In the Black Garden he encountered a flower shaped like a Ghost, and it talked to him. The exchange went as follows:
“You are a dead thing made by a dead power in the shape of the dead. All you will ever do is kill. You do not belong here. This is a place of life.”
But I looked behind me, down the long slope where the blossoms tumbled in the warm wind and the great trees wept sap like blood or wine, and I felt doubt.