The Mazer (11 page)

The starry swirl dissipated, and Bassan breathed out, frowned, and touched the top of the Mazer. The seasons, the weather, day, night: who knew what the Mazer would show? Yes, this cup was almost alive, a true work of art crafted no doubt by one who had loved the trees and the island more than any, more than Zossimo, even, one who did not explain all he knew with words, but who wanted the wonder of his science to live on, beyond…well, beyond when? Beyond the Dark Days he’d known were coming? For whoever had made the Mazer had, indeed, revealed a world and wisdom so far from Bassan’s own, so lost in years past, that Bassan knew he, and the world he now lived in, were lost themselves, and the splendor and sadness of this object overwhelmed him, and he bent his head and wept.

***

~~ Chapter Three ~~

The Book of Hortus

Had the wind woken her? Silva sat up on her thin, itchy straw mattress. Her feet were freezing, though she’d got up during the night to throw more logs onto the fire. The door had blown open. No wonder it was cold. Slits of light peeked through the cracks in the gallery walls outside. The pile of blankets on Winifred’s mattress squirmed.

“Are you awake Winifred? Good morning! Did you manage to sleep?”

“Wouldn’t call it sleep. All I could dream about was Lisette in charge of the kitchen. What a nightmare that turned out to be!” Winifred crawled out from under the bedclothes. “Do you know, I think I’m feeling a bit better this morning. Pull me up Silva, that’s it!”

“You don’t look well to me, Winifred. You’ve got puffy eyes, and your nose is ever so red.”

“Yes, dear,” sniffed Winifred, rubbing the end of her nose. “Think I’ve got a bit of a boil brewing there, unless I got bitten by a roach or rat in the night. Wouldn’t surprise me! Hand me my cloak would you? Can you pack up in here? I’ll get the ponies ready and meet you outside if you like.”

“I thought I might go up to the Tree Tower,” said Silva.

“What? Now? Oh, if you must, but don’t be too long! Leave this room to me, then. Now, where’s that lantern?”

Silva hurried off along the gallery to the wide stairs that wound about the northern tower’s central pillar. Up and up she went, round and round, so that by the time she reached the top, she felt quite faint. The floor was littered with sand and grit, feathers, and the remains of pigeon nests. This was a large, bright room. A smashed table sat next to boxes of empty jars and flagons, a pile of firewood, an ax handle, and a threadbare, ripped cloak covered in cobwebs. She walked around the column in the middle, counting eight windows, most still holding glass, but two of them broken.

A small archway framed a door to the outside balcony. She tugged open the door and stepped outside gingerly.

She faced east, the sea behind her, the island stretched out before her in the sun. Where had Father died? In a wood? By a river? On the shore? He may never have reached Oakenwood. Perhaps he’d come to Yewlith instead where he knew of the stone room below. He could have decided to head to Ashenwood. Or farther north. She didn’t want to think about that.

The balcony was wide. She could walk round keeping to the inner wall and not be too close to the edge. But it was difficult to see anything in this fierce wind, which whipped her hair and clothes tightly around her, made her eyes water, blocked her ears and chilled her cheeks.

She moved round towards the south of the tower and noticed narrow steps set into the balcony wall behind her. Had the keepers ever lit a beacon on the very top? The flames would leap up the stony branches, the fiery tree proclaiming danger, death, pestilence, and shipwreck, and the guard would charge out of Yewlith on their white horses to warn the citizens of Southernwood, flags and pennants billowing in the same wind that swept the sanctuary today. What an impressive sight that would be! But now she was letting her imagination take hold. The guardery had only one white horse. He was employed to carry barrels of mead over to Oakenwood. And as for lighting a fire up there, that would be almost impossible, surely?

The steps were cut deep into the wall, offering some protection from the gale. She climbed up and then, surprisingly, down again. The stone branches rose from a sturdy base in the center. They reached up past the walls and into the sky, familiar shapes glinting on its dark surface.

She ran towards the tree, reaching out to touch the cold, hard rock, feeling its finely patterned pictures of leaves, buds, twigs, roots, spirals, petals, and flowers. Who had built this tree? Who had decorated it with such abandon, such precision?

She examined the branch in front of her. Gentle, yet boldly sweeping strokes of a leaf curled into a vine that twisted into a horn-shaped cup, with a long-legged spider on top. The vine continued, running up the branch, bursting into spined twigs, adorned on each side with five-petaled flowers, some fat and thick, others pointed and star shaped. Farther up was a simple circle, the sun, surrounded by seven precisely carved sunbeams, most with gold inlays, some left empty, as if their decoration had been ripped away by the frequent wind and rain. Facing the sun stood a proud looking plant that looked very much like the Sundial Tree by the Albatorium.

Winifred must be wondering where she was. Filibert and the Session would be waiting for her back in Southernwood. And it was starting to rain.

She climbed to the top of the wall. Winifred was leading the ponies up to the ridge. A pale sun shone through gray shards of cloud tracking northwest from Oakenwood, passing over Hintermount forest, cutting across the sky to Spinney Henge and the Round Tower farther up the coast. Spits of rain caught the light and glimmered briefly in the air before her, but something else moved on the road north, and it had nothing to do with the weather. Who was that? Could it be Filibert looking for them?

Silva raised her arm and waved. “Filibert!” she shouted, “Here we are, Filibert!”

But whoever was there did not wave back. The figure continued his journey. Who would walk that road alone? Silva carefully climbed down the slippery steps and made her way out of the temple. She ran up the path to Winifred.

“Come on, Silva, I’m getting soaked! Take your pony; everything’s packed. We’d better head to First Falls before this drizzle becomes a downpour.”

“Did you see anyone on the northern path? I’m sure I saw someone out there from the top of the tower. I thought it might be Filibert. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Out to the north, you say?” Winifred stopped, took out her handkerchief, and wiped her dripping nose. “It couldn’t have been Filibert. Are you sure you’re not imagining things? Filibert knows the way here. He wouldn’t have taken that road. I think those tower windows need a good clean myself.”

“But, Winifred, I definitely saw somebody, didn’t you? I wasn’t looking from the lantern room. I went out where the branches are.”

“Just what do you think you’re doing, my friend, climbing up onto the top of that tower in this weather? You’ll catch a terrible chill. No doubt you’re going down with a fever already what with seeing people who aren’t there! I was out here, you know, and I did take a good look around to see if you were about, and I didn’t see a soul. Not a one! A-a-a-tishoo!”

“Oh, Winifred!” said Silva, “I think you’re the one who’s ailing, not me! Here we are; let’s put a blanket over you. Take that wet thing off first; that’s right. Now cover up with this, and we’ll set off as quickly as we can.”

Silva folded up Winifred’s soaking cloak and put it into one of the sacks, while Winifred wrapped herself in the biggest blanket they had, pinning it under her neck and pulling her hat tightly over her head.

***

Back across the plain they trudged, then down into the valley where the river flowed towards First Falls. They rested, but not for long, and Winifred began to cough, a dry, airy cough that tightened her throat and took her voice. Most strange not to hear her chatter, but she simply shook her head impatiently when Silva tried to talk, got onto her pony, and rode off towards the Homesteads.

The sun came out as they crossed the fields, and at last the path took them down to the cottages and gardens. But how odd! The place was deserted. No carriages, no horses or riders, nobody tending their vegetable patches; no children running about, no aroma from a cooking pot, no sign of life at all; even the cottages seemed empty. Where was everyone?

“Ah!” murmured Winifred. She pointed to the bridge. Across it, heading straight for them, rode a company of the guard, their pennants flapping in the wind. Silva thought she was dreaming. Wasn’t that the white horse in the lead, with Arpad riding him? Arpad was a tall man, not easily mistaken. But why so many of the guard? There must be ten or twelve riders with him, but where were they going in such finery, their reins decorated in green and gold, embroidered covers over their saddles?

The troop galloped up to them, and Arpad called out: “My lady! Welcome home to Southernwood City. We are here to accompany you to the Albatorium. Turn about, men, and follow me!” And the company surrounded Winifred and Silva, and they all proceeded across the bridge and up the road, children running beside them screaming with delight, people making their way to the square, chatting, laughing, pointing at them, smiling, waving.

Winifred drew her pony up alongside Silva. “This is a bit unexpected,” she rasped. “What’s going on?”

Silva couldn’t answer. The square lay ahead, and it was packed. Music played in the distance, an old dance tune, and voices filled the air. Dogs barked, babies wailed, chickens clucked, and then the company entered the throng and the noise got louder. People started pushing forward, and Arpad and the guard closed in around her and Winifred, helping them off their ponies when they reached the Albatorium steps.

Before she knew it, she was inside. Guards swarmed round her, some heading down the steps to the underfloor, others going off to eat in the hall to her right where scribes huddled together at tables, muttering to each other while watching her through the large, open doors. The smell of soup wafted through the air. Then Arpad came through the entrance and dumped their sacks at her feet.

She looked down at her muddy shoes. Her long cloak was damp and dirty, still smelling of the pony. A strand of long grass stuck out from her shoulder. She picked it off, then wiped her brow with her sleeve, for despite the coolness of the hall, she was sweating. She hoped she hadn’t caught Winifred’s horrible chill. Where was Winifred, anyway?

“Harold!” called Arpad. “Come over here! Take Winifred’s sacks to the kitchen. I’ll take Silva’s upstairs.”

A boy approached, skinny, with tousled hair, freckles, bright brown eyes and a nervous grin.

“Hello Harold,” said Silva. “You’re one of Fabia’s sons, am I right? From Quagfen? I sometimes meet her along the shore with the fishermen when I mend the nets.”

Harold nodded eagerly and grabbed the sacks. “I’ll take these into the kitchen then, my lady. Winifred’s there. I’ll say you’re going up to the Session, shall I?”

“Oh, yes, thank you Harold. I suppose I’d better see what they want, and then I can get back to my cabin. I don’t know what the celebration is here today, but I think I’m too tired to join in.” She smiled at the young lad, who gazed back, his eyes wide.

“Haven’t they told you, my lady? I don’t think you’ll be going back to your cabin today. We haven’t announced anything yet, and I’m already late getting into the Session myself so that I can ring the bell.”

“What do you mean, Harold, announce what?”

“That you’ll—” and he stopped, looking beyond Silva with an expression of alarm on his face.

“Silva! I’m so glad you arrived safely.”

Silva turned. Bassan walked towards her. He was dressed in a light blue robe. A green belt embroidered with ears of corn in yellow and gold sat around his waist. His bare feet were neat and clean in leather sandals. He was a good-looking man, his silver hair curly, short, tidy, his face as decisive as ever.

“The Session is ready. Let me accompany you upstairs.”

He took her arm. His touch was gentle. She held onto him and took a deep breath.

“Bassan. It’s good to see you! We haven’t met for so long. How are you?”

“I am well, my lady. You are tired, I see. How was your trip to Yewlith?”

They started slowly up the stairs, Bassan on the outer side. Silva trailed a hand along the Aspen’s trunk.

“I thought of you in Yewlith, Bassan. Do you remember the driftwood you gave me? I keep it next to my mother’s vault. It still tells of other lands. It is still beautiful. But my mother, it seems, cannot rest in peace.”

Bassan tripped on a step and one of his sandals fell off. Somebody was shuffling up behind them. Bassan bent down to put his sandal back on, and Winifred’s whisper floated up around the trunk: “Silva, wait!”

“Silva, you know I will help you in any way I can.” Bassan stood up and took her hands in his. His skin was cool, firm. She looked into his eyes again and saw, in the shadowy light, the young man he had been: strong, elegant, bright eyed, inquisitive, skilled with the trees.

“Remember that, Silva. Aha, Winifred!”

Winifred appeared, holding an enormous handkerchief over her nose and mouth.

“Bassan Zabal, tell me,” she puffed, “just what is this news that I’ve heard in the kitchen?”

“Winifred.” Bassan smiled. “You will understand everything perfectly in a minute. Come on!” He took Silva’s arm again, and up they went, Winifred spluttering behind them, until finally they rounded the last bend that led them into the Session.