The Mazer (28 page)

“Changed your mind about the shoes, have you?” asked Rath softly.

Harold nodded. “And you?”

“I like my old boots!” grinned Rath, throwing them onto the ground.

“Now, Harold, we need to think what to ask Old Elm. He’s a friend, Hortus says. But you’re much cleverer than I am with these old manuscripts. What should our wish be?”

Rath knelt next to him, got out the poem and read it out loud while Old Elm’s branches swayed above them.

“We could ask him about the two whatever-they-ares,” said Harold hopefully.

“Oh no, you can’t do that!” said Rath. “You’ve got to make a wish. You can’t just ask any old question that pops into your head. And remember—this old tree only gives one answer to each wish, so whatever we write had better be good.”

Old Elm’s branches stretched down as if to get a better view of Hortus’ words. Rath and Harold racked their brains for the right wish, muttering “No, that’s a ridiculous idea!” or “A wish, a wish, I wish I could think of a wish!” while pointy tipped leaves brushed over their heads and tickled their ears. It was no good simply wishing they understood this poem. Old Elm wouldn’t know what poem they were talking about, would he? So that meant…

“We’ll have to tell him!” shouted Harold.

“Tell who, what?”

Was it his imagination, or did Rath’s innocent expression show that he knew exactly what Harold was going to say next?

“Tell Old Elm!” Yes, that’s what they would do! “We write the poem on Old Elm’s leaves. Then,” he finished rather lamely, for suddenly his idea didn’t sound so impressive after all, “we read what he says to us.”

Rath leapt up and hit his head on a branch. “Ouch! But that’s it! No silly old wish at all! Ah, Harold. You’d make a wonderful Librarian, did you know that? I’ll tell you what,” and he leaned down, his eyes gleaming with—what? Amusement? Amazement? A fever, perhaps?

“If I ever become Librarian before you, young man, you can be sure that I’ll choose you to be my apprentice.”

Rath must mean what he said, for he held out a hand, pulled Harold up, and gave him his treequill.

“I’ll read out the lines, and you write them down. Wait for each line to disappear before starting the next. I hope Old Elm is a patient fellow. Ready?”

Harold chose a leaf, placed it on his palm, and Rath started to read. Harold’s fingers trembled with pride, for after all, hadn’t Zossimo trained Rath? Everyone knew that. From bell ringer to apprentice Librarian! Whatever would Mother say?

“The key ablaze…between the two,” repeated Rath. “Good! We’ve only got—”

A cold gust of wind nearly blew the vellum out of Rath’s hands. Old Elm’s leaves quivered, then quietened. Harold’s writing faded, and then words began to appear not only on his leaf, but on low leaves and high leaves until the whole tree was covered in a wordy cloud.

“What do they say? Are they all different?” said Harold holding his branch and leaf tightly.

“Yes. They’re wishes people have made to the Elm, see?”

Rath turned away as if he didn’t want to read any more. Harold couldn’t resist peeking at some of them. Wishes for health, coin, work, a child, love, fair weather, a doll, even a pair of new shoes.

“Hey, you’ll never guess what I’ve just read!”

But then a horrible thought struck him. “Rath!” he cried. “Won’t the leaves fall off? He’s never going to answer us, is he? All that writing at once. He could die, couldn’t he? There won’t be any more wishes now. What have we done?”

Rath gazed up at the Elm, frowning. “Wait, Harold! The words are fading.”

Harold turned back. Yes, it was true. How gray those words had made Old Elm look! Now he was lovely and green again. He stared down again at the leaf in his hand. Tiny letters began to spring up.

“He’s writing something else!” yelled Harold. Rath ran up behind him, and they leaned down to take a closer look.

“Young Harold

Friend of Hortus, old,

May you belong

To Maplesong.”

“Maplesong? Who’s that? A tree? Well, we must be looking for a maple,” said Harold. “But Wishing Tree, you haven’t told us where it is, have you? And how did you know my name? I didn’t tell you. Rath, do you—”

The leaf slipped off its twig.

“I don’t think Old Elm’s going to say anything else, I’m afraid, Harold,” said Rath, putting on his boots. He shivered. “The evening draws in. Come on! We’ve got to find this maple.” He ran off and disappeared into the trees.

“But where?” shouted Harold, forcing his shoes on his feet. “Rath! Wait! Your treequill! Oh—Old Elm. Goodbye, funny old tree. I’m sorry to leave in such a hurry, but I’ll be back to see you again.”

Old Elm’s branches whisked over his shoulders as if to say “Off you go, Harold! Off you go, quickly!” so he did just that, running after Rath through the glade, up a muddy path, breaking out into the open and—

“Oof!”

He was flat on his face in the soaking grass.

“What was—”

“Sh!” Rath was crouched down ahead of him. “Stay there. Don’t move!”

Harold raised his head tentatively. Far across the meadow stood a tree. Flames lit the trunk; they leapt through the steaming branches while smoke curled into a red and gold sky.

“It’s on fire!” he said. “Is this the tree Hortus spoke of? It’s just like in the poem, isn’t it?”

“Nothing to do with the poem. Looks like the guard—over there, can you see them? They’ve set the Maple on fire. This is the work of man, not of tree.”

“Look! They’re leaving.”

Three figures moved along their line of sight. Then one mounted his horse and two climbed onto a wagon. Away they rode, shouting and whistling triumphantly.

“Quick!” shouted Rath, getting to his feet. “We have to see this tree now! Sun’s going down!”

Harold stood up and took a few steps forward. Everything went black. Rath seized his shoulders and spun him round. “That way, Harold, to the other side of the field. I’ll go to the tree.”

Rath ran off to the left. Harold stumbled in the opposite direction. Oh, for supper in the Albatorium kitchen! Winifred, Lisette, Medrella, and a pot full of soup. What could beat that? “Nothing, nothing, nothing!” he said as he paced through the high grass. Then he stopped. The corner of a low wall lay ahead. Its stonework surrounded a long, rectangular stretch of water. At the other end of the lake, the burning Maple stood against the setting sun.

“The other tree,” he whispered. “Floating in the sky—in the water! Two trees, indeed, one a reflection of the other. And the key? Held up between the two. Hortus - here I come!”

He wriggled out of his cloak and shirt, pulled off his shoes and clinging socks, and then plunged into the lake. He half swam, half walked towards Rath until the base of the pool dropped away before him, the waters becoming deep. A pedestal of some kind lay below, with a statue on top. A child, it was, reaching up, holding something. He caught his breath, then shot down to grab the glinting object held tight between the child’s chubby fists. He pulled and pulled, for the key was stuck fast, but then, softly, the child released it into Harold’s frozen hand. He shook his head in disbelief, then took one last look at this strange little person who rose from the murky depths beneath the Maple, before pushing himself up to the surface, gasping for air—and now gasping with shock, for two of the guard were throwing Rath to the ground, the third running to help! Harold swam to the edge of the lake by the Maple. The heat and smell of the tree made his stomach turn.

“Ha ha! Couldn’t resist taking a look at our fine work!” cried a guard.

Another chuckled. “This fellow seems to like being tied up and carted off to the Albatorium, doesn’t he?”

“We’re not going to the Albatorium,” objected a gruff voice. “Bassan told us to go straight to Yewlith, remember? Make room in the wagon and throw him in. No, hold on! Not down this slope, it’s too rough. Go up the track first, then down to the Ashenwood road. I’ll ride…”

The guard moved off. Harold ducked down and swam over to the side of the lake where the air was cleaner. He hauled himself out. The guard were making their way slowly up the track. So they were setting off to Yewlith, were they?

Harold stood up. He examined the key in his hand. Small and bright it was, with straight edges. Not like any door key he’d ever seen. Could this really be what they’d searched for? It didn’t seem—but the Maple was still on fire!

He sped past the lake and set the key carefully on the wall. The guard had built their fire at the base of Maple’s trunk. Not that they’d spent much time trying to destroy the tree—just look! Traces of a fine old picnic littered the ground: a scorched blanket, one of Winifred’s best earthenware pots broken into smithereens, chicken bones all over the place…and empty barrels from the undercroft. He grabbed a barrel and went back and forth as fast as he could, hurling water with all his might over Maple’s trunk and lower branches.

He stood back, panting. At least the fire was out. The reeking cloud from Maple’s crown gusted into his eyes and out across the lake, then back again around the trunk, blowing a sheet of vellum towards him.

“Hortus’ poem!” he exclaimed. Rath must have dropped it here. What’s more, this manuscript was neither wet nor dirty, nor even hot. He began to read it, tears pouring down his face. This tree must have been so beautiful. Now she was in a dreadful state, her branches misshapen and black, the leaves that remained wizened and stiff, her trunk terribly scarred.

She needs more water! He got back to work with the barrel, feeding her roots and soaking the soil until a great puddle surrounded her. Then he picked up the key and the poem, retrieved his clothes and shoes, and raced off across the fields towards the holly hedges lining the Ashenwood road, where he dived again, this time through a prickly gap between the hedgerows, landing belly down and slamming his chin onto a sharp stone, whereupon he heard a shout,

“After him! Don’t let him get away!”

A figure leapt in front of him. The man bent down. Harold looked up.

It was Rath. He slapped his hand on Harold’s forehead.

“Hide!” he rasped, before twisting round to face the guard. They seized Rath and threw him back into the wagon, cursing, pounding, and kicking until their prisoner cried out in agony, until Harold himself cried silent tears as he curled up in the holly, nursing his bleeding chin and trying not to move his crunching, painful jaw.

“Get one of the nets and stick him in it. Take my horse, you laggard! No more mead for you two. Here, I’ll sit with him myself. Hey—you! Get out and raise the tailboard, double quick! Ride on, ride on!”

He hadn’t been able to save Rath from the fig, but he wasn’t going to abandon him now. Anyway, how long would it take him to find the Round Tower without Rath? He’d never meet up with the others in time.

Harold crawled out from the hedge and watched the wagon gather speed. Then, in the half-light, he shot towards it, grabbing one of the hunting nets that flapped about on the wagon’s side before swinging his legs up to find a foothold. He hung on for dear life as the wagon tore down the road and across the bridge, the driver swearing at every bump and pothole, the rider on the other side yelling out warnings. “Round this way! Watch out for that stone! Keep straight!”

They careered down a dip, then up again, more slowly. If they stopped now, they’d spot him. But they kept going, sometimes coming to a complete halt before lurching off again over the uneven terrain. Snared like a rabbit he was, unable to untangle himself from—

“Hey! Hey there!” There was movement in the back of the wagon. “Where are you going? No, this path leads nowhere. Can’t you see, yonder? Turn about! Back to the main road and round the hill!”

They gathered speed and swung left. Harold bashed against the wagon. Then they swirled around to the right and he flew away from the side, the sound of galloping hoof and ripping net in his ears as he was hurled into the air and thrown onto the grass. He fought off the netting and scrambled to his feet, watching with dismay as the wagon rattled out of sight.

“Oh no!” he groaned. “Rath! I’m sorry! What am I going to do now?”

Where would the wagon be going? To the east was Southernwood River, if he wasn’t mistaken. They must be taking Rath around the hills to the west and then south.

“Maybe I can catch up with them!” he cried, turning about. “We’ve come a good way up this path. It’ll take them a while to get back onto the road, and then—”

Not far off stood an enormous tree. He was in Ashenwood, wasn’t he? And there was only one tree this could be! His favorite character from
Tree Tales
: Master Ash.

Harold ran along the path and into the thicket. His mouth fell open. This must be the tallest tree he’d ever seen. Healthy, too, despite the hollow in his trunk. Could Master Ash write? Rath’s treequill was still in his trouser pocket. Oh, there was no harm in trying, was there?

“Let’s see if you’re as clever as Old Elm, my dear Master Ash!”

He scribbled the first lines of Hortus’ poem:

“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.”