Poison Path - a quiet horror

I strike to burn; the flame returns.

Finding I’m lost and found whenever you’re around.

I feel it coming down.

Give me what I never ask for.

Give me the drug you know I’m after.

Connect me, and you can be the chemical.

(Slow Chemical by Finger Eleven)

The hut was draped in ivy like a jacket and softened by moss. Smoke curled from a crooked chimney, carrying the scent of peat and marjoram.

Rowan approached along the narrow path. Twisted ash and yew trees arched overhead, almost stitching the sky closed, the late-afternoon sunlight filtering through in thin ribbons the colour of old parchment. He could smell the restless earth, but silence settled with an almost physical weight.

Maeve was standing beside the gate.

His breath vanished.

Five years. She hadn’t changed. Her silver-blonde hair curled loosely over her breasts. She wore a flowing dress that pooled in soft folds around her ankles.

Maeve locked eyes with him. “Found me.”

He moved to her in desperate relief. She met him halfway. Their embrace was so tight it frightened him. “Want to hold you,” he almost sobbed.

She was warm, and he could breathe again.

The flame returns.

“Come with me,” she said through fiercely happy tears. The iron gate groaned as she pushed it open.

Inside lay a garden; beauty, death, poison and remedy flourished together.

Nothing bloomed brightly. The flowers were hadal shades of violet, midnight blues, black-garnet blossoms; their scent bled into the air like ink. Thorned vines climbed the deep knots of ancient trees.

Glossy berries gleamed like polished obsidian. “Belladonna,” Rowan said slowly, holding Maeve’s hand.

Belladonna is a Gatekeeper. Dark hair and dark eyes. She can lend a berserker energy to open the gates between near-earth realms.

Otherworldly pale flowers pulsed with veins the colour of blood wine. “And Henbane.” Maeve’s fingers tightened around his.

Henbane is a Lady of twilight sleep (the crossroads). A chthonic psychopomp, she can bridge the gap to the underworld and back.

Dark purple flowers bowed light like hooded executioners. “Wolf’s Bane.” Maeve’s voice had a quiet steadiness.

Wolf’s Bane is High Queen. She protects her allies and helps them to ‘shift’ during soul flight.

Near the hut, grew a single plant unlike the others; broad leaves, pale flowers, its roots disappeared beneath... to the Underworld.

“Mandrake,” Rowan whispered, kissing Maeve on the neck.

Mandrake is a man-dragon and glows with her own fire. Also known as Devil’s Lamp and bayd al-jinn. She has a primal scream.

Maeve’s eyes mirrored the hauntingly beautiful flora. “The Mandrake was said to grow from the bodily fluids of those killed at the gallows.”

Every poisonous bloom leaned toward the centre of the garden. Toward a single stone table.

There was a saying that the elders of Blackmere never explained.

“Some gardens are grown for the living. Others are for growing the dead.”

And they weren’t talking about graveyards.

Four seductive-looking women were waiting to welcome them inside the hut. Each wore heavy grey shawls despite the warmth of the fire.

They simply nodded as Rowan and Maeve entered. You’ve already met us in the garden.

Bundles of drying herbs hung from blackened rafters. Beeswax candles burned beside shelves crowded with jars of herbs and handwritten journals. The scent of oakmoss mingled with geranium and lavender. Rowan felt high just breathing it in.

A copper kettle rested above the hearth. Mortars and pestles, stained by decades of use, lined one shelf.

A large window overlooked the garden. Its leadlight panes distorted the flowers into shifting shadow.

Hot tea sat on the oak table. It smelt of mint, chamomile and the minerals of something earthy.

One by one, the women quietly left the room until only Rowan and Maeve remained beside the fire.

“They know when people have unfinished conversations,” Maeve said.

Rowan drew his forehead to hers. “I wish we could rewind to that day, many summers ago.”

She smiled. “The lake. The water was warm. We swam until midnight.”

“You jumped from the old jetty.”

“I slipped,” she corrected.

“You cracked your skull.” His large comforting hand moved up through her hair.

“You held me for ages after I died.” A tear fell down her cheek.

That summer had smelled of wildflowers and sun-warmed earth.

This place smelled of cedarwood, deep roots and rain waiting to fall.

“I desperately searched for ways to find you again," his voice broke. “I was never going to leave you behind—forever in that summer.”

Her eyes reached through his mind and held him with everything she had.

“The folklore...” he said. “The stories... people claimed they could cross into the aether worlds... the threshold space... using these plants.”

She held his face gently. “The elders of Blackmere think people ask the wrong question of the plants.”

“What should we ask?”

“Not whether the stories are true.” She drew even closer. “But why every story ends with a warning.”

A single bell chimed—the women had summoned them.

Maeve lit a lantern. Outside, twilight had settled over the flowerbeds.

“Come on.” She felt the bulge between his legs. “The flowers are hungry.”

Rowan lay naked on the table in the heart of the garden.

Maeve looked at him with the same tenderness she had worn at the lake all those summers ago.

Every poisonous bloom turned towards him, like a lover, petals unfurling like dark mouths drinking his lust for life. Their fragrance thickened until Rowan could no longer tell where his own breath ended and the flowers began.

He felt his blood pulse inside his veins. Engorged. Maeve clung to his chest, as his memories gushed through the roots of the plants.

The old jetty. Warm summer air. Laughter. Kisses that ate each other alive. Wildflowers crushed under bare feet.

The garden gathered him gently, weaving memory and sexual energy into its endless lattice of roots and blossoms until love itself became another living fertiliser, growing... growing up from the dead.

Maeve took a step back as Rowan was ravished.

In quiet horror, the garden brought him home to her.