12. Planting a Sapling

The cottage was disgustingly small. It was clear from the clutter that the occupant was a man, and lived alone. However, the occupant was not home; someone else was.

There were but two seats in the cottage, and one was taken by a sallow-faced man, hunched over and staring deeply at the plant cradled in his hands.

Cordelia blinked at him. Samuel Bellingham. He was undeniably the man they were trying to find; he looked just like the portraits in the Bellingham house. But he was so still, and his skin so grey.

Blackburn pulled up the second chair to face Mr. Bellingham, then sat and inspected him.

“It’s fascinating, don’t you think?” He looked up at Cordelia, who still stood at the door. “Or, perhaps, less fascinating for you... I apologize. For this morning.”

Cordelia did not take her eyes off of Samuel Bellingham. “It’s quite all right,” she said quietly. “Is he going to attack me? Like Notley?”

Blackburn glanced at Bellingham, who remained as still as a statue. “I didn’t consider that. But it’s quite possible, yes. He is the same as Notley.”

“The same how? He is… what did you call Notley yesterday… a vessel?” Cordelia looked away from Bellingham, from his stiff limbs and dirt-covered trousers.

“Yes. Something… someone is in charge of Dulwich Wood. Someone powerful enough to channel the energy of the forest.”

“Energy of the forest?” Cordelia repeated sceptically.

“They’re using the dead to bring life back into the plants.” Blackburn gestured towards the wilted plant in Bellingham’s hands. Soil had spilled onto his lap, and some was even scattered on the wooden floorboards.

“It’s not growing.” Cordelia pointed out.

Blackburn shrugged. “Not yet,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “Watch this.”

Jumping up, Blackburn pulled Bellingham out of his seat. The man stood, but swayed on his feet, like he would soon fall. “Open the door,” Blackburn instructed, still supporting Bellingham.

Cordelia did, stepping outside to avoid any contact with Bellingham, whom Blackburn was pushing out the door.

Bellingham seemed significantly weaker than Notley had; he moved like a puppet. Cordelia could not imaging him having the strength to hold onto her as Notley had. She wondered what was different about the two men.

As his feet—shoeless—stumbled onto the damp grass, something changed. Bellingham’s head rose, and his back straightened. The sapling in his hand, once brown and limp, was slowly turning green.

Cordelia leaned in (while still keeping a good four-foot distance from the strange man) to watch the plant. It was, as Blackburn had initially suggested, fascinating.

“But how is he doing it?” Cordelia asked quietly. She looked up to find Blackburn’s turquoise eyes trained on her, not Bellingham.

“I know that he cannot channel healing energy unless standing outside, on the soil. But I cannot fully explain it, not until we find out who made them into… forest golems, I’ll call them.” Blackburn leaned on his cane.

Cordelia sucked in a breath. “Wait. Did Bellingham and Notley have to be dead before they were forest golems? What if he’s not really dead?” She eyed Bellingham.

Blackburn reached out, and, much to Cordelia’s horror, took Bellingham’s wrist. “Most decidedly dead, I’m afraid.” He let go. “And as far as I know, if this is the work of nymphs, they focus on healing, not hurting. They would have had to find him like this. Dead.”

Cordelia leaned against the cottage and pulled her eyebrows together in thought. She watched Bellingham as he squatted down to the ground, holding the newly green plant. “Could he possibly heal himself?”

Blackburn’s eyes followed Bellingham as he transferred the plant to one hand, and began to use the other to dig in the dirt. “No. Only the plants. Humans who die stay dead… usually.” Blackburn smiled wryly.

Cordelia pushed herself off the cottage, staring down at her silly blue dress and gloved hands. Usually. “But I’m not like them at all,” she said. The disappointment in her voice surprised her. She didn’t want to be like them, of course. But still, she had hoped for answers.

“What are you like, Cordelia?” Blackburn stood beside her now, but he did not look at her; he still watched Bellingham plant his sapling in the ground.

She sighed. “I don’t know, Mr. Blackburn. That’s what I need to find out.” Her words scared her, but it was the truth. She had come into Blackburn’s employ for a number of reasons, but mainly, she wanted his help.

But not now.

“We must find what killed him,” Cordelia said sternly, readjusting her sleeves and smoothing the front of her skirt.

Blackburn was eyeing her closely. “Yes,” he said, matching her tone. Then, he cracked a smile, a youthfulness entering his face. “Let’s go. Before Owen discovers that I had commandeered his home to hide a dead man.”

Cordelia laughed, too on edge to suppress it. He smiled at her, then turned to Bellingham. But all that was there was a newly planted sapling. His gaze swung back to meet Cordelia’s.

Cordelia’s eyes were already searching the surrounding trees. “Where’s he gone?”

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