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The Mazer

Page 20

by C. K. Nolan


  Winifred laughed sourly. “Oh yes! We’ve only got to cross half the island from here. What a trek that will be! I do wonder, though,” and she frowned, “how things are going in my kitchen. I’d usually have prepared a nice broth by now and sent some in to Filibert.”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Marchus. “Filibert can look after himself. And we’ll be fine!” He smiled, his face shiny and damp, his shirt soaked with sweat, ragged trousers hanging around bony knees, his knitted socks full of burrs bulging out above shoes that were caked with mud and grass. Winifred looked no better. She should be taking charge of the kitchen, not traipsing around the island through valley and fen!

  “You’ll do it,” said Arpad. “I know you will. Travel well, dear scribe, dear cook!” He stood to attention and saluted them. Arpad seemed to have every confidence in these two! She stood straight and nodded; it seemed appropriate to do so, although she felt like falling on the ground and weeping for these faithful friends, yes, she did!

  “To Yewlith!” cried Marchus, and he paced down towards the river. Winifred sighed. Then she looked at Silva and smiled determinedly before following Marchus across the bridge and into the flat fields between Ashenwood and Westernwood.

  Arpad watched them go, then set off through the trees. They were nearing the burial gardens, whose high walls were made not simply of stone, but also hedging and wattle laden with climbers. They found a gap and crept into a field of oak and maple.

  When had she last visited the gardens? A long time ago when Grandmother was buried by the only yew that grew there. Grandmother had wanted treebark, not a leaf, to be written on after her death. This had caused some argument at the time, but, as in all things, Grandmother had got her way.

  “Where’s the yew, Arpad?” she asked.

  “In the next field, my lady,” he said, stopping by a fresh grave under a maple. Its branches hung low for such a tree, caressing the pile of earth beneath.

  “No stone placed here yet. But I know who’s buried below.” Arpad knelt, leaned forward, and touched his face to the ground. “May this maple protect you, young Somerhanna, for we remember you with such joy, and parted with as many tears as would fill the mightiest sea!”

  He sat up. “My niece,” he said quietly. “My sister’s child. Plump and full of life, she was, until winter’s end when a sour illness entered her heart and wouldn’t let her go.”

  Silva bowed her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Arpad nodded and stood up. “Sorrow, great sorrow, Silva. But this is our world, and we cannot escape it. A guard I am, and a criminal, now, too, if Bassan were to find me. But with Somerhanna’s passing so fresh in my thoughts, I’m not standing by and doing nothing when a man like Bassan becomes Legator. Once, I might have accepted things as they were, and not thought twice about it. Now, though…”

  He held out a hand. She took it.

  “Let’s find your tree,” he said, his face full of pain. He held her hand tight as they made their way through the high hedges to the next field, to the yew, surrounded by gravestones.

  Silva couldn’t help but smile. Grandmother had been tall and thin and her stone was just the same—more of a pillar, sticking up from the other stones about her.

  “This is it, Arpad,” she said, walking up to where Grandmother lay.

  Elda, Daughter of Elsha, Wife of Esmond, Mother of Eldis

  Wise, Strong, Helper of those in Need

  Your Words Forever in our Ears

  Yes, her words still rang in Silva’s ears: “Hang this cloth out to dry, Silva, there’s a good girl! And don’t listen to your father, dear; he’s only Librarian and Legator. What does he know? Eldis! Have you seen this filthy child? What? Ice in the basin? Ooh, there’s nothing more bracing than a good, cold wash!”

  “We must go,” said Arpad. She turned reluctantly. They left Grandmother’s grave and hurried down a stony lane that led to the main road.

  “Let’s stop,” said Arpad. “I need to check the guard post by Ashenwood Crossing.”

  “There are guards here?” Of course there would be; hadn’t Father kept Ashenwood closed to islanders?

  “I don’t think anyone will be on duty,” said Arpad. “They were ordered back to Southernwood after your election. Wait here!” He loped off towards the bridge.

  So Trevello had already recalled the guard!

  “None of them had the slightest intention of doing a single thing I said,” she muttered. “And look where it’s got them! Oh—there’s Arpad beckoning, we’d better get across this bridge before any of the guard do, indeed, arrive.”

  She ran out of the trees and over the bridge. Ahead of them loomed the Petrified Forest. Old wood, coin, the river; all so familiar to Father, no doubt. He must have sensed, like her, the grandeur of these trees who stood silent, watching and waiting for the years to pass so that they might only relish in being ever older. They trod over fallen stone and upturned root until they reached the river bank, where the oldest trees of them all lay like dead men about the banks of the rushing waters.

  “This valley isn’t very big,” she panted, struggling to keep up with Arpad. “I can’t imagine this was a city, can you? Buildings, yes, ruins now, but no signs of wide streets or a market square like in Southernwood.”

  “Oh, we’re not in the city yet, my lady. If we’d kept on the main road, we’d have gone around the hill and into the valley beyond. We’ll go up this track and over the hill from this side, and then you’ll see.”

  The narrow river shot past them below. A small bridge caught her attention. It swung from side to side, made only of planks, it seemed. There were no ropes to hold onto—you’d have to crawl across to reach the other side where she glimpsed a door built into the side of a hillock. What a strange place! She’d be glad to get out of it. She didn’t envy the coin collectors one bit. No wonder they sent people up here to work as a punishment.

  She reached the top of the hill, her heart beating fast, her breath gone. Then she stopped in amazement.

  The Ash rooted below her reached up into the sky, his branches stretching out and twisting down into the greenery. This must be Master Ash of old. Behind him, the trees of Ashenwood dotted the landscape like an army on the march. The winding river was blue here, slow, wider than the gray waters that raced through the Petrified Forest. She could make out lines, shapes, the marks of a town, a city—the old city of Ashenwood! The lines connected, leading to Great Ash, who had surely stood in a square, as proud as the Sundial Tree, watching life go by.

  She walked down to join Arpad. They scrambled through hawthorn and sticky alder, then entered a clearing, marveling at the huge trunk before them.

  “Can this tree really have destroyed the city, Arpad? I wonder if he—”

  “I’m not—”

  Something thudded into the trunk. Then another.

  “Knives!” yelled Arpad, and he grabbed Silva, pulling her back to the edge of the clearing.

  Footsteps crashed towards them.

  “They’re going to find us!” she hissed.

  “No. Listen! They’ve gone to search around the outside of the trees,” said Arpad. “We’re stuck in the middle with old Ash, and I don’t see how he’s going to help us.”

  “Maybe he can,” she said. “See that hole in his trunk?”

  Arpad wasn’t convinced. “If we climb in there, my lady, they’re sure to guess where we are.”

  “Oh, they won’t. Come on, after me!”

  She crawled out and dashed towards the trunk. She squeezed easily through the gap, then turned and grinned out at Arpad. He peered about cautiously and stepped into the clearing. She pressed herself into the trunk to make room for him. There was a thump. A cry. Shouts.

  “Got him! See that? Who is it?”

  “Turn him over,” said a gruff voice. “Arpad, is it? Yes, that’s him. What did he have to turn traitor like that for? We’ll pick him up and carry him back over the hill to the cart. I expect Bassan will want to see hi
m.”

  Whyever had she thought this was a good place to hide? Oh, Arpad! He’d led them away from the Albatorium, hung a handkerchief by the cave, mourned the death of his niece. What if any of the others had been captured, too? Oh, it was her own, silly fault that—

  “Now, now, Master Ash, what have you been up to this time?”

  She almost jumped out of the trunk with shock. Those deep, rich words resembled no speech she’d ever heard!

  “Don’t tell me this sorry affair with the guard has nothing to do with you. And don’t think that I haven’t been keeping a very close eye on you. You’ve been comparatively busy, lately, haven’t you? By lately, I mean the last ten, fifteen, or even twenty years or thereabouts? I know you too well, Master Ash. Alone and silent you stand, much like myself. But the memories, the ambition, the regrets! What it is to be a master tree, eh, my dear Ash? Never mind, you’ve plenty of life in you yet. Shall we wait for Bassan? There’s nothing quite like two old friends waiting for a third, is there?”

  Sharp taps hit the trunk. The man laughed, and a very strange laugh it was too!

  She got to her feet and peered out.

  Two flashing, piercing eyes looked into hers.

  “As I said, plenty of life in this tree.” He lowered his voice. “I’d stay there if I were you.” The eyes disappeared. “Ah, Bassan! A very good day to you.”

  She took a sharp breath.

  “Good day, sir. Legator Bassan I am now.”

  “So I heard. It’s a long while since we met, is it not? And what business do you have with Master Ash this fine day? Come to tell him the happy news of your legatorship? For none of the other trees know of it, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “Whatever business I have here is no business of yours, kind sir!” said Bassan roughly.

  “Oh, but it is! I am the Almanagic,” said the man, his tone light.

  “And what does that mean? You guarded this tree for Zossimo, didn’t you? But not well enough, I must say. The Ash still speaks. He still thinks. Can you understand his thoughts as well as I? I doubt it!”

  “He may not speak to me, but I speak to him, as I speak to all the trees on this island, for they are a jewel among the things of the earth, a creation of marvel and delight. My story here began with this old tree,” and he tapped again on the trunk, “and it may end with him, too—who knows?—as may yours. But it would take every leaf on every tree in the world to write even a fraction of my tale. Why waste a good leaf?”

  “You know nothing,” scoffed Bassan.

  “True,” said the Almanagic. “That is, I know so much, that when you mix it all up, it becomes nothing at all. And yourself? What can you know that I don’t?”

  “Quite a lot, as a matter of fact. Do you—”

  “Fact? Take care, Master Bassan! If every fact is true, and you speak plain fact to me, then there can be no deceit between us, can there?”

  “Your words drip deceit, old Almanagic. Let me tell you something. I have, in here, a cup. I think you know what it is. Zossimo must have shown it to you if he trusted you with the secrets of this tree. But did you know I had it?”

  “Right, wrong, and maybe! Yes, I know what it is. No, Zossimo never showed me the Mazer. Can you guess why? And maybe I did know you had it. The trees seemed quite certain you did. They remembered your promise, Bassan. They foresaw a time when you would take revenge upon them for your father’s death.”

  “What?” Bassan sounded incredulous. “How would they have understood my words?”

  “It is, indeed, rare,” mused the Almanagic. “But that old stump heard every word you said, Bassan, before telling all its friends. Roots take time to die. I can only conclude that both of us, in our time, have underestimated the power of a dying tree.”

  “So why did Zossimo never tell you about the Mazer?”

  “Tell me? He didn’t need to.”

  There was silence. Then Bassan burst out: “You! You gave it to him! Was it yours?”

  “The Mazer belongs to nobody, Bassan. Not any more. I think Zossimo believed it to belong to the trees, which is why he never used it. His decision, and a wise one at that time. Now, however, it seems our trees have need of the Mazer again.”

  “I agree,” said Bassan.

  “Do you know how it works?” asked the Almanagic slowly.

  “I soon will,” said Bassan. “Because…I have this!”

  “Ah,” said the Almanagic. “Hortus.”

  “Yes. You’ve seen this document, I suppose?”

  “Many years ago.” The Almanagic’s voice was guarded.

  Oh, no! Bassan must have found the copy of The Book of Hortus. However safely Marchus had hidden it hadn’t been safe enough.

  Bassan laughed. “Then you know everything. And Hortus. He knew what he was writing about, did he? Not just some fool ramblings to throw us all off the scent?”

  “A little more respect, if you please, Master Bassan.” The Almanagic was angry now. “Hortus was no fool. He created the Mazer. Think about it, Bassan. Think about what he made and what that means for you on this island. For you are a lonesome people, and of all those I have known who have lived here, only your father truly understood how terrible that can be. Do not blame the trees for Reystan’s death, Bassan. Nor should you blame him for planning his expedition. A sailor he was, shipwright, builder, a man of adventure, too, eager to explore the high seas. For him, the company of trees was never enough. But there is no fault in that; your trees and island form but one world. Across the oceans lie others. That your father failed to find them lies heavy on all our hearts. But the islanders are not alone, are they? Not yet.”

  “Hey, ho, Bassan!”

  That was Filibert’s voice!

  “Good day, Treasurer,” said the Almanagic.

  “Good day,” said Filibert. “We’ve not met, but you seem to know me. Filibert Much—”

  “We know who you are, Filibert!” snapped Bassan.

  “Good!” said Filibert. “And who are you, if I may ask?”

  “An old friend of Master Ash,” said the Almanagic, “who must be on his way once again. I think it best if you leave this tree now, Bassan.”

  His words were soft, but there was a menacing lilt to them that made her skin prickle.

  “We go to Yewlith with the Mazer,” said Bassan defiantly.

  “Yewlith? Oh, I see. In that case, I wish you well, Master Bassan.”

  “Why don’t you come with us?”

  “Oh, no!” The Almanagic let out another screeching laugh. “You don’t need me! If you are truly Legator, then you don’t need me at all!”

  “I could arrest you.”

  “Then do it! It will make no difference. But as for you, Master Ash, and all that live in you!” The hole in the trunk darkened; he must be looking in at her. “Don’t forget the things of the past that make sense of the present. Goodbye!”

  He moved away.

  “Bassan, you weren’t honestly thinking of arresting that poor old man, were you?” said Filibert.

  “Poor old man? He’s not poor. Didn’t you see that earring of his? No, I’ll save any arrests until we get to Yewlith, Filibert!”

  Bassan stomped off. He must suspect Filibert. But the Treasurer would most certainly suspect that Bassan suspected him, and…

  “Stop it, Silva!” she said to herself. She stood up and looked out. They’d all gone, even the Almanagic. That was a pity. He appeared to know everything about their island. He’d given the Mazer to Father. And he knew about The Book of Hortus. But which things of the past was he talking about?

  The trunk seemed to close in on her. She began to shiver, remembering the fig’s arms around her. It wouldn’t do to get stuck in here! She scrambled out and got her bearings. The hill and the path to the Petrified Forest lay behind her. She nodded. She’d head out in the opposite direction, to the north-west.

  She looked up into the greenery of Master Ash, then, on a whim, took out her treequill, pulled a twig down, a
nd chose one of his long, narrow leaves.

  “Looks like Bassan is a friend of yours,” she muttered. “So let’s see what you’ve got to say.”

  And she wrote:

  “I am Bassan.”

  Her words got bigger. Then they turned light gray and vanished. She swallowed. What secrets did Bassan keep with old Master Ash? Maybe she was about to find out.

  But his reply was rather unexpected: “No, you are not!”

  The twig sprang up. The leaf fell off, spinning away out of sight. She thrust her treequill back into her pocket, snatched up her bag, shook her fist at Master Ash, and made for the cover of the low trees.

  ***

  In this world or the next, I swear,

  No burden should I have to bear

  If to this tree I did belong,

  Delighting in her lovely song.

  A fire burns in her leaves they say.

  It burns through branch at dusk of day,

  And in the air she floats, no roots

  To hold her down, for they

  Drink only from the evening dew

  As flames take hold in waters blue,

  The key held high between the two.

  A friend grows near; he stands alone,

  His silent roots in earth and stone,

  His words of leaf by man adored,

  His calls to other trees ignored.

  Fires may be burning through those leaves, but the poem had burned with just as much vigor through Harold’s mind as he’d raced after Rath out of the tunnel, past the broken Oak, round the side of the greenhouse and into Oakenwood where they stood to catch their breath by a hollow, sorry-looking stump. As soon as he’d seen Hortus’ words about a tree with roots in stone, he’d known it was the Elm, the Wishing Tree! Marchus had been amazed; Rath had jumped up and down with delight; and as for himself, he’d stood there, his face flushed with pride. What a wonderful moment that had been, almost the best in his life! He’d done as Marchus said and removed the alarm bells from the Albatorium. Rath and Arpad had sneaked into the Session and heaved the bell from the terrace down the steps, into the kitchen, and onto the cart with Winifred’s pot.

 

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