The Shivering Garden by David Hollister

The Shivering Garden by David Hollister

“Be quick, child. And remember: The incantation is to be the only thing you speak while in The Garden. The Hanged Witch may tempt you, taunt you, unsettle your nerve with her flaunting of our ways. You must be bold. You must not fail, child, for the life that failure will cost you may not only be your own.”

The light of new dawn danced through the tops of the Shivver-trees. As the trees trembled in the cool, slight breeze, sunlight too seemed to flicker and dance.

The imposing wall of gray stone stood around the garden, extending as far as the eye

could see and yet, not very far at all, dotted with tall stems of newly-flowering apocynum. The wrought-iron gates, flanked with grand bushes of rosebay, stood steadfastly closed, the undisturbed fields of clover before them telling of how much time had passed since they’d had cause to be opened.

But today, the clover was disturbed.

The gates to The Shivering Garden were opened.

February stepped through, and the gates swung shut behind him.

He emerged into a small clearing of grass and sorrel blossoms. Beyond the clearing’s

edge, the Shivver-trees grew, tall and dense. A small desire path, a trail marked by footfalls long ago, led him further in.

February pulled his cloak tighter around him as he walked forward. Though his body was wracked with trembling, he set forward resolutely. He had little time, and The Garden was a large place. The tallest of the Shivver-trees was straight ahead, or so The Elder had told him, but The Elder had also warned that the path ahead and the path forward were not always one and the same.

The first sound that the morning brought to February’s ears was her laugh, a sound which came from nowhere and everywhere.

The Hanged Witch laughed before breakfast.

“It has been some time,” The Hanged Witch said, “since someone entered this place.

Some time, and yet, so treacherously, not nearly time enough.”

The desire path that February followed faded into nothingness at a natural intersection among the Shivver-trees. As he shuddered once again, he looked through the forest growths, peering into those places where the light of the morning couldn’t pierce the quavering canopy above his head.

He saw no sign of The Witch.

February duly tried to put her out of his mind, and indeed put everything out of his mind; everything except the natural shuddering of his body. A strong tremor came over him, shifting his balance to the right. He followed the accidental step with deliberate action: His limbs and those of the tallest Shivver-tree shook with the same force, a terrible resonant frequency, which now pulled February and the tree together.

“Tell me,” The Witch said, her voice no louder than the whisper of the breeze that caused the Shivver-trees to quake. Or perhaps, thought February, her whisper and that of the breeze were one and the same. “How long has it been since you were touched by the Ankou’s hand?”

February came to another natural clearing dotted with yarrow flowers of all colors. He looked around once more for The Witch, and once more, he could not find her. In answer to her question, he flapped the edge of his cloak: Once, twice, thrice.

“Ah,” she said wisely, sagely. “You have not long, then. And yet in your eye and your gait, I see only determination. None can be saved from the Ankou’s touch. But you have heard the stories, my child, clearly you have. You have heard that this Garden, these trees, have performed this miracle before. You have heard the incantation, no doubt, and secured in your pocket is surely a lock of your own hair. And yet, I imagine the story of this Garden has been kept from you. You have not long, my child, and yet you have just long enough.”

As February found again the desire path through the trees, The Witch said, her voice a nearby whisper and a distant echo, “Allow me to accompany you in your journey. Allow me to tell you the full tale of how this Garden came to be. Listen well, my child, for it will be your salvation.

“It began on my wedding day. After the vows were performed, the ceremony complete, I was lifted onto the petting stone. I crossed it in a single stride. You know this to be a sign of good fortune: To successfully clear the barred path at my wedding day should have ensured me a successful and joyous marriage.

“But it was not to be. My beloved was soon touched by the Ankou’s hand as he traveled along the road. He was overcome with the same trembling as has befallen you, and soon, he was dead and buried.

“I loved this village. Truly, I did. Its rituals, its customs. I followed them with as much conviction as anyone, and was repaid by becoming an early widow. I grew… disillusioned. I turned my back on its rituals and superstitions. I began seeking out the Old Tomes, stealthing into the Archives late in the night as not to be seen. Forbidden knowledge, as I am sure you know. Knowledge that you, too, have sought. Ask not how I know this, child, all will be

revealed. I was found out by The Elder. You know, surely, how that story ends.”

February stepped into the clearing in the center of The Garden. The ground beneath the Hanging-Tree was barren. The sight of it caused him to shudder again, a reaction that this time he could not blame on the Ankou. He moved on with haste.

“My bones cursed this land,” The Hanged Witch went on to say, “refusing to reside in an unmarked grave such as the one they provided me. As my roots spread outward, seeking the hallowed ground in which my husband was buried, my hand reached toward the sky, becoming the tallest Shivver-tree. Only their great wall of stone and tradition could stop my spread outward.”

February came to rest in another natural clearing, this one filled with mullein flowers, so brightly yellow that for a moment February was half-convinced the sunlight had pierced the

canopy of the Shivver-trees.

“You have sought the forbidden knowledge of the Old Tomes,” The Witch said. “You know as I do that it is a sacrilege to believe the touch of the Ankou’s hand can be cured. It is invariably fatal: That is the teaching. So ask yourself, child, why would The Elder send you on a mission of heresy?”

February hesitated. February listened, uncertainly but intently, as he coaxed his fluttering chest into providing him ragged breath.

“My hanging was no accident,” The Witch said as February again shuddered. “I’d determined that no one else should be lost to the whims of the Ankou. A subversion of the teachings was needed, a subversion I could only achieve from inside.

“By becoming the Hanged Witch, I placed myself inside the teachings, inside the lore.

You have read the Old Tomes, February. You know that the hand of one who met their end at the end of a noose is a potent cure, potent enough to thwart the hand of the killer. But to cure you so would be sacrilege.

“You have been lied to, February. Should you emerge from this Garden cured of the Ankou’s curse, they will say that you have been cured because you are like me. They will say that you too are a heretic. Your bones, too, will haunt this place.”

The Hanged Witch fell silent as February reached the tallest Shivver-tree, which grew near enough to the far wall of The Garden that its roots threatened the stone structure. No other tree grew around it, only tall bushes of blooming chicory, and long vines of ivy growing up the nearby wall as though it was a trellis.

“Recite the incantation, child,” The Hanged Witch said. Her voice was louder here.

February hesitated. To comply with The Witch now was to comply with The Elder. Those two things, February thought, should not be possible with the same action.

Finally, he plunged his hand into his pocket. Though he was careful, the pin around

which his lock of hair was wrapped pricked his finger when another tremor overcame his grip.

He looked down as he pulled it from his pocket. The pin had drawn blood.

February bent down, and wiped it on the grass.

Carefully, he forced the pin into the pliable wood before him. “Shivver-tree, Shivver-tree,” he said aloud, “I pray thee to shake and shiver instead of me.”

The incantation was finished, but the ritual was not. It would not be completed, February knew, until he left The Garden.

And yet he hesitated. He lingered in the clearing with the chicory, until the shaking of his legs inspired him to sit among the dew-damp grass.

“You must rest, my child,” The Witch said. Morning had lapsed into evening. Much time had passed, and yet none had passed at all. “I ask not that you take faith in me blindly, for that

would make me no better than The Elder with his teachings. But I will provide for you while you deliberate. Stand up, child. Grab a handful of chicory and follow the wall.”

February obeyed, rising unsteadily to his feet. He fell once again into the grass. The second time he stood, the Shivver-tree seemed just near enough for him to steady himself upon it. He took in hand an amount of chicory, and he set off.

He followed the wall, using the thing for support, and as he walked, the sound of flowing water ahead became known to him. Eventually he found a brook, its water running through an iron grating underneath the wall’s foundation. Near it was a tent, aged by the seasons yet still standing in this place where nothing but the trees moved; left, almost assuredly, by the last unfortunate soul to make their way through The Garden. The remains of a campfire stood nearby it, a teapot slung above the long-burnt-out embers.

February gathered kindling and made a new flame. He filled the teapot with water from the brook, and placed inside it his handful of chicory. The wind in the Shivver-trees was his

companion as he drank. He eyed the small tent cautiously, even as he wrapped himself tighter in his cloak, and huddled nearer to his fire.

“You need not fear, my child,” The Witch said. “You have not yet decided whether to believe me completely. You know more of the teachings than most; you know enough of them to question them. That much is clear, for you otherwise would have made your way back to the

wrought-iron gate which bid you entrance to this place. You know not enough of me to know

whether I tell you the whole truth, to know whether or not to heed my warnings. But you know I speak at least enough truth to inspire doubt in you. Know that I speak at least some truth, and know that I speak it now: You may sleep, February, without fear of passing before seeing another morning. You will not succumb to the Ankou’s curse while I watch over you.”

February finished his chicory tea. February decided to believe her, though he had little choice, his legs so uncertain under him that he could not have left even if he had tried.

February crawled into bed and pulled his cloak tight around himself. February fell

asleep.

The Elder sat in the parlor, a flower in his hand. Mother was crying in April’s room. April was not crying.

“Come, February,” The Elder said. February shuffled forward obediently; his eyes averted.

“Did you bring this inside?” The Elder offered out the flower in his hand, a single snowdrop.

February nodded.

“Why have you done this?”

“It’s pretty,” February said simply.

“Have you not been told the snowdrop is an omen of death? How it looks as though it is a corpse in its shroud, keeping itself low to the earth, belonging more to death than to life?”

“But who says that’s true-”

“This is what happens,” The Elder interrupted, “when you heed not the teachings, February. I need not punish you, for the curse you have brought on this house is punishment

enough. You must not fail me again, child, for the life that failure will cost you may not only be your own.”

February ran.

He ran until he could run no more. He finally looked up, and beheld the Archive.

\

February awoke.

February sat up, and he shivered beneath his cloak.

His fire was still lit, the light of the flames flickering and dancing across the dewdrops

that rested on the leaves of grass. As the wind blew, the trees shuddered and danced overhead. “There is another way, my child,” The Witch said. “It is true that the ritual will not be

complete until you have left this place. But there is another place to go.” February stood.

“You may doubt that The Elder wishes you ill should you return,” The Witch said. “But you were sent here because you have sought forbidden knowledge. And you have sought

forbidden knowledge, my child, because you believe in no such thing. You have doubts, surely. There are questions you have that no answer will satisfy. And yet, February, no matter what uncertainty you face should you leave through the wrought-iron gate, you must know for certain that you will not be allowed to ask those questions.”

February began his walk back along the wall towards the tallest of the Shivver-trees.

“The ones that came before you,” The Hanged Witch said, “did not meet their end in this garden of twisting paths. I offered them another way, a path that is terribly difficult, yet not

difficult at all.”

February stood among the roots of The Hanged Witch’s tree. “Hold my hand, February,” she bade him.

He rested his hand against the Shivver-tree’s rough bark.

“The same chicory I used to open the door in The Archive, the same chicory I used to

reach the Old Tomes of forbidden knowledge, can be of use to you here. Use it, child. You know how.”

February walked to where the roots of the tree met the stone of the wall, where opposing forces met and mingled, neither succeeding yet neither yielding. February blew upon the spot, the chicory tea still dancing on his breath.

February had made his choice. The two forces in balanced opposition were balanced no more: The roots grew. They crawled upward, framing a space against the stone as wide as the

wrought-iron gates on the other side of The Garden. In the space of a breeze, a doorway emerged as outlined by the growing roots, and yet, the doorway had always been there. The desire path February now found himself upon led outward through a field of tulips. With two uncertain strides, he drew himself to the exit.

With a third stride, confident and unwavering, he crossed the threshold.

A sigh escaped his lips. He did not turn around, and yet he did not move forward. His eyes fixed firmly ahead, he asked aloud “What do I do now?”

The morning was met with another mirthful peal of laughter. The Hanged Witch laughed before breakfast.

“I do not pretend,” The Witch said with her voice no louder than a whisper, “to have all the answers.”

February laughed before breakfast. February set ahead; February set forward.