Apollo almost literally twitched with the desire to direct the operation himself. Herring, the head gardener, was a good Yorkshireman, able to read and follow Apollo’s written instructions, but he was plodding and not much of a thinker. He had a hard time compensating when something didn’t go as planned.
And many things might not go as planned with the oak tree.
Two of the gardeners—dark-haired brothers from Ireland—steadied the cart while a third man—a short, wiry Londoner, new to Harte’s Folly just this week—led the horses. Herring shouted orders while Apollo, ignominiously demoted to dullard while in the company of the other gardeners, stood by with a shovel.
“Hold it there!” Herring called, and studied the notes Apollo had left him the week before. “Says here that the master wants the cart pulled to near the hole, then the horses to be unhitched there.” He nodded to himself. “Makes sense, that.”
The horses were dutifully unhitched and Apollo, along with the Irish brothers, put his back into hauling the tree the remaining few feet over the hole. If he’d measured the hole correctly and his correspondent had followed his measurements, the wheels should be just wide enough to straddle it.
He watched as the cart trundled into place and felt a surge of satisfaction in a job well done.
“Pretty as a lamb at its ma’s tit, that,” Herring said admiringly, then seemed to remember Miss Stump. “If’n you’ll pardon an old countryman’s expression, ma’am.”
She waved cheerily. “Not at all, Mr. Herring.”
She exchanged an amused glance with Apollo and then he turned back to the work. The root ball now lay over the hole with the tree trunk extending to one side, parallel to the ground. Daffodil was nosing about the hole, as curious as usual, and Apollo gently toed her aside. Awful if the little dog should be stepped on as the men labored. All that was needed now was to haul the tree upright, cut its ropes and drop it—gently—into the waiting hole.
“Stand back, you,” Herring ordered Apollo. “Let the ones with some wits attach the ropes or we’ll have it all down around our ears and I don’t know what we’d do then.”
Apollo feigned patience, standing by as the other men tied the ropes. He winced as one of the Irish brothers drew a rope over-tight about the oak’s trunk and hoped the man hadn’t damaged the bark.
He took one of the ropes as one of the Irishmen and the small Londoner took the other.
“All together now,” Herring called. “And don’t be hasty. Slow and steady’ll get us there faster.”
At Herring’s signal, Apollo and the other two men pulled on their ropes, hand over hand, hauling the tree upright. The tongue and the bed of the cart pivoted as one on the two big wheels as the smaller wheel left the ground. Two ropes were needed for stability and to keep the tree from falling to one side or the other. Now that Apollo was actually pulling the oak tree upright he was beginning to think that three or even four ropes might have been better. Well, he’d experiment with the next tree they transplanted into the garden.
Sweat stung as it dripped into his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Daffodil was back, peering interestedly into the hole, but he couldn’t move to shoo her away. His muscles strained and he could hear the loud grunts of the other men. Slowly the tree rose, majestic and tall. It would be lovely at the side of the pond and in a hundred years, when it had spread its branches over the water, it would be magnificent.
He felt the sudden, sickening slackening of the rope first, followed closely by a hoarse shout from one of the gardeners on the other rope. That rope was whipping through the air, free of the men’s hands. Apollo looked up and saw the great oak shudder and then begin falling toward him.
At the same time, Indio darted between him and the cart as Daffodil slipped and slid helplessly into the tree hole.
The sound ripped from him, like a thing outside himself, a beast that’d been bound inside his gut and would no longer stand to be caged.
The shout burned as it roared through his throat.
“INDIO!”
Chapter Eight
Now it fell one year that the maiden chosen as sacrifice was named Ariadne. She was the only child of a poor wise woman, and her mother wept bitter tears at the news. Then the wise woman dried her cheeks and said to her daughter, “Remember this: when you are presented to the court, curtsy not only to the king, but to the mad queen as well, and ask her if there is anything you may take to her son.”…
—From The Minotaur
Lily heard Indio’s name shouted and then all was drowned in the roar of the oak crashing down.
Down where Caliban had stood.
Down where Indio had darted.
The men were yelling. The horses bolted, dragging their harness behind, and where Apollo’s planting hole had been was only wreckage and a cloud of sooty dust.
She ran forward, pushing against smashed tree branches, fighting the man who tried to restrain her. He had to be in there somewhere, perhaps with only a broken limb or a bloodied back. Her lips were moving, muttering, as she bargained with whatever deity would listen. The tree was big, the branches lying shattered and sticking up everywhere and in her way.
“Let me go!” she screamed at the arms holding her.
She couldn’t see them. Even in the mess of demolished branches, there should be some sign—Indio’s red coat or Caliban’s white shirt.