said to Rose. “Does your mother keep a garden?”
“She does.”
“What happens if weeds grow?”
“The plants don’t get water.”
“That’s right,” he said. He opened his valise and traced his fingers over the vials attached to its sides with elastic ribbons. He pushed the hammer on its side to get to a row near the bottom. Mistletoe. Across from it, powdered yew-berry seed, a poison. He took them both out and unscrewed their lids. “Would you like to smell?”
Rose leaned forward and put her nose into the mouth of one of the vials. She screwed up her face. “Horrid,” she said. “I’m not drinking any tea made from that.”
“I will adulterate it—
slightly
—with honey. Just for you.”
“I don’t want it,” she said, and he simply smiled at her, a smile from the world of adults, saying your disobedience will be allowed in theory, but not in practice. She watched him crush a couple of tiny green leaves between his thumb and forefinger, and sprinkle it into the cup her aunt had brought up on the tray. Then he dropped in a minuscule pinch of the white yew-berry powder. He poured steaming water on it.
“The leaves are mistletoe, like you have at Christmas. Do you know it, Rose?”
“You kiss because of it.”
“Indeed. But that is a silly application of mistletoe. It is a much more noble plant than that. The Druids practically worshiped it.” She shrugged. “It grows on the bark of certain trees—a true parasite deriving 100 percent of its nutrient from living flesh. The Druids would climb an oak tree under the first full moon of the new year and cut a piece of mistletoe from the bark with a golden knife. It was considered a protective herb. If so much as a leaf fell on the ground during the ceremony, they would wail and cry out that their great nation would become victim to misfortune. You can imagine how tightly the man in the tree held it.”
“Were they elves?”
“No.”
“They sound like elves.”
“Your seizures are a symptom, rather than the illness itself. The mistletoe will establish a beachhead in your nervous system and prevent the communication of the wrong signals from your brain to your muscles.”
“So I do have a tumor?”
“You may. If you do, the yew-berry powder I’ve put in here will deal with it.” She looked at the cup of steaming liquid in his hands, less now with fear than with curiosity. “Honey, then?” he said.
“Yes,” she replied. “If I have to.”
“You don’t want to have got out of bed for nothing.” He went to the door and called down for a jar of honey and a teaspoon. Grace came up with it.
“Have you diagnosed her?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Simon. “She has seizures and falls over. Leave us now.”
He poured a tiny dram of honey into the tea and passed it to the girl. She stared at the mixture with contempt. “Do you know how to sing, Rose?” he asked her. “This is a cup of tea that tastes nicer when you sing to it.”
Before nine, he was on his way again, having performed his ministrations and said his blessings. The MacDonald house was quiet when he left it. Very peaceful, indeed.
He was less than forty kilometers from ottawa when he next stopped. This was Chamberlain, at the dividing line between Renfrew and Linnet counties. Population 2,100, said the sign. He checked the map that he had printed off the Web. The house he
was looking for appeared to be near the center of town. He parked in the municipal lot and walked with his valise to the address.
When he rang, he had to wait a long two minutes before he heard the clunk and shuffle of Michael Ulmer’s walker coming to the door. At last it opened, and Simon considered the kind, slack face of his host. “You’re right on time,” said the man. He was not yet thirty, although he had wasted so considerably that his body was that of a man three times his age. Simon’s heart went out to him—to have your youth stolen so brazenly by a disease that you
“She does.”
“What happens if weeds grow?”
“The plants don’t get water.”
“That’s right,” he said. He opened his valise and traced his fingers over the vials attached to its sides with elastic ribbons. He pushed the hammer on its side to get to a row near the bottom. Mistletoe. Across from it, powdered yew-berry seed, a poison. He took them both out and unscrewed their lids. “Would you like to smell?”
Rose leaned forward and put her nose into the mouth of one of the vials. She screwed up her face. “Horrid,” she said. “I’m not drinking any tea made from that.”
“I will adulterate it—
slightly
—with honey. Just for you.”
“I don’t want it,” she said, and he simply smiled at her, a smile from the world of adults, saying your disobedience will be allowed in theory, but not in practice. She watched him crush a couple of tiny green leaves between his thumb and forefinger, and sprinkle it into the cup her aunt had brought up on the tray. Then he dropped in a minuscule pinch of the white yew-berry powder. He poured steaming water on it.
“The leaves are mistletoe, like you have at Christmas. Do you know it, Rose?”
“You kiss because of it.”
“Indeed. But that is a silly application of mistletoe. It is a much more noble plant than that. The Druids practically worshiped it.” She shrugged. “It grows on the bark of certain trees—a true parasite deriving 100 percent of its nutrient from living flesh. The Druids would climb an oak tree under the first full moon of the new year and cut a piece of mistletoe from the bark with a golden knife. It was considered a protective herb. If so much as a leaf fell on the ground during the ceremony, they would wail and cry out that their great nation would become victim to misfortune. You can imagine how tightly the man in the tree held it.”
“Were they elves?”
“No.”
“They sound like elves.”
“Your seizures are a symptom, rather than the illness itself. The mistletoe will establish a beachhead in your nervous system and prevent the communication of the wrong signals from your brain to your muscles.”
“So I do have a tumor?”
“You may. If you do, the yew-berry powder I’ve put in here will deal with it.” She looked at the cup of steaming liquid in his hands, less now with fear than with curiosity. “Honey, then?” he said.
“Yes,” she replied. “If I have to.”
“You don’t want to have got out of bed for nothing.” He went to the door and called down for a jar of honey and a teaspoon. Grace came up with it.
“Have you diagnosed her?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Simon. “She has seizures and falls over. Leave us now.”
He poured a tiny dram of honey into the tea and passed it to the girl. She stared at the mixture with contempt. “Do you know how to sing, Rose?” he asked her. “This is a cup of tea that tastes nicer when you sing to it.”
Before nine, he was on his way again, having performed his ministrations and said his blessings. The MacDonald house was quiet when he left it. Very peaceful, indeed.
He was less than forty kilometers from ottawa when he next stopped. This was Chamberlain, at the dividing line between Renfrew and Linnet counties. Population 2,100, said the sign. He checked the map that he had printed off the Web. The house he
was looking for appeared to be near the center of town. He parked in the municipal lot and walked with his valise to the address.
When he rang, he had to wait a long two minutes before he heard the clunk and shuffle of Michael Ulmer’s walker coming to the door. At last it opened, and Simon considered the kind, slack face of his host. “You’re right on time,” said the man. He was not yet thirty, although he had wasted so considerably that his body was that of a man three times his age. Simon’s heart went out to him—to have your youth stolen so brazenly by a disease that you
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