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Thistle stopped before the latched iron gate, which guarded the entrance to a pleasant looking garden surrounded by a waist high brick wall. A small brick house sat in the center, smoke from a cookfire wafting from it's chimney. An apple tree sat in one corner, and hidden in the leaves she could just make out a crow, its black head turning to examine her briefly, before returning its attention to a small orange fragment of food in its right claw, which it chewed on enthusiastically. Beside the gate was a sign stating it was the home of the "Red Wombat Tea Company" makers of "Fine and Inaccessible Tea," with an image of what looked like a small, rotound bear underneath it.
She checked her mask was in place and the hood of her grey, gold trimmed jacket was centered properly, trying to ignore the urgent, nagging, ever-present voice in her head.
This is a mistake. They're strangers. You can't trust them. You're going to make yourself look like a fool!
Shut up, she thought back fiercely. Still, Thistle hesitated when she laid her gloved hand on the gate, wondering what price she'd have to pay when she entered.
"Your pardon," a deep voice said behind her. "But do you require assistance?"
Thistle flinched and turned around. A tall figure in a black robe stood waiting patiently behind her, their face covered by a bone white plague doctor mask, topped by a broad, flat brimmed black hat. "I… I… I'm sorry," she stumbled. "I was told this garden had tea for sale. Tea leaves… tea plants I mean. I'm sorry."
Mumbling idiot!
"Indeed. We have successfully nurtured many varieties, such as camellia, rooibos, narrow leaf paperbark, jasmine, and also, unfortunately, mint," the masked figure replied. Their voice was a deep monotone, but still somehow conveyed a certain enthusiasm, as they listed the garden's bounty.
"'Unfortunately?'" Thistle repeated, confused.
When aren't you confused?
"With mint, the problem is usually trying not to grow it," the figure replied. "Do you wish to purchase plants, for your own garden?"
"Seeds only," Thistle said, catching her breath, trying to will her heart to slow down. You wear a mask, idiot. Why are you frightened of someone else who does? the voice accused. "I don't have a garden at the moment, but I'm hoping to plant one soon, if we stay in this area."
"You have the look of one who knows the soil," the figure said. They held out a gloved hand. "I am the Reverend Mord."
"Thistle," she replied, shaking it. "I'm sorry, but you don't look like a holy man."
Oh, brilliant , you just insulted him!
Mord's head dipped in acknowledgement. "I am not particularly holy, but I serve the Madonna of Leaves, as best as I can."
Thistle blinked. "I'm sorry, I don't think I'm familiar with that god."
"I would be very much surprised if you were," Mord replied. He shifted, as if about to say something else, but was interrupted by a voice calling from the direction of the road.
"Mord!" a voice shouted. Thistle turned to see a heavyset, cheerful looking, middle-aged human woman, dressed in black robes like Mord, running towards them. "We have a problem! A huge problem!"
"And what problem would that be?" Mord asked, his voice still a dead monotone.
"I checked the entire marketplace, and the local library, and the docks, and no one here knows what an agave plant is!" she declared, waving her arms wildly. "This is a disaster, Mord! A disaster! How am I supposed to make tequila without agave?!"
"I would gather that you would not," Mord said calmly.
"Life without tequila is not worth living!" she declared. "And thanks to you, I've got a lot of living ahead of me! What am I supposed to do?"
Mord turned his attention back to Thistle. "Thistle, may I introduce you to my," he paused, sighed heavily, and continued, "colleague, Pastor Drom. Drom, this is Thistle, a fellow gardener."
"Oh, hello!" Drom said cheerfully, her earlier distress disappearing. "I'm Pastor Drom! Mord I live together! Well, I mean not together, together, but we live in the same house!" She paused, looking Thistle up and down. "Hey, wait a minute. Mord said you were a gardener too, right?"
"Er, yes?" Thistle answered cautiously.
"Wow! How many mysterious masked gardeners can there be in this world?" Drom turned towards Mord, waving a finger at him. "Moooooord, did you start a masked gardening cult while I wasn't looking?"
The bill of Mord's mask twitched briefly, and he replied, a note of offense in his voice, "I do not start cults. Unlike some people I could mention."
"Oh, please!" Drom said, waving the accusation away. "It was, like, just the one time, and they were all mice cultists anyway. All those little black robes, gathered in a circle by the little blood stained sacrificial altar they made from a matchbox. They looked so adorable!"
They're both insane! Thistle's voice shouted in her head, Run while you still can! "Er, the seeds?" she prompted.
"Yes, of course," Mord said. "Forgive me, for becoming distracted." He opened the garden gate, and gestured to Thistle. "Please, enter and be welcome."
The instant Thistle stepped into the walled garden, a feeling a deep peace washed over her. She could feel the carefully tended life filling the space defined by the stone walls; the roots of the plants being fed by the rich soil; the leaves absorbing the warmth of the sun; the flowers blooming radiance. She drew in a deep breath, wishing she could pull down her mask to take in the scents properly, instead of having them filtered by the linen over her mouth and nose. "It's wonderful," she said sincerely.
"Thank you," Mord repliled gravely, closing the gate behind them. "It is both my charge and my pleasure, to create the most beautiful and flourishing garden that I can, within my limited ability."
"Oh, Mord," Drom interjected with a smile. "You are, like, the worst person when it comes to being modest."
Thistle flinched, waiting for the voice to pipe up with some of its usual insults. You're never to be as good as him, why bother trying? See how they're both looking down at you? You should go back to what you're good at, screwing up everyone else's lives. But the voice said nothing.
It said nothing, she realized.
It wasn't there.
She froze, almost not daring to breathe, her body beginning to shake. "Say something to me," Thistle begged the kindly voiced man with the terrible mask.
Mord cocked his head. "What would you like us to say?" he asked, sounding confused even through his ever present monotone.
"Give me a compliment," she told him. "It doesn't even have to be about anything important. Just say something nice to me."
"Er, I like the cut of your jacket," he said uncertainly.
"Now you." Thistle pointed to Drom. "Say something insulting to me."
"What?" Drom exclaimed. "I don't want to!"
"It doesn't have to be anything really mean, just not nice."
The human woman raised an eyebrow. "Okaaaay," she said slowly. "Well, I guess I don't like your jacket. The trim is really gaudy."
Thistle waited, the two mismatched companions staring at her in confusion. "Nothing," she said finally. She dropped to her knees, falling onto the soft, welcoming soil, covering her face with her gloved hands. "Nothing," she repeated, and began to sob, shoulders heaving as she wept into her mask.
"Okay, Mord," she heard Drom say. "The nice gardener lady in the mask must really be emotionally attached to her jacket. What should we be doing?"
"I will stay with her," he replied. "You will make tea."
"I think she needs something a bit stronger than tea."
"Drom," he declared, "it is never wrong to make tea."
"Right. Exit the comedy relief, stage left," Drom agreed, and trotted off towards the house.
Mord knelt beside Thistle, one hand reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Do you wish me to do something for you?"
"No, no, I'm okay. I'm sorry," Thistle gasped, trying to regain her breath. The voice should have been telling her what a weeping child she was. It always had before. "Tea is fine," she finished.
"You say 'I'm sorry' a great deal," Mord noted gravely. "One wonders who was so insulted by your existence, that you had to apologize for it so often."
She laughed hollowly. "That's… another issue."
"As you wish," Mord agreed. "And what evil haunts your mind, that could not enter the sanctuary of this garden?"
Thistle blinked in surprise. "What, how did you… What do you mean?" she asked, feeling her heart race again.
"The garden with these walls is dedicated to the Madonna of Leaves," Mord replied. "She is a small god, with only one, very minor, saint to Her name. But within these walls, Her power is absolute." He bowed his head briefly. "I have served Her long, and I like to think, well. I have dedicated this garden to the peace to be found in the changing of the seasons, the nurturing of life, and the eternal cycle of regrowth. Those who nurture only death and decay, who seek to limit and confine souls, instead of letting them grow to their full flowering, are not welcome here."
"Oh," Thistle said softly. So she hadn't been imagining the comforting feeling that had filled her soul when she had crossed the gate's threshold.
Trust them.
"Have you heard of creatures called drath?" she asked Mord.
He nodded. "I have heard tell of them in the city. Dark creatures that only wish to destroy the physical, and warp the immaterial. In my world, we would call them 'demons.'"
"Whatever name you give them, they're real," Thistle said. "If a drath infects your body, they can latch onto one's mind, and amplify every negative thought you've ever had about yourself, use it to break you down. They can be removed, but if they stay too long, an echo of the drath remains in your mind, whispering lies in your head forever."
"And here, in the garden, the voice is quieted?" Mord asked.
"Yes," Thistle breathed. "I didn't think that was possible."
"All things are possible, if you permit yourself to believe," Mord told her.
She glanced back at the iron gate. "If I step through there again, it's only going to come back. I know I can't get rid of it. I've tried."
"That may be true. I fear the Madonna of Leaves' power only goes so far," Mord admitted. "But as long as you are here, your mind will be quiet. And," he added, "there will be tea."
"There will be tea," she repeated. Thistle sighed. "I wish I could drink it in front of you."
"Is removing your mask so frightening?" Mord asked.
"I frighten people all the time," she said. "I'm a monster."
"As the saying goes," Mord replied, "let me be the judge of that. Please, let me see your face."
Not quite knowing why, Thistle reached up and lowered her hood, pulling the muffler off her face, letting him see the deep scratches in her brown skin, her pointed, batlike ears, and the fangs filling her mouth. "See," she said. "A monster."
Mord shook his head, "All I see is a fellow gardener. Who is welcome to visit mine, whenever she needs peace for her soul."
She lowered her head, feeling tears run down her cheeks again. "Thank you."
"Never forget, you are not alone."