The Mazer (27 page)

“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 him.”

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, and 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.

Not that they need have worried. Whatever Winifred had added to her dishes that evening had had its desired effect; everyone was sound asleep. They could have rung any bell a thousand times that night, and nobody would have heard. Poor Wystan! Beautiful Medrella! Wystan had been good to him, offered him work, given him free rein about the Albatorium in a way that other children in the city could only dream of. Medrella was a second mother to him. But they were in this together. And they’d beat that Bassan, they would!

He gritted his teeth and stumbled after Rath. They’d rested occasionally, but Rath had said there was so little time to get up to Maplewood and across to the Round Tower that they couldn’t stop for long. They were aiming to reach the Wishing Tree that afternoon; if Hortus thought “dusk of day” was an important time, Old Elm would have to hurry up and tell them where they needed to be by the end of today.

Through the last trees of Oakenwood and the wild, low Holly Hags, their green, prickly bushes and trees lying huggled together in treacherous hedge and trench, then across bare stretches of bramble, bristlebroom, bracken and gorse, on and on they went, not helped by a damp, sickly wind blowing in from the east. To the west lay the valley of Southernwood River, Ashenwood beyond.

At last they could see the hills of Northernwood ahead. They crossed a shallow river, kicking off their shoes, dancing about, shouting and laughing at each other, enjoying the cold water on their blistered feet before entering glades of pine and birch. They spotted the Wishing Tree with relief, his great arms shooting into the sky before drooping back down to earth as if he’d wanted to say something terribly important, then changed his mind.

Harold ran up to him. “Hello, Old Elm! Ah, yes,” and he fished in his pocket for the leaf Rath had given him. “I think you have some explaining to do, my dear Wishing Tree. Will you make my wish come true?”

“We can only ask,” said Rath, smiling. “What would you wish, Harold?”

“Oh, so many things. A nice house for Mother and Father and my brothers, I suppose. Some new shoes would come next. My feet hurt so! And a decent boat for Father, too, one without holes or barnacles.”

He dropped down on the soft grass, then gazed at Rath, who stood with a treequill in one hand, his dripping boots in the other.

“What about you, Rath?”

Rath screwed up his face. “What would I wish? That’s not easy to answer, I must say. Oh, I know! New shoes for me, too!”

He smiled again, but looked sad. Rath didn’t really want new shoes. What about his home, his family? Harold didn’t know much about this man, and he didn’t want to ask. He missed his own family a lot but went over to Quagfen when he could, taking them the little coin he could save, lots of Winifred’s pastries, and tales of life in the Albatorium. It was crowded, noisy, and smelly at home, but who cared? They were his family! He felt sick with longing to see them. That’s what he wanted more than anything, apart from his wish for Medrella and Wystan to be safe; for Silva and the others to find their parts of the key; for Bassan to be thrown out of the legatorship; and for the Albatorium to return to its usual chaotic, dusty, funny self.