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"We'll do it," said Crozier, straightening his shoulders.
"Can I come too?" said little Oates, who'd followed them.
"No thumbsuckers," said Crozier.
"Be careful," said Toby. "We don't want to find you spraygunned in a vacant lot. Minus your kidneys."
"I know what I'm doing," said Shackleton proudly. "Zeb's gonna help us. We're wearing pleeb stuff -- see?" He opened his Gardener shirt: underneath it was a black T-shirt that read, DEATH: A GREAT WAY TO LOSE WEIGHT! Underneath the slogan was a skull and crossbones, in silver.
"Those Corps guys are so dumb," said Crozier, grinning. He had a T-shirt too: STRIPPERS LOVE MY POLE. "We'll walk right past them!"
"Not a thumbsucker," said Oates, kicking Crozier in the shin. Crozier batted him on the side of the head.
"We're under their radar," said Shackleton. "They won't even see us." "Pig-eater!" said Oates.
"Oates, that is enough language out of you," said Toby. "You can come and help me feed the worms. Off you go," she said to the other two. "Here's the bottle. Don't spill it inside FenderBender, and especially not on wood, or some unlucky people will have to live with it for a long time." She added, to Shackleton, "We're depending on you." It was good to let boys that age believe they were doing the jobs of men, so long as they didn't get carried away.
"Ciao, bedwetter," said Crozier.
"You totally stink," said Oates.
34
The next morning Toby was giving a class at the Wellness Clinic: Affective Herbs, for the twelve-to fifteen-year-olds. Manic Botanics, the kids called it, which was better than what they called some of the other subjects: Poop and Goop for violet biolet instruction, Guck and Muck for Compost-Pile Building.
"Willow," she said. "Analgesic. A-N-A-L-G-E-S-I-C, spell it on your slates." There was the squeaking of chalk -- too much squeaking. "Stop that, Crozier," said Toby, without looking. Crozier was a chronic squeaker. Had she heard a whisper of Dry Witch? "I heard that, Shackleton," she said. The class was more restless than usual: aftershocks from the uproar caused by Veena. "Analgesic. What do we mean by that?"
"Painkiller," said Amanda.
"Correct, Amanda," said Toby. Amanda, always suspiciously well behaved in class, was even more so today. She was sly, Amanda. Too well versed in the ways of the Exfernal World. But Adam One believed the Gardeners had been of great benefit to her, and who was to say that Amanda was not undergoing a life change?
Still, it was unfortunate that Ren had been swept into Amanda's all-too-attractive orbit. Ren was overly pliable -- she risked being always under somebody's thumb.
"What part of the Willow do we use to make the analgesic?" she went on. "The leaves?" said Ren. Too eager to please, the wrong answer anyway, and even more anxious than usual. Ren must be feeling the loss of Bernice, or maybe the guilt: how ruthlessly Bernice had been shouldered aside, once Amanda had appeared on the scene. They think we don't see them, thought Toby. They think we don't know what they're up to. Their snobberies, their cruelties, their schemes.
Nuala stuck her head in the door. "Toby, dear," she said, "could I have a word with you?" Her tone was lugubrious. Toby stepped out into the corridor.
"What's happened?" she said.
"You need to go and see Pilar," said Nuala. "Right now. She's chosen her time." Toby felt her heart contract. So Pilar had lied to her. No, not lied; just not told the whole truth. It had been something she'd eaten, but not by accident. Nuala squeezed Toby's arm to show deep sympathy. Get your moist palms off me, Toby thought, I'm not a man.
"Could you take my class?" she said. "Please. I'm teaching Willow."
"Of course, Toby dear," said Nuala. "I'll do 'The Weeping Willow' with them." This sugary song was a favourite of Nuala's; she'd composed it for small children. Toby could imagine the rolling eyes among these older kids. But since Nuala didn't really know much about botanicals, having them sing it would at least fill the time.
Toby hurried away to the sound of Nuala's voice: "Toby has been called away on an errand of mercy, so let us help her by singing the Weeping Willow song!" Her intense, slightly flat contralto rose above the lacklustre voices of the children:
Weeping willow, weeping willow, branches waving like the sea,
While I'm lying on my pillow, come and take my pain from me...
Hell would be an eternity of Nuala's lyrics, thought Toby. Anyway it wasn't the Weeping Willow, it was the White Willow, salix alba, with its available salicylic acid. That's what killed the pain.
Pilar was lying in her cubicle, on her bed, with her beeswax candle still burning in its tin container. She stretched out her thin brown fingers. "Dearest Toby," she said. "Thank you for coming. I wanted to see you."
"You did it yourself!" said Toby. "You didn't tell me!" She was so sad she was angry.
"I didn't want you to waste your time in worrying," said Pilar. Her voice had dwindled to a whisper. "I wanted you to have your nice Vigil. Now come and sit beside me, and tell me what you saw last night."
