THE BRANCH

Chapter 1: Decisions

It was the day the robin died.

Mary Lennox never cried. When her Ayah died, she only glared and stomped her feet. When her own parents succumbed to illness, leaving her alone in the world, Mary Lennox did not shed a single tear. Her heart was untouched, hard, whole – like a plot of earth which has never been tilled or a patch of ice after a long, dark winter's night.

Yet, the earth must be turned for seeds to be planted and even ice must give way in summer. Thus, Mary Lennox must learn to cry.

The first time she remembered soaking her cheeks with tears was the day Lord Craven came home, the day the "Secret Garden" lost its sanctity, the day Colin Craven walked by his own strength to Misselthwaite. It was as if all the world was turned inside out and upside down at once and all that was secret was now exposed. Thus, it was only fitting that Mary Lennox joined wholeheartedly in the mayhem and let her previously invisible heart be placed on display for any who cared to see. Just for that day, for that single moment in time that she would remember for the rest of her life, Mary Lennox learned to cry.

It was Dickon who found her outside the door to the Garden. Her eyes trailed after the confident, proud steps of Colin Craven, walking towards the manor house alongside his father, while the eyes of all Misselthwaite gawked in dumbfounded surprise. Neither Colin nor Lord Craven thought to look behind them, back to the Garden, back to where Mary remained motionless, still as a statue save for the twin trail of tears glistening on her rosy cheeks.

"Miss Mary, why does tha' cry?" Dickon asked, his voice as gentle as if he was coaxing a wild fox pup out of its den. Perhaps, she was just wild enough, just vulnerable enough she would have lashed out like just such a creature, if not for the way he spoke and the slow, cautious way he approached.

Rather than hide or flee, she only turned her head towards him, her motion and her expression so like that of the robin that he had to hide his amusement.

"I hardly know," she answered.

Quietly, so quietly, he approached near enough to clasp her hand in his. The edges of his wool coat were frayed and worn. They tickled the delicate skin of her wrist. His fingers were calloused and crusted with dirt, just as her own were becoming. He did not say another word, not until she had calmed enough to hear him.

"There, now, Miss Mary. Tha' munnot cry."

Those were the same words he said when he came upon her that day in the garden, those seven years later.

That day the robin died.

He was the first to find her there, weeping into the flower bed as if her heart would break. She did not mind the dirt now coating her white gloves or smudged across her cheeks. She did not notice the creases in the skirt of her war crinoline dress. She was alone, in the garden, caged in on all sides by her grief.

"There, now, Miss Mary. Tha' munnot cry," he whispered, kneeling down in the earthen mound of the garden beside her. He tentatively reached out to stroke one finger along her gloved hand.

"I canna help it!" She protested. "We mun fix it!"

He looked at the tiny heap of grey and red feathers, laying beside the trunk of an old tree. Carefully, he prodded the feathered breast and felt the cold, stiff limbs of their old friend. He came to kneel beside Mary again, his head shaking sadly.

"Tha'st the way o' things, Miss Mary," Dickon pleaded. "Tha' robin was an old 'un. He lived well."

"But not long enough," she said, her eyes consciously averted from the spot where the little bird lay.

Lord Craven couldn't understand it. When he saw her wandering the halls of Misseltwaite like an orphaned child rather than the daughter of the manor, he inquired into her low spirits. He failed to hide his surprise at her answer.

"Tis only a bird. Why do you cry so?" He asked.

Mary did not know how to answer. She hardly knew herself.

She thought back to that day, seven years before, when she first arrived at the dark, dreary manor house. It had all been strange and lonely. She had been even stranger and lonelier, full of as many dark corridors and empty rooms as the house she now called home.

Then, she met the robin.

Her first friend.

It was the robin who taught her the joy of companionship, easy acceptance, and open-hearted delight. It was the robin who taught her to see and appreciate beauty. The robin was the first living being she had ever learned to care about and he broke her heart wide open to the rest of her friends that followed.

Now she had to pay the price. She opened up her heart to learn to love… and she must learn what it meant to lose such a precious object. The flaw of attachment was that mortal objects could leave her stranded, bereft of their presence, and this was the great peril in learning to let herself care.

It wasn't fair that she could not keep him forever. That he was not a permanent fixture in her life. She could accept the deaths of her parents and her Ayah and the loss of the only home she had ever known. After all, she had never learned to see them, to know them, to treasure them, to know their beauty. They had served their purpose. They fed her. They clothed her. They kept her alive each day. They gave her what she wanted when she threw a fit loud enough to disturb their self-imposed seclusion. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The robin was different. The robin gave her nothing but unsought friendship, undeserved approval. He was a wild creature who gave his love freely, who chose her, who invited her into the secrets of his existence. And it was the robin made her feel treasured for the first time in her life.

Now he was gone. She had never known a heart could ache so painfully or that she could feel such anguish.

For all his pleas to slow her tears, Dickon wept as freely as her when they buried the little robin. He dug the hole deep enough and delicately placed the bird inside, wrapped in Mary's favorite shawl. Then, he planted a rose bush on top.

"There, now. Tha' will see buds an' always remember him," Dickon said.

Colin stood beside her, holding her hand in his. He didn't cry. She wondered if it was due to his desire to prove himself a man or because he did not feel the same sorrow she did. He was a big man now, even if he would never be as tall or as broad as Dickon. He towered over Mary and he had learned to hold his head tall and keep his face free of the emotions that used to dance so freely across his face. Yet, he stayed throughout their little ceremony and he even spoke a few words, added in some of his favorite memories of the robin, of their long, childhood days in the Garden.

"It is the robin that brought us here, that brought us together, that healed us," Mary murmured softly. "It was the robin that taught me both to cry and to smile."

"We are still here… together," Colin added in, a warm smile directed at each of his companions. "He is still bringing us together even now."

"Aye," Dickon answered, a knowing nod of his head in agreement.

In the days that followed, Mary wandered the halls of Misselthwaite in an aimless, lifeless parade. Her formal schooling was complete, and with the war raging across Europe, further education abroad would have to wait. She knew it was expected that she find a husband and start her own family, but the prospect of such a direction overwhelmed her. After so many extended absences from Misselthwaite, she did not wish to leave again, and yet, what was her purpose here?

With the lingering of her dour mood and the upcoming departures of her uncle and cousin, Mary found herself in her uncle's study again. His face was firm and solemn, his expression unmoving and yet searching. Those dark eyes always carried a sadness in their depths and yet she felt like he could direct the course of her life or unfurl all her hidden secrets simply by staring at her long enough.

"This is not the way of things, Mary. You cannot go on as you are. You are no longer a child, no longer so young. You must decide what you will do next."

He meant to cheer her, meant to see her smile. He walked to a closet in his study and opened it up to reveal a large metal safe, as tall as his own lean, bent form. Then, he withdrew a great, dangling set of keys, so many she wondered if he still knew all the locks they belonged to. Then, he placed a box before her. It was an exquisite work of art - inlaid with ivory roses and ebony leaves. Yet, it was not the box itself which she was meant to admire. He opened the lid and she caught the scent of old, dry rose petals and the candlelight of the room danced off of a mess of gems and gold and silver.

"These were your mother's… and your grandmother's… and your great grandmother's before her. Now, they are yours to do with as you wish. I have held them for you until now. You are old enough. It is your turn to wear them."

The pattern of glitter and sheen that danced off the lid of the box and onto the table held her captive. These were alien things, cut and twisted and shaped into something foreign from the rocks and bits of soft metal they had once been. They drew her in as much as they repelled her.

Her mother must have worn some of these once. She had so few memories of her mother – and not which involved the gems and baubles in this box. No one had ever spoken of this illusive grandmother or the one before her. She had to assume they existed. After all, where would she be without such progenitors? But she knew nothing of them. They were as invisible and alien and unknown as the gems. She did not know their stories.

"Precious heirlooms," she heard her uncle say. "Passed on through generations…worth a king's ransom."

She hardly registered any of what he was lecturing her about. Her mind was caught up in the faceless, nameless parade of mothers who had worn these gems and wondering if the stones remembered them or if the gold recognized their past owners in her face.

She hesitantly reached out to finger the first strand of twisted metal and carved stones. They were cold. She could not hear their memories. She did not know their names. In their sheen, she saw only her own face, her own story – that of a girl who inherited a "king's ransom" without ever knowing it was to be hers.

"Mary, you have a choice before you," her uncle's low, firm voice said, drawing her attention away from the box and back to his solemn face. "You must decide who and what you will become."

He was right.

She did not know it then, but her choices that day forward directed the path her life would take.

Three choices stood before her. The lives of three friends intersected and intertwined and intermixed. Yet, her decision all came down to that robin in the Garden.

And the paths she took after the day the robin died.