by C. K. Nolan
“Excuse me,” said the Ash lightly. “Maybe he did. Maybe she did. And maybe they did. So why did Bassan destroy the Yew?”
Bassan seemed taken aback.
“Because I told him to!” roared the Ash. “A traitor tree! And as for the killing of innocent trees, if there are any of you who wish to condone that, then I shall do exactly as I said in ages past!”
There was a stunned silence. Bassan pulled the Mazer off its stand. The wall grew dark.
“Is this not just as is told in Tree Tales?” he asked. “If the trees turn against the Ash, he will find a way to destroy them. And if we turn against him, he will destroy us, too.”
“That’s not how I remember it,” said Trevello.
But Bassan wasn’t listening. He seized the driftwood and threw it to the floor, screaming, “I need the third key!”
The wood split in two, the nail spinning along the ground to her feet. Bassan bent down. He laughed.
“Hortus! I have to hand it to you, my man; you hid your keys well.” And he raised his hand, holding the third key between his fingers. Had it been hidden in the driftwood the whole time? That was impossible!
“Very clever!”
The Almanagic walked calmly towards Bassan.
“You!” rasped Bassan. “Why can you never keep your nose out of our affairs?”
“Oh, my nose has nothing to do with it,” said the Almanagic, tapping the top of the Mazer. “You found the keys, I see. Aren’t you going to use them?”
Bassan frowned.
“Great Yew will be sorry,” continued the Almanagic. “He’d like to talk to his friends. Too difficult without the keys. That’s what he said! And Great Ash? As matters stand, he can do what he likes. He can say what he likes. He can appoint anyone as Legator if he changes his mind about you! But with the keys, things could turn a little more in your favor, Bassan. Or not. Who can tell? So, Legator. What do you think we should do?”
The Almanagic glanced at Silva. She blinked. Was the Almanagic addressing her or Bassan? She looked across at Marchus and thought of her promise to him in the Hintermounts. She was the rightful Legator of Southernwood. Only she could decide.
“Give them to me,” she said. “I know where they belong.”
“Don’t, Silva!” protested Harold. “Once we use the keys he can control everything.”
Bassan came up to her. One by one, he placed the keys in her hand. His face was ugly; there was no trace of the handsome young fellow she’d remembered the day she became Legator. Her heart thumped with regret. What had happened to this man? If Father knew…
He must have seen something in her eyes for he stepped back to the Mazer, observing her suspiciously as she whispered to Harold:
“Find the carving of the vine with the spider up on the Tree Tower. Farther up, there’s a picture of the sun. The keys fit into the missing sunbeams. Go through—”
“Would you like me to accompany you?” said the Almanagic, leading the way. “I think I shall, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I don’t need—”
“Follow them!” commanded Bassan. The guard burst into action, some surrounding Harold, others scrambling through the tunnel after the Almanagic. Bassan returned the Mazer to its stand. The soft, silvery gleam filled the cavern as the wall started to glow. The light flashed again; the leaves floated above the Mazer; the scroll reappeared.
Nobody spoke. There was no seal this time. Where was Harold? They could have got it all wrong. What if the keys—
The scroll unfolded. There was no island, only a blank manuscript, its curled lower edge whispering against the bottom of the wall as if caught by a gentle breeze. The whisper became a sigh; the sigh became a hum. A star began to shine; then a tree grew, with branches bare; now a leaf, an aspen leaf; there was a man in a boat.
The symbols began to circle around, and she moved towards the wall. Numbers tumbled from the star and vanished into nothingness, as the tree burst into life, as the man in the boat stared intently at her. And the leaf, the last to change, split again, revealing the map of the island.
“Why, this is marvelous!” breathed Marchus, pushing past Bassan. “I’d swear that’s Hortus. It’s got to be him! Do you think he’s going to say something to us?”
“Get out of the way! I can’t see!” bellowed Bassan. He grasped the Mazer leaves. But they disappeared between his fingers, only to flicker into life again. “I don’t understand. How does the Mazer work? What do I have to do?”
It was her dream all over again. This time, however, it was the life of their island swirling about before her eyes. She reached out and touched the tree. The other symbols shot to the side, and the tree stretched out before them, each branch sprouting forth its own leaf: ash, aspen, oak, yew, maple, willow, beech, pine, even golden rain!
“So, Bassan. You did not lie.”
“Master Ash!” Bassan gaped at the growing ash leaf. “By what power do you know the keys are in place?”
The Ash—or the wall—seemed to take a deep breath. Then Great Ash began:
“When Hortus set
The Mazer here,
Then master trees
Both far and near
Spoke through this wall. But that’s not all!
When Hortus hid
The Mazer keys,
No longer could the island trees
Speak through their roots or shapely leaves
To Tower of Tree
Whose branches high
Transmitted ’cross the island sky
Our words, our song,
To Hortus, who,
Where’er he be,
In forest deep, by rocky scree,
’Midst meadows green, ’pon churning sea,
Would take that cup and look within!
He’d see the dance of light begin.
He’d speak to us and we to him!
But now he’s dead.
He did not see
How Aspen, Maple,
Oak, and Yew
Tore up my roots! Oh, yes! It’s true!
But, let me say…one root survived!
Did they not know?
Or dared they not destroy what lay
’Twixt Ash and Yewlith on that day?
Now root and wall and Tower and keys
Connect me to all master trees.
I read their words;
I hear their song.
But not for long!
For now my work is nearly done!
Fungus, fig, fire, fell!
So let me leave you in the care
Of one whose loyalty I swear
Saw Master Ash through darkest days. A man
Who now shall lead you all: Bassan!
Legator of this island fair!”
Bassan clapped his hands, gave a shout of triumph, and spun around to watch Harold and the guard return.
“Come in, come in, my people! Did you hear what Master Ash said? There can be no doubt about my legatorship! Who knows what else we can achieve with the Mazer? Its mysteries are many, but one thing is clear: only I can rule with Master Ash! There is no place for—”
Bassan hadn’t seen the Oak leaf grow. And Great Oak thundered:
“I knew, Bassan,
I always knew,
I knew, Bassan
That it was you
Who killed Zossimo with the fig!
I felt you chop, I heard him shout
Our name, her name, and all about
Fell still as every root and twig
Did hearken for the slightest sound
Of movement, life, of living breath.
But none was heard. For underground,
Zossimo lay in murderous death!”
The crowd murmured. Bassan wrenched the Mazer off the stand again.
“This tree lies!”
“No! He speaks the truth!” yelled Harold. “Bassan tried to kill Silva with the fig in Oakenwood, too, didn’t he Silva? I was there when it happened. The guard arrived just in tim
e to save her. But Bassan told them—”
So this was how Father had died. She must tell Mother. Zossimo lay beneath the fig in the greenhouse. What had the Almanagic said? The things of the past that make sense of the present? Yes, this made perfect sense. Bassan had tried to kill her in the same way as he’d killed Father! They had to find him, give him a proper burial, write upon the Yew—how would they do that?—and record his death. She sighed, her legs unsteady beneath her. An arm around her shoulders: Rath. Where was Arpad? Nowhere to be seen. There was Winifred, rescuing the Mazer from Bassan’s grip, placing it carefully on the stand; Marchus, scrutinizing a page of vellum; Trevello, furiously mouthing commands to the guard, who surrounded Bassan and carried him out of the cavern; Filibert, at the wall, touching the star, gazing incredulously as the page filled with columns of falling numbers.
“The keys!” Were they safe?
“Arpad guards them,” answered Rath.
Aha! That’s where Arpad was!
“Four digit numbers,” said the Treasurer breathlessly. “Some black, some crimson, others almost transparent. Now they’ve all gone back to the beginning again. So…let’s try this!” He slapped his hand on one of the numbers, and the manuscript turned as dark as the night sky. Everyone jumped as stars dazzled from the page and the wall boomed:
“The leaves upon the Mazer’s boss
Are not all from the Three Star Cross.
One leaf of old, it can be told,
May live; and if he does, beware!
You see him not. But he is there!”
“Fascinating!” said Filibert. “I could spend all—”
“I think that’s enough, Filibert,” said Winifred. “There’s work to do, and plenty of it. Thank the stars,” and she nodded at the wall, “that Great Oak lives and has convinced everyone of Bassan’s evil ways! Let’s face it—you can’t argue with an oak. But we’d better stop now. Don’t want our nasty Ash saying anything more today.”
“Wait!” said Silva. She touched the tree symbol. The stars faded, and the tree grew again.
“Great Oak,” she said in a voice far more confident than she felt, “why didn’t you tell us of Father’s death?”
There was a pause. Then Great Oak answered:
“We knew our master well. Zossimo would have forbidden it. Remember, the secrets of man and the secrets of trees are not always the same!”
Marchus took the Mazer off its stand and peered inside. “Who can know the mind of a tree?” he asked.
“Who indeed?” The Almanagic stood by the tunnel. “An archivist, perhaps? A scribe? But never, ever, a traitor!”
“Thank you, kind sir!” said Marchus. “But have we not met on another occasion? Although I cannot remember when. So probably not. Yet you’re rather familiar. Whence do you hail?”
“Beyond stretches of sunsets and sand and across oceans deep!” said Harold. “Don’t ask him any more questions, Marchus. You won’t get a clear answer.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said the Almanagic. “Given the right question I may—”
“We must return to Southernwood,” said Rath.
“You speak wisely.” The Almanagic walked towards them. “And I must return to…the place whence I came!” He winked at Marchus, took the Mazer, and held it up. He turned it around in his smooth hands. “A simple cup. Yet powerful. You heard, Silva, when you hid in the Ash, that Zossimo never used it. You have witnessed things today that Zossimo never saw. He was right to be in awe of its power. He was also correct in his estimation of the island’s trees. Oh, yes!” and the Almanagic gave the Mazer back to Marchus, “Zossimo understood the trees better than any man I know, save one.”
“You mean Hortus,” said Marchus.
The Almanagic raised his eyebrows. “I do,” he said. “Yet things have changed on this island since Hortus’ time.”
“What did the wall say about the stars?” asked Harold. “‘The Three Star Cross’, it said. What’s that?”
The Almanagic picked up the two pieces of driftwood that lay at his feet. “That’s the thing about getting old,” he said, handing them to Silva. “Which is best? To give jewels of wisdom gleaned from years of experience, all of which are, quite naturally, ignored in most cases, or to let whoever-it-is work things out for themselves, with the risk of having them ruin everything? But now,” he said, bowing low, “it’s time I retrieved my stick. And then I shall tend to Master Aspen. He’s more than a little confused, but I’ll soon put him right. To Southernwood!”
He strode to the archway and paused. She was suddenly reminded of the figure she’d seen from the Tree Tower on the morning she’d returned to Southernwood with Winifred. “It is a terrible thing,” he mused, staring into the darkness before him, “to chop down a yew, for they are the wisest trees I know, and leaf fall approaches, denying us the joy of talking to most of our broad-leaved friends. But Great Yew shall live and grow, as shall Old Oak. Leave them be. Touch them not!”
He stepped through the arch. Moments later, a green glow, flecked with orange, red, and brown, chased away the shadows that had swallowed him.
“My lady!” called Sheridan from the crypt. “We have prepared the vault.”
She clutched the driftwood to her chest and clambered through the tunnel entrance. Mother’s vault was clean of dust and rubble, save for the crushed golden rain pod. She set the driftwood down and knelt to touch the inscription.
“Oh, Mother. Bassan! He killed Father. In Oakenwood. Yes, Bassan! Father’s apprentice! His friend. Our friend!”
The seed pod rustled—but this was no draught. This was Mother. Stirring. Sorrowful. Any hope that Zossimo had survived somehow, somewhere, as dead and dry as the golden rain pod itself.
“But the seeds, Mother. They will grow. I’ll plant them in one of Father’s gardens!”
A handkerchief passed from Winifred to Marchus, to Harold, then to Rath, who pressed it into her hand. She smiled and wiped away the tears that came again as they knelt before the vault of Eldis and child, in the crypt, under the garden of the Great Yew of Yewlith in Westernwood.
***
“The Order of Isleaf. For bravery! For truth!”
Trevello was dressed more handsomely than ever, resplendent in a gold tunic boasting embroidery of crimson and silver, his belt a beautifully crafted braid of green thread, Medrella’s handiwork, no doubt. Wystan sat next to his wife on the front bench of the Session and nodded approvingly as Trevello fiddled with the hastily prepared wreaths of ash leaves that lay on the lectern next to him.
“The first recipient of the Order: Rath! Our new Librarian. We commend you!” proclaimed Trevello. The Session burst into applause.
“Harold! Apprentice Librarian!” There were screams of pride from the second row where Fabia and Harold’s brothers sat.
“Win—oh! I nearly forgot. A much-deserved gift for you, Harold,” and Trevello presented a pair of new leather shoes to the laughing apprentice.
“Winifred and Filibert! Treasurer and…our honored cook!” There were more claps and whistles as Trevello placed the wreaths about their shoulders.
“Arpad! For courage, conviction, and—ah! Arpad’s still in Yewlith of course, so—”
The Homesteaders groaned.
“Lisette! For facing the enemy with a bowl of onion soup!”
Everyone stamped their feet, chanting, “Onion soup! Onion soup!”
Lisette darted from the stairs around the Aspen’s trunk. She ran to accept her wreath with a worried smile, a curtsy, and a promise that there would be onion soup for all after the ceremony, but that—
“Marchus!” announced Trevello.
Lisette looked desperately at Silva.
Silva stood up. “Where is he, Lisette?”
“In the library with the family leaves. He said he was going to check the Leon book. I waited and waited for him in the kitchen, but he never arrived, so I went into the library and…”
Her face crumpled.
�
�What is it?” asked Silva gently, stepping down from the dais and taking Lisette’s hand.
“His birth leaf, my lady, it’s gone.” Lisette’s eyes filled with tears. “Bassan destroyed it.”
She didn’t wait to hear any more. Pulling Lisette behind her, she raced to the stairs and down to the family history library. No torches were lit here. A single candle glowed at the far end of the room where Marchus sat on the floor in front of an open cabinet. Leaves and bark were sorted into neat piles about him. He looked up. She’d expected tears from him, too, but his eyes were dry, and there was even a glimmer of a smile on his face.
“Come and sit by me, Lisette. Look at you! More upset than I am. And Silva? I told you we’d come and look at the family leaves. Yours, however, not mine. But there’s nothing to see here, unfortunately. The funny thing is,” and he began to laugh, “Bassan didn’t realize, did he? The leaf he found wasn’t my real birthleaf, no! It was a copy. He’d like that, wouldn’t he? A copy! Or a forgery. Depends on your point of view. How the scribes made it, or persuaded the trees to write it, I don’t know and never asked. Where’s the original? Hah! If I knew that, I’d tell you. Was there ever one? Nobody knows, apart from the trees, and they won’t tell.”
“There may be a way of finding out,” said Silva, settling down next to him. “The Mazer could tell us.”
Marchus’ face grew serious. “Oh, no, Silva. Best to use the Mazer only when absolutely necessary. Where is it, anyway? And what were you all doing upstairs?”
“Receiving the Order of Isleaf!” It was Harold, holding Marchus’ wreath. “Here you are, Marchus. Official recognition for those brave and true.” He arranged the leaves around Marchus’ neck, then ran to help Rath and Trevello carry benches across the room for them all to sit on.
Marchus scratched his neck. “These leaves do tickle, Harold! Bravery, eh? But let me return to my question: where’s the Mazer now?”
“In its box and under lock and key in my office,” said Trevello.
“Oh, Trevello,” said Harold. “I, er…I have something of yours here.” He held out the spare key to the laboratory.
Trevello nodded slowly. “Very good, Harold, very good! Why don’t you keep it? You’re the Librarian’s apprentice, after all. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I did notice it was missing. But only after Bassan left for Ashenwood. By then, I was beginning to have second thoughts—but back to business.”