He meets my gaze with reluctance. “They say they know you. You have spent many hours lying near them, in the arms of the meadow grass. They say they hope I am not jealous. And they think you are very pretty. Too pretty.” He listens again. “They are being rude now. It seems they are the jealous ones. You should not pick their leaves any time soon; they would be sure to give you a rash.”

He is mad, I think in despair. This is his monstrous secret. Unless—unless what he says is true—and if it is, dear God, what would Father make of such a power—to gain knowledge directly from nature itself? But I cannot imagine any further. Instead, I will myself to respond calmly, as if conversing with clumps of leaves were a perfectly normal thing to do.

“Is it the same for all the plants?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

“Each one is different,” he explains hesitantly. “If I concentrate I can hear most of them—sometimes only in cries and moans, or as a constant buzz of chatter. But it is the plants that have special powers to cure whom I hear most clearly. They have always sought me out, for as long as I can remember.”

“Sought you out?” I exclaim. “How can a plant seek you out?”

“They speak to me. They have to—for if no one of human birth knew of their powers, how could they make use of them? They need me,” he explains simply. “They chose me because I can hear them—or perhaps I can hear them because they chose me; I have never truly understood how it came to pass. But it did.”

The silence between us grows heavy with the weight of Weed’s revelation. I do not know what to think, or to say—can such a tale possibly be true?

After a moment he continues. “I was perhaps four or five before I realized that not everyone could hear what I heard. At first I was thought a strange, silent child with too much imagination. Later people started to think I was possessed, even dangerous. I learned to hide my gift. But it is difficult. Maddening, often. The voices are always there: humming, talking, singing, teasing, warning. There are times when I must get away from it, or I fear I will lose my mind.” He smiles wryly. “The plants themselves gave me a cure for that: They taught me to bury myself when I need to regain my strength. It is what they do—return to the ground, rest, and begin again.”

Suddenly I understand. “As you did when you first came here, by hiding in the cellar?” I ask.