The Mazer

by C. K. Nolan

  Zossimo’s child. I’ll ne’er forget

  His words to me that sunny day.

  But what he wrote I will not say.”

  “Is Silva safe? There are knives in your trunk!”

  “I kept her safe. She wrote, so sweet,

  Her thankful praise upon my leaf!

  Since then Ash stands in grievous woe

  For where she went I do not know.

  With fearful steps she left my wood,

  And help I’d give, if help I could.”

  So Master Ash had protected Silva. What a wonderful tree! Harold didn’t hesitate to reply:

  “She’s going to the Round Tower. Do you know where that place is?”

  He waited. What? Wasn’t Master Ash going to answer? No, he wasn’t. So that was the end of the conversation, was it? He’d been tricked, good and proper!

  “You sneaky tree!” he snarled. “Found out what you wanted to know, did you? Congratulations, Master Ash. Not such a wonderful tree after all!”

  He stowed the leaves in his pocket and hurried out of the clearing, following the path and the river south through the darkness towards the Ashenwood road and Yewlith.

  ***

  He’d return to the Ash. The Almanagic wasn’t going to boss him about! Maybe he should have arrested him. But the old fellow was right. It would make no difference. Imagine throwing the Almanagic into jail and interrogating him. Ridiculous! After all, the Almanagic had never used the Mazer, had he?

  No, he hadn’t said that. He’d only said Zossimo hadn’t used it. Not quite the same thing.

  “Well, of course it’s not the same thing!” he shouted.

  But the Almanagic had made it seem the same. As cunning as ever. How old was he? And where had he hidden himself all these years? He’d spoken of other lands. Other worlds across the oceans, he’d said. How could he know that? He had no ship, no friends, nothing!

  Bassan sat uncomfortably on one of the stools in front of the Almanagic’s cold fireplace. The copy of Hortus’ poem lay on the dirty rug before him. The Mazer stood on the low table.

  He’d sent Filibert on with the guard. The Treasurer would have to go without his dinner tonight. What a pity! And Arpad? They’d tried rousing him, but the man was out cold, a sickly yellow hue on his face. No key to be found, either. Why had he come to the Ash? Doubtless on his way to meet the others. They might take days to find what they were looking for. He’d be ready for them in Yewlith, though. That would shock them!

  It was dark in here. No firelight. No candle. He was waiting. And it seemed his patience would be rewarded. The Mazer began to shimmer. Faintly at first, then stronger. The trees appeared: Master Aspen, thin, transparent, barely a drop of life left in him. The Oak much the same, leaning over as if coughing up his last sap. And the Maple?

  He frowned. The guard should have destroyed her by now. Were her branches more bedraggled? Was she floating a little lower? It was hard to tell.

  The Yew still stood strong. It was imperative he get to Yewlith as soon as possible and chop that rude old tree right down to the ground.

  He pulled the Mazer close, poking his nose into the light. Master Aspen stirred. His long branches flew up into the air, flailing about madly, and then bent towards him, grasping at his eyes and face.

  He sat up quickly. How did the Aspen know he was there? The star shot around the sides of the Mazer again. The cup darkened; the star disappeared; all was black. It always went black after the star.

  “So you made the Mazer, Hortus,” he whispered. “You saw, in ages past, what I have seen. How did you imagine such a thing? Though I understand from your poems that you are a man of great imagination, great sorrow, too.”

  He gritted his teeth, swayed back on the stool, then bent forward, clasping his hands together. He’d always thought he had the measure of these trees, always believed that the balance of power between tree and man tilted toward the latter. But these poems of Hortus had surprised him. Hortus may have been a man of the trees, but he was not of this island. No. As much as he’d loved this place, he belonged elsewhere. One of those lands the Almanagic had spoken of, perhaps. One of those lands Father had dreamed of discovering. Maybe there were silent trees in that place. What kind of world would that be? A better one?

  The door blew open. A book toppled onto the floor from the shelves.

  “Time for us to talk, Master Ash!” He shuffled Hortus’ poems together, wrapped them in his bag along with the Mazer, and picked up the book, an old, scuffed copy of Tree Tales. So the Almanagic had this book, too! He opened it up. Not the Almanagic’s. A neat script above the title proclaimed, “This book belongs to Zossimo Leon.”

  He shook his head, thrust Tree Tales into his bag, and shut the door firmly. Then he led his horse over the bridge, up the hill, and down towards the Ash.

  “I am Bassan. I am Bassan. I am Bassan!” He laughed, angry now, for it still rankled that even Great Ash enjoyed this piffling nicety. Who else would it have been, this dreary night?

  “I know you are.” Master Ash replied smartly, and the leaf fell off.

  These long tree conversations were always a bother what with bending down to pick up dropped leaves and reaching up to find suitable fresh ones. Still, it was worth the trouble now that he had pleasant news.

  “I am Legator.” Hah! What would old Ash have to say about that!

  “Congratulations.”

  Despite himself, he smiled. He’d have said the same in the circumstances. How alike they were! But Master Ash was making a big mistake. For this tree was too puffed up with his own importance to worry about Bassan turning against him. This tree thought he was indispensable. And he was. For the moment.

  “The Aspen is poisoned, dying. The Oak destroyed by our friendly fig.”

  “And Maple? Yew?”

  “Their death comes also.”

  “Then things will be as they once were.”

  “And how was that?”

  “I alone, Master of the island.”

  Alone? He didn’t like the sound of that! Time to find out more.

  “And the Mazer?”

  Master Ash stood quite still before replying,

  “The Mazer is no danger. You have it?”

  “I do. I also have the Mazer keys.”

  A little lie, but very effective. The Ash was lost for words. His branches bristled; his trunk creaked; then he composed himself, saying jauntily,

  “Better still! Then you understand everything.”

  Not everything. Not very much at all. The Book of Hortus hadn’t told him how to use the keys, let alone what would happen when he did.

  “I learned from The Book of Hortus.”

  Master Ash paused. Then his leaves glowed feverishly:

  “Hortus! He it was who made

  Me Master Ash. To me he gave

  The power of the island’s trees.

  If you possess the Mazer keys,

  Then you, Bassan, shall now restore

  Those glorious times, long gone. No more

  Shall Aspen, Maple, Oak or Yew

  Rule Ash! How they must rue the day

  They ripped my roots, my power, away.

  I vowed that once again I’d be

  The island’s only master tree!

  Oh, sweet revenge! Did I not tell

  The trees who tried to stop me then

  That if they ever tried again

  I’d kill them all! Yes, every one!

  And now this work is nearly done!

  Fungus, fig, fire, fell!”

  This was no good. It sounded as though his own position as Legator would be secondary to that of Master Ash. But for the moment, he’d better swallow his pride, pacify this arrogant lump of wood, and set off to Yewlith.

  “Then Master you shall be. And I, Bassan, am now as Hortus was to you, am I not?”

  The branch jerked back. The leaf fluttered away. Bassan stooped, groping about in the dark, desperate to see what was written there—ah! Found it!<
br />
  “No, you are not!”

  What!

  “Can you explain?” wrote Bassan.

  “Exactly that! Silva was here.”

  This made no sense at all. And what did Master Ash mean by saying, “No you are not?” What a muddle! He had to compose himself.

  “What did you learn about Silva?”

  “She goes alone to the tower by Spinney Henge.”

  Oho! In that case, he’d ride to Yewlith, kill the Yew, and then take the guard to the Round Tower.

  “We shall talk again,” he scrawled, “when I return to Ashenwood. To victory!”

  “Oh,” wrote Master Ash. “It seems you have not learned as much as you promised, Bassan. Never mind. We shall, as you say, speak again—and very soon. Good-bye!”

  ***

  She made Spinney Henge by nightfall. The stones marked the beginning of the path Hortus spoke of. The Round Tower stood at the other end. She’d been here once with Father. They’d come from Yewlith. Not a long journey, but one that had taken her to a part of the island that seemed quite different to anything she’d ever experienced. The vast plain was bordered on the north by forests of pine, spruce, fir, and birch stretching from Maplewood in the east across to the western shore. Few dared—or bothered—to enter them. Wild forest it was, clinging to valley and hill before dropping down to the steep cliff tops lining its northern edge. No beach below to speak of, the fishermen had told her; treacherous currents, too.

  “All in all, I suppose I’m fortunate I don’t have to go running about up there tonight,” she panted, throwing herself down by the henge. The ground was cold. The stonework was even colder. How smooth it was! It glinted silver in the bright moonlight. Her box sat in her pocket next to Hortus’ poem about the Round Tower. She took out the key and held it up. Hortus watched her. Was he smiling? It seemed so. No wonder, for she’d just noticed something quite extraordinary.

  “Tell me, Hortus” she whispered, turning the key over and placing it against the stone, “why are these henge stones and your key made of the same material?”

  She put the key away and then walked into the center of the henge and looked around. Seven long, flat stones surrounded a larger, circular boulder in the middle on which Father had stood, bowed, and addressed the stones around him: “You there! To the northeast! I’ll call you Maplestone. You! To the southeast—you’re Oakstone! South is easy. Aspenstone! Southwest? Yewstone! And you three? Let’s see. How about Towerstone for you? The Round Tower always wanted to be a tree, didn’t he? And er…well, what do you think about these two, Silva? Any suggestions?”

  “What about the stone you’re standing on?” she’d shouted.

  Zossimo had stamped his feet. “Old as stone, cold as stone, friends about but all alone? This is the Ashstone, of course!”

  Stones named for trees? That was typical of Father. He’d never named the last two stones, though, had he? Still, his idea about the Towerstone was interesting. Why would the Round Tower want to be a tree?

  She picked up her bag and trudged west through thorn and trailing weed. The tower stood on a small mound. Perhaps that was why she remembered a taller, more impressive structure, not this rather squat building that had tried to make itself more tree-like by welcoming the ivy that smothered its walls and overhung a door set into the eastern side. She pushed away the heavy boughs, peered through the door, and then hesitated. It was pitch black inside.

  “I’m by the ivy wall, Hortus. No seagulls at the moment. Oh, never mind about them. Now—reveal the key!”

  Nothing happened. What should she do? Wait for the coming dawn? If only Arpad were here! “Calm down,” she muttered furiously. “Rath and Harold should arrive later today, unless something’s happened to them, too.” There was nothing to see from the doorway other than the path leading back to Spinney Henge—and two gulls, flying low, speeding across the path and out of sight, calling loudly to each other. They skimmed the top of the tower before disappearing around the other side towards the sea.

  “Where were you in that poem, Hortus? Don’t tell me. Up on top of the tower, watching the gulls looking down at you! Look below… Then up I go! Is there ivy up there too? Bound to be; the whole building’s covered in it. Ouch!”

  She’d crashed into the wooden stepladder leading up to the next level. But now she was on it, climbing through the hole at the top into the room above, feeling the musty air for the next ladder that took her up against a trapdoor. She scrabbled to find the catch and pushed with all her might. There was a crack—the hinges?— and the door fell off, smashing into her head before clattering to the floor below.

  She was exhausted, but she’d reached the top. “It’s up here; I know it is!” she cried, ripping the ivy away from the walls and floor, throwing it down over the sides, ignoring her thumping head and scratched hands. She stubbed her toe and fell against the parapet. Out west, a pink and purple sea. To the east, Spinney Henge. She caught her breath. The henge gleamed in the distance, its pattern reminding her of the carved sun on the Tree Tower at Yewlith. She bent down to rub her toe.

  She stood on evenly laid brickwork. One brick, however, sat higher than the others. She thought of the gardens of darkness and the mosaic that had hidden the Hintermount key. Then she hunted for her lacing hook and began to scrape about the edge of the brick, round and round, farther and farther in, finally levering it out to reveal a small, empty space. She examined the brick in disbelief. No, this hadn’t been tampered with. But there was nothing buried below it.

  “Where’s the key, Hortus? What have you done with it?”

  “Oh dear! Is there a problem?”

  It was him. She put the brick and hook on the ground. Got up. Stared at the henge. Seven stones around an eighth. Seven sunbeams on the Tree Tower, some of them missing. Three missing? The three keys? So that’s where they belonged! But the key below her feet was gone, and her nostrils filled with the scent of horse, sweat, mint, and rosemary.

  Footsteps tap-tapped up the ladder. There was a flash of light. She turned to look behind her. Bassan squinted out to sea, and she followed his gaze. A boat floated out of the cove, a lone man standing next to the mast, a silver sail billowing in the wind, and as one they whispered the same name, “Hortus!”

  ***

  ~~ Chapter Six ~~

  The Mazer of Yewlith

  Yewlith. He’d made it! But the sanctuary’s surroundings offered no cover. Should he wait until dark to cross the fields? It must now be mid-morning. The sun shone warmly enough, although a chilly wind blew, chillier still when a cloud came along.

  There was the wagon he’d clung to. It lay abandoned next to a hut jutting out from the side of the temple where guards meandered about. A couple of men stood on top of the Tree Tower, no doubt examining the twisted branches and pondering, as every islander did, the mystery of its strange design.

  No point making a run for it. He’d better keep his head down and—

  Furious whispering came from behind him. He nearly jumped out of his skin and back in again! The whispers became groans as he heard a familiar voice.

  “Winifred, slow down! I can’t go any farther.”

  “Yes, but it’s Harold. Told you so, Marchus!”

  He giggled as Winifred and Marchus crawled towards him like a pair of old scarecrows come to life. Grass and thistle adorned their knotted hair and crumpled clothing—and had Marchus lost his trousers? His bare legs, dotted with angry red bites, poked out from under a tattered cloak, and his shoes were in ribbons.

  Winifred collapsed beside him. “We…are…exhausted!” she panted, wiping her dripping nose on her sleeve. “But I think adventure suits me. My cold has almost disappeared and I feel twenty years younger. How about you, Marchus?”

  The archivist lay face down, his hands over the back of his head. “Never felt older,” he gasped. “Can’t bear it out here. Good to see you, Harold, very good indeed. You see, Winifred, my plan worked. But how are we going to get into Yew—”
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br />   “Did you find a key, Harold?” interrupted Winifred. “We did! But there’s one thing you don’t know and it’s all Marchus’ fault because he didn’t tell you, and that’s—”

  She stopped and gave Harold a shrewd look. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to the Round Tower by now?”

  Harold cleared his throat. “We found the key. That is, I did. It was hidden in the lake where the Maple stands. But while I was in the water, the guard caught Rath. I heard them talking. They were taking him to Yewlith. Bassan’s orders. So I came here instead. Rath’s in there.”

  He pointed to the sanctuary. His heart filled with shame. He’d ruined the whole plan. But what else should he have done? “Nothing, nothing, nothing,” he repeated to himself, shaking his head.

  “And the Maple?”

  “I’m sorry, Marchus. They set it on fire.”

  Marchus rolled over, sat up, and grabbed Harold’s arm. “They did what!” The old man’s eyes flickered wildly. “This is most worrying! Why were they there? Bassan couldn’t have known where that key was. Unless he’d found my copy of The Book of Hortus in the family leaves archive. In which case—”

  “I don’t think they were looking for a key, Marchus. I think they were there to destroy the Maple.”

  “And did they?” said Winifred.

  “I hope not. I put the fire out and poured water around the trunk. That’s what I thought I should do. I hope it was enough.”

  Marchus nodded and released Harold’s arm. “You did the right thing, Harold. If that’s what you thought, then I’m sure—”

  “So what don’t I know?” asked Harold.

  “Aha!” said Winifred. “Wait until you hear what Marchus has done!”

  Marchus groaned. “Please stop nagging me, Winifred. Like young Harold, I only did what I thought was best. I told Lisette to tell Bassan that we were all meeting up at Yewlith. He wouldn’t travel without the Mazer. Silva and Arpad were to bring you and Rath here, where we could corner Bassan and try out the keys. What I didn’t expect,” and he nodded towards the temple, “was that there would be so many people at the sanctuary! I presumed Bassan knew nothing of the keys. Looking at that lot, I’m not so sure. I just hope Bassan hasn’t sent guards to the Round Tower. Mind you, that poem didn’t give much away. I think Silva and Arpad should be safe, don’t you?”