The Mazer (2 page)

“I wonder what lives there, too, Isleaf,” she muttered, taking out her treequill. “I’m not that happy myself today, either. Still, you usually cheer me up on my birthday.” She reached up and grasped a lower leaf. “Although this year, there’s no need to write a poem or tell of the music of maples or the stern words of oak as I’m in a hurry, my old friend.”

No, she shouldn’t stay in the wood much longer. A quick word to Isleaf, and she’d be on her way. So she pressed the end of her treequill into the leaf and wrote, “I am Silva Leon, daughter of Zossimo and Eldis. Today is my birthday, and I will visit my mother’s vault.”

The words disappeared into the leaf. It started to glow. Isleaf wrote back, his words springing up along the leaf’s veins:

“Silva, Silva! From Oakenwood your father cries;

in Westernwood your mother sighs;

by Northernwood the Maple flies;

in Southernwood a traitor’s eyes

behold the Mazer’s starry skies.”

The leaf darkened and snapped off the branch into her hand.

“Isleaf, why do you speak of Father so? Mother? Yes, she lies in Westernwood at Yewlith. A traitor? Sounds like Rath to me. But I’ve never heard of the Mazer.”

She frowned. Isleaf had never written such things before. Was he frightened? Angry? It was difficult to tell. Isleaf loved to come up with rhymes and riddles without ever elaborating on their meaning, but matters couldn’t be left like this. These trees had a mind of their own, particularly the aspens, who much preferred reading people’s messages of fun, laughter, and hope, rather than anything more sobering. Weren’t the first leaves they’d read at school from the aspens of Skeps Wood? It was upon Isleaf’s leaves that they’d learned to use their treequills, first of all on leaves from leaf fall and then upon the living leaves themselves, a crowd of excitable schoolchildren, fumbling with quill and twig, watching their scratched words disappear through leaf vein, into branch and trunk, falling to the depths of the earth, or so they believed, and then waiting to see if Isleaf would reply, watching for his words to appear, jumping for joy when they did, taking their special leaves home with them to proud parents.

She carefully slid the leaf into the box in her pocket. “I know you can’t hear a word I’m saying, Isleaf, but what should I write back to you to persuade you to tell me more? Can I ask a direct question? Something more practical? Oh, if only you were an oak!”

Isleaf shuddered. He moved his branches up just a little higher so that it was more difficult to grab hold of a leaf without tearing it off. Never mind, she’d got one, and the only thing she could think of to write was, “Tell me what to do.”

What a strange start to the day this was! She should be at Winifred’s house by now. Isleaf was taking his time reading what she’d written, but there, the words were slowly disappearing, and the leaf was glowing faintly although not as much as usual.

It began to rain.

“Oh, hurry up, Isleaf!” If Isleaf didn’t say anything soon, she’d have to leave, and she wouldn’t be able to write to him again until she returned from Yewlith tomorrow—ah! Isleaf’s answer at last:

“You must find the Mazer key

hidden in the gardens, three.

Then below the greenest tree

you can set the island free.”

The words were small and faint. It was all she could do not to shout at Isleaf and kick him hard to shake those leaves some more and make him give her the answers she’d been wanting for so long. This poem was useless. It didn’t tell her anything!

“Isleaf!” she shouted. “Are you mad? Why can’t you speak normally for a change? Oh! I’m late. I can’t stand around in this wood all night like you. Just give me the leaf. Come on, I’ve got to go!”

Was the leaf shaking, or was it her hand? She shouldn’t get angry like this. Yet even as her temper faded, the words on the leaf faded, too.

“Isleaf, stop. What are you doing? Leave the poem there!”

But the poem had gone. Sickness entered her stomach, and a bitter juice of fear crept into her throat. Trees never, ever, took their words back.

Drops of rain gusted against her cloak, and fallen leaves swirled into the air. She stumbled up the track, and then turned to look at Isleaf who was waving his branches against the fresh sea wind, his leaves quivering, sucking her words—and his—into his heartwood and down, down, even to the very roots of the world.

***

Silva crept along the path that would lead her out of Skeps Wood to Papery Bridge. From there she’d cross the market square and make her way through the straggling streets to Winifred’s house.

The wood was wild; the tree crowns above bent and billowed in the wet wind, and all around was a dense, moving darkness. She never came into the wood after nightfall, and no wonder. Barberry thorn, slippery sedge, protruding roots, hidden rocks and holes, and thin branches that would have your eye out if you weren’t careful. Her nostrils caught a wisp of the reek that Isleaf had mentioned. He was right; it smelled foul. So she climbed up a short slope to where the path broke into two and peered about.

There it was, a hollow of faintly flashing light, not ahead on the path to the bridge, no, but below to her left, through trees and undergrowth, just a quick slither down the wet bank, over some dead tree trunks and onto ground lit with streaks of cold blue fire. A tree stump crouched at the back of the hollow, four or five unnaturally straight branches sticking up around it out of the blue earth, as if someone had marked the stump for a reason.

But wait—this was no stump. It had moved and was standing up! There was nowhere for her to hide, but the man—and it must be a man with that tightly fastened cowl almost completely covering his head and wide shoulders—didn’t look up, but reached out to uproot each stick by turn. Then he scrambled up to the top of the bank and disappeared.

She hung her bag on a branch and moved towards the spot where the man had been standing. Only a circle of holes remained. Each hole oozed a thick liquid that trickled through the undergrowth, extinguishing the leaf light below.

“What is this stuff?” said Silva. She gathered her cloak about her and bent down. “Black as ink, sticky as honey, with a filthy reek of decay, ugh!”

Wisps of stinking steam whipped around her ankles. She’d head back to the bridge path. Who knew if the man would return? She wiped her fingers on her cloak, walked carefully over the leaves, unhooked her bag from the branch, and climbed back up the bank. The light in the hollow was almost gone. She hurried through the wood, and the path widened, joining the river road.

Lamps burned on the bridge ahead. The wind had dropped, but a fine, soaking drizzle fell, seeping through her clothes and shoes, turning the sandy surface of the stone bridge into a slippery mush.

“I’m wet. I’m cold. I’m dirty. The day hasn’t even begun, and I wish it were over. Mother, Father, Isleaf, Rath, some madman in the woods with sticks of stench. Is it any wonder that whenever I come into this cursed city, I’m ever so glad to get home to my bed and forget about everything, and I can’t even do that today! And that awful smell; it just won’t go away. Unless it’s coming from the papery, of course, but it’s a bit early for anyone to be working there now.”

A bell rang in the distance. A cart clattered past her, reached the other side of the bridge, and then stopped at a hut by the edge of the road. That looked like Osbert from Quagfen getting down from the driving seat. It was hard to see in this weather. Why would he use this bridge? The fish cart always crossed the river farther downstream.

Osbert entered the hut. Silva sped along, her bag bumping against her back. She could ask Osbert to take her to Winifred’s. But just as the hut door opened, she caught her foot on a broken stone and stumbled into a deep puddle. Water filled her shoes and dripped from the bottom of her bag, and by the time she’d steadied herself, Osbert had driven off in his cart. She’d have to walk.

So walk she did. She took the back road round by the river muttering angrily to herself all the while. At last she reached Winifred’s house tucked away in a street between Homestead Bridge and the city gardens. There was no light from the windows.

An enormous bunch of mint hung on the stout wooden door. Silva knocked. There was no answer. So she knocked harder, whispering furiously, “Winifred. Winifred! It’s me. Open the door!”

A crumpled note fluttered out of the mint. Silva grabbed it, flattened it out, and read, “Session called. Albatorium kitchen in chaos. Back soon. Key in pail.”

Winifred’s milk pail stood beside the doorstep. Silva lifted the lid, took out the key, and put it in the lock.

***

A door slammed.

“Silva! Where are you? Aha, here you are, my dear. Sorry I got delayed. What a to-do in the Albatorium! Bells ringing; Session members still in their night clothes by the looks of them, a bunch of dried up old fools tripping up the steps and into the hall and expecting a midnight feast served on a golden platter. I don’t know, I don’t know at all! And what’s that disgusting smell?”

Silva felt like a sleepy, dried up old fool herself. She hadn’t even taken off her cloak. Her muddy shoes lay by the hearth.

“Tread in something left behind by the horses, did you?” grinned Winifred, heaving a large hamper onto the table and opening the lid. A welcome aroma of freshly baked bread escaped into the room. Silva got up out of her very comfortable chair and stretched.

“Oh, Winifred, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me on my way here.”

“I’d believe anything in this city today, Silva. The whole place has gone mad. A gang of louts from the Homesteads were gathering about Quagfen Bridge last night, so the guard closed it. I think the Homesteaders are frightened of the treesmoke drifting across the river from Skeps Wood. They’re afraid their orchards will catch the rot, too. What are they going to do, get a few buckets of seawater and douse every tree around the city?”

So that’s why Osbert had driven the long way round to Papery Bridge!

“Anyway,” continued Winifred, “I think we’ve got enough to eat!” She beamed, holding up two huge loaves. She hadn’t brought only bread; there were bottles of wine, a pie dish covered in paper, a stack of boiled eggs, and a large ham wrapped in cloth.

“I’m sure we won’t need all that. We’re only away for a night.”

“Oh, you never know,” said Winifred, stuffing the bread into a bulging sack. “It’s hungry work riding up to Yewlith, and you’re looking a bit peaky. What have you been eating lately? Nothing, I expect. The wine will keep us warm and give us a little extra fortification. Just what we need!”

“That’s a good—”

“And it’s your birthday. I haven’t forgotten! Thought we could treat ourselves to a decent meal this evening. I was in the Albatorium kitchen until late last night. I had to get the scullery ready for today seeing as I’m not here, and then I came back home and fell asleep. The moment I dropped off, the bell rang. So it was back to the Albatorium again, and —” Winifred stopped for breath, pushing her long gray hair back from her face. “I had to check the ponies to make sure they were up to standard. Didn’t want the guardery to give us two old nags that can hardly see two trees in front of them!”

Winifred put her hands on her hips, squinted at Silva, and then sneezed. “Oh! Excuse me!” she exclaimed, pulling a handkerchief out of an over-sized pocket on the front of her cloak. “I’d better not go down with a chill. When we get back I’ll have double the work to do. These men can’t decide on anything important without a lot of noise, fuss, and food. I’m glad to be getting away for a day or so, to tell you the truth, Silva. I haven’t seen anything of the island for ages. I’ve had my head stuck over the Albatorium stewing pots for months on end—and my poor hands! Look at them! Rough and raw. Ah, well.”

Winifred stuffed her handkerchief away. Then she stepped towards Silva and hugged her.

“Don’t you worry about me. It’s you we’ve got to worry about. Eldis, your lovely mother, she told me to watch over you, and that I did, and now we’re going to go and make sure she’s resting peacefully. Twenty years! It’s a long time. But we’ll never forget her. Come on, let’s pack everything onto the ponies and make a start.”

Silva took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” she said. They’d talk about Isleaf and what had happened in the hollow later. She slipped her shoes on, picked up her bag, and helped Winifred haul their supplies outside. They checked their gear and then led their mounts along the wooden track towards Homestead Bridge.

The streets were still damp, and the night mist hadn’t quite lifted, trapping the smell from the forest, an odor of hot earth, burning branch, and rotten root.

“Winifred, does the Session know what’s going on in the wood? What’s Wystan doing about it?”

Winifred turned to her and grimaced. “Not a lot. I think our usually capable Legator is finding things a bit tough of late. He’s relying on Bassan to concoct a cure for the treesmoke, but if you ask me, our Librarian hasn’t got a clue what to do about it, either. You’d think that somebody with his experience and training would be able to stir up a remedy for his beloved trees in an instant, wouldn’t you? But being Librarian, or Legator for that matter, doesn’t mean what it used to. Your father would never have let things get out of hand like Wystan has, and I’m sure that he’d be sorely disappointed with Bassan’s feeble efforts so far, sorely disappointed indeed!” Winifred stomped on ahead towards the bridge where a crowd of people were gathered around a boy selling milk and pastries from a cart.