path and around the bend. She could hear the Gardener’s howls echoing behind them.
hey rode for what felt like hours. The sky above was limpid and black; it shone with pinprick stars that did little to light their path. Molly sat beside Hester, holding her hand. The old woman’s fingers were stiff and sticky with blood. She hardly moved, only sitting up occasionally to release a rattling cough. “You’re all right,” Molly whispered, stroking her hair. “You’ll be all right.”
Hester swallowed. “I know enough to know that’s not true.” She smiled and then coughed again. Molly wiped fresh blood from the edges of her mouth. She tried not to let the old woman see the worry on her face. A bloody cough meant she was bleeding on the inside.
The wagon rounded a narrow bend, turning away from the river and toward the village. “Stop the cart …,” Hester murmured, raising her hand.
“We’re takin’ you to the village,” Molly said. “We’ll find you a warm bed and hot meal and—”
Hester coughed. “You’ll be hauling a corpse by the time you get there,” she said. “This’ll do.”
Molly rapped against the side of the wagon. “Pull over,” she called.
Kip nodded and steered to the side of the path. Molly watched as he grabbed his crutch and slid down from the bench, his face a picture of stony resolve. In the faint moonlight, he almost looked like Da. Molly wondered when he had become so grown up. She gently lowered herself off the wagon. Her whole body was sore and bruised. It hurt to stand. She looked at the woods around her—they were in a small clearing where the path broke into three parts. “The crossroads …,” she said. “It’s here we first met you.”
Hester propped herself up on one elbow, peering around. “So it is.” Even now, even in pain, she had a coy glint in her eye.
Molly and Kip helped the old woman off the back of the wagon. She was still wearing her pack of junk. It dangled from her shoulders, a mess of splinters and shards. In the moonlight, it was hard to tell where the pack ended and Hester’s body began.
“I’ll find some firewood,” Kip said.
“There’ll be plenty of time for that after, dearie.” Hester grimaced, doubling over in pain. “Help me get this thing off,” she said.
Molly and Kip gingerly removed the pack from her shoulders and set it on the ground. Without it, the woman looked absurdly small. Hester stared at the pile of wreckage and gave a wry chuckle. “No need to search for firewood; you got all you need right here.” She pulled her briar pipe from the pack. The stem dangled from the bowl, snapped off but for a few fibers. “So much for old friends.” She tossed the pipe back into the pile.
Hester nodded at a rotting stump and limped toward it. Molly rushed to her side and helped her sit. “Thank you, luv.” She groaned, gripping Molly’s hand tight.
Molly knew she should have been angry at Hester, should have yelled at her for ruining their trap. But right now, she only wanted the old woman to live. She brushed a strand of silver hair from her wrinkled brow. “Where does it hurt?”
“Where don’t it hurt? That’s the fairer question.” Hester chuckled, and her chuckle turned to pain. She hunched over, her eyes clenched tight.
Molly watched her coughing and felt a swell of nausea. “This is all my fault,” she sa
id. “If that net hadn’t been there—”
“Hush, you.” The old woman waved her off. “It wasn’t any net or fall or even phantom Night Gardener. It was curiosity that killed Hester Kettle, plain as that.” She stared into the trees, shaking her head. “Oh, I knew it was dangerous—why do you think I stayed away all these years? But in the end, I just had to go. Had to see it with my own eyes. And I’ll tell you right now: it was worth it.” She gave a sort of vague smile, her eyes fixed on some invisible plane. “What’s a storyteller but someone who asks folks to believe in impossible things? And for one perfect moment, I saw something impossible. And that’s enough for me.”
Kip had tied Galileo’s reins to a branch and joined his sister and the old woman. “But you didn’t just go there to see the tree,” he said, his voice tight. “You wanted a piece of your own. You wanted a wish—same as everyone.”
Molly looked at him, dread rising. “How do you know about wishes?”
Kip ignored her and turned back to Hester. “So let’s hear it: What was your big wish?”
“Kip, not now …,” Molly said.
“He’s fine.” The old woman bobbed her head. “It’s foolish, really. Do you remember all those pretty things I said about Aesop?”
“You called him the king o’ storytellers,” Molly said.
Hester knotted her fingers together. “I suppose I wanted to be the queen.” She peered up at the dark sky, her eyes bright. “I wanted the world to remember me for the stories I told.”
Molly heard this and felt a pain within, for she knew what it was to see a story vanish even as she told it. “You could just write ’em down,” she said. “Make a book.”
“A book!” Hester laughed. “Can you imagine it? Me hunched over a little desk, quill in hand, putting down all those fancy scratches on paper?” She shook her head. “Truth is, I never learned my letters.”
“I can write,” Molly said. “I could teach you. We could start right now.”
The old woman shook her head. “Afraid there’s no time for that … or much else, for that matter.” She groaned, pulling herself to her feet. “Though, there is time for one last thing.” She limped to her pack. “Most folks don’t value a good story, and they pay accordingly. But every once in a while, something a little more special comes my way …” She plunged her arm right into the heart of the pack, feeling her way past pots and birdcages and lightning rods. “Here it is,” she said, standing up. “Been carrying this for goodness knows how long. Don’t think I’ll get around to it now.”