The Secret Garden -- Chapter 10

Mary walked briskly through the white tinted hedges, heading for her secret place. She had things to do, other little green plants to look for. Suddlenly, there was a strange cackling noise, and a big black mass flew up into her face. Mary cried out and covered her face, protecting her from whatever was attacking. She backed away, waving her arms around.

“Soot!” A boys voice cried. Mary dropped her arms and watched as a boy a little older than her raised his arm, and her attacker flew up onto his brown clothed arm. The boy pushed the bird up onto his shoulder, and the bird made a few startled noises, rustled its feathers and shook its head. “He doesn’t know thee. You frightened him.” He spoke in the same lilting accent of the native, his features the dark and pleasant ones common for the area.

“I frightened him?” Mary asked in astonishment, her expression matching her tone.

“Come. He won’t hurt you.” Mary stared at the large black bird, who was still moving restlessly and preening on the boys shoulder.

“He will bite me.”

“No, he won’t.”

“But he’s filthy and dirty.”

“No, he’s soft. You’ll like it.”

Mary licked her lips and took a tentative step forward. She reached out with her gloved hand and very quickly touched the black birds chest. She stepped back and dropped her hand. “There. I did it.” She looked almost a little pleased with herself, getting out of actually touching the bird.

The boy just gave a little scoffing smile, and reached for her hand. He pulled her glove off, and then brought her hand back up to the bird on his shoulder. Mary followed his lead, a little curious herself. Carefully he watched as she gently brushed the tips of her fingers along the birds side. The bird shook his body a few times, crying out in his strange, harsh voice, but he allowed her to pet him. Mary smiled a lopsided grin. “Like that, Miss Mary.” The boy said quietly. Mary dropped her arm.

“I know you too. You’re Martha’s brother, Dickon.” The boy smiled. Up in a tree, a robin gave a little trill. They both turned to look up at Mary’s friend. Mary smiled, glad to see the only friend she ever had. Next to her, she heard the robin’s call again. Turning in surprise, she saw Dickon doing some sort of call through his hands, making the same sound that the robin did.

He turned back to Mary, “The robin says that he’s been waiting for you.” At Mary’s surprised face, he continued, “The animals tell me all their secrets.”

Mary’s face became scared. “He wouldn’t tell you my secret, would he?” She asked, worry in her voice.

“About what, Miss Mary?” Dickon asked gently.

Mary looked down, her face again blank. “A garden. I’ve stolen a garden.” Her eyes looked to his. “Maybe it’s dead anyhow. I don’t know.”

“I know,” Dickon said with confidence, no anger or condemnation in his face or voice.

They hurried down the path, Mary leading the way. “Promise you won’t tell.” Mary was stern, looking back as she walked briskly down the narrow corridor made by the hedge. Dickon was solemn in his promise. “Nobody?” Mary asked.

“Not a soul.” He said again in the same tone.

Mary stoped in front of the door. “It’s a secret garden.”

“Secrets are safe with me,” Dickon said, a laugh in his voice this time. Mary licked her lips in the cold, and delved into the ivy. But she stopped once more before opening the door.

“And you’ll really know if its alive?” Mary almost seemed frantic, determined to know.

Dickon laughed slightly, “Course.”

Mary searched his face for a second before smiling. “Wait here.” She pushed through the curtain of ivy, reaching the door. The ivy fell over her, covering her completely. The sound of the door lock being opened came through the rustle of the ivy leaves, and then Mary peaked back through. She reached for Dickon’s hand, and pulled him through the ivy curtain into the secret garden.

Mary kept hold of Dickon’s hand, leading him quickly through the brown twigs and crunchy leaves, pulling him farther into the garden. Dickon looked around, dropping her hand to do some exploring for himself, a large smile on his face. “This garden’s not dead.” He said certain of the fact. “It’s alive as you or me.” He flicked open his pocket knife, and grabbed one of the brown twigs with sharp thorns on it. He carefully made a shallow cut, peeling off the brown outer layer, leaving behind a gash of light green. “See? This parts wick.” He turned the branch to her, showing her. “See the green?”

“Wick?” She asked in curiosity, feeling the patch of green with her fingers. “What’s wick?”

“Alive.” Dickon said, dropping the branch and putting his knife away. “Full of life. There’ll be so many roses in here this summer, you’ll be sick of them.” Mary looked around the garden, before something she had never seen before caught her eye.

“Look!” She said, and raced off to get closer. Through one of the archways and up over a couple of large logs Mary ran, until she got to what she had seen. It was in part of the old castle again, but this time only part of the wall remained standing tall, only a single window showing where the panes would have been. There a large swing attached to one of the old trees hung. Mary sat down on it, a smile on her face. “There’s a picture of my mother and my aunt sitting here.”

Dickon’s face was serious. “They say that’s how she died.”

“How?” Mary asked, wanting to know anything about the woman who was so much like her mother.

“From falling off it,” Dickon told her quietly.

Mary slowly stood up, looking up the length of the sturdy rope. “Oh,” she said quietly, looking at the swing in a different light. It looked almost eerie now. They wandered away from the place, both feeling it better that they left.

The wind blew through the tree’s catching dead leaves and tossing them amongst the bare branches, setting the swing to swaying slowly, creaking as it did.