The Mazer (29 page)

Master Ash replied immediately:

“That’s easy. The Maple!”

Harold blinked, frowned, and then sucked the top of the treequill. So the Ash knew of the Maple. He’d know Great Aspen, too, of course—hadn’t he told the islanders to live by that tree? That’s what
Tree Tales
said. Did the Ash know of the other famous trees of Southernwood? The Oak? The Yew of Yewlith? More than likely. He thought of the map he’d once seen in Bassan’s laboratory. How lavish it was compared to the dull, workaday maps he’d studied at school! If you’d never laid foot on the island, you’d have thought it was crammed with interesting places to visit. Lush green forests, rich blue rivers, roads twisting like roots, a sturdy ship by Deep Dock, higgledy-piggledy houses representing Southernwood City and a brilliant white semi-circle marking the Albatorium. Flower-shaped gardens, large tree leaves—the ash leaf in the middle labeled Master Ash—and coastlines of golden beach, silver rock and white cliff separating the island from the sea, where fish jumped, boats sailed, and…he’d been too afraid Bassan would catch him to look at the map any longer. Too afraid to read the tiny notes in the margins. He felt afraid now. Why?

He glanced up. Two knives were embedded in the trunk above. He took another leaf.

“Was Silva here?” he wrote.

“She was indeed.”

Should he believe this tree? That answer had come even faster than the first.

“How do you know?”

“Newborn she was, when I first met

Zossimo’s child. I’ll ne’er forget

His words to me that sunny day.

But what he wrote I will not say.”

“Is Silva safe? There are knives in your trunk!”

“I kept her safe. She wrote, so sweet,

Her thankful praise upon my leaf!

Since then Ash stands in grievous woe

For where she went I do not know.

With fearful steps she left my wood,

And help I’d give, if help I could.”

So Master Ash had protected Silva. What a wonderful tree! Harold didn’t hesitate to reply:

“She’s going to the Round Tower. Do you know where that place is?”

He waited. What? Wasn’t Master Ash going to answer? No, he wasn’t. So that was the end of the conversation, was it? He’d been tricked, good and proper!

“You sneaky tree!” he snarled. “Found out what you wanted to know, did you? Congratulations, Master Ash. Not such a wonderful tree after all!”

He stowed the leaves in his pocket and hurried out of the clearing, following the path and the river south through the darkness towards the Ashenwood road and Yewlith.

***

He’d return to the Ash. The Almanagic wasn’t going to boss him about! Maybe he should have arrested him. But the old fellow was right. It would make no difference. Imagine throwing the Almanagic into jail and interrogating him. Ridiculous! After all, the Almanagic had never used the Mazer, had he?

No, he hadn’t said that. He’d only said Zossimo hadn’t used it. Not quite the same thing.

“Well, of course it’s not the same thing!” he shouted.

But the Almanagic had made it seem the same. As cunning as ever. How old was he? And where had he hidden himself all these years? He’d spoken of other lands. Other worlds across the oceans, he’d said. How could he know that? He had no ship, no friends, nothing!

Bassan sat uncomfortably on one of the stools in front of the Almanagic’s cold fireplace. The copy of Hortus’ poem lay on the dirty rug before him. The Mazer stood on the low table.

He’d sent Filibert on with the guard. The Treasurer would have to go without his dinner tonight. What a pity! And Arpad? They’d tried rousing him, but the man was out cold, a sickly yellow hue on his face. No key to be found, either. Why had he come to the Ash? Doubtless on his way to meet the others. They might take days to find what they were looking for. He’d be ready for them in Yewlith, though. That would shock them!

It was dark in here. No firelight. No candle. He was waiting. And it seemed his patience would be rewarded. The Mazer began to shimmer. Faintly at first, then stronger. The trees appeared: Master Aspen, thin, transparent, barely a drop of life left in him. The Oak much the same, leaning over as if coughing up his last sap. And the Maple?

He frowned. The guard should have destroyed her by now. Were her branches more bedraggled? Was she floating a little lower? It was hard to tell.

The Yew still stood strong. It was imperative he get to Yewlith as soon as possible and chop that rude old tree right down to the ground.

He pulled the Mazer close, poking his nose into the light. Master Aspen stirred. His long branches flew up into the air, flailing about madly, and then bent towards him, grasping at his eyes and face.

He sat up quickly. How did the Aspen know he was there? The star shot around the sides of the Mazer again. The cup darkened; the star disappeared; all was black. It always went black after the star.

“So you made the Mazer, Hortus,” he whispered. “You saw, in ages past, what I have seen. How did you imagine such a thing? Though I understand from your poems that you are a man of great imagination, great sorrow, too.”

He gritted his teeth, swayed back on the stool, then bent forward, clasping his hands together. He’d always thought he had the measure of these trees, always believed that the balance of power between tree and man tilted toward the latter. But these poems of Hortus had surprised him. Hortus may have been a man of the trees, but he was not of this island. No. As much as he’d loved this place, he belonged elsewhere. One of those lands the Almanagic had spoken of, perhaps. One of those lands Father had dreamed of discovering. Maybe there were silent trees in that place. What kind of world would that be? A better one?

The door blew open. A book toppled onto the floor from the shelves.

“Time for us to talk, Master Ash!” He shuffled Hortus’ poems together, wrapped them in his bag along with the Mazer, and picked up the book, an old, scuffed copy of
Tree Tales
. So the Almanagic had this book, too! He opened it up. Not the Almanagic’s. A neat script above the title proclaimed, “This book belongs to Zossimo Leon.”

He shook his head, thrust
Tree Tales
into his bag, and shut the door firmly. Then he led his horse over the bridge, up the hill, and down towards the Ash.

“I am Bassan. I am Bassan. I am Bassan!” He laughed, angry now, for it still rankled that even Great Ash enjoyed this piffling nicety. Who else would it have been, this dreary night?

“I know you are.” Master Ash replied smartly, and the leaf fell off.

These long tree conversations were always a bother what with bending down to pick up dropped leaves and reaching up to find suitable fresh ones. Still, it was worth the trouble now that he had pleasant news.

“I am Legator.” Hah! What would old Ash have to say about that!

“Congratulations.”

Despite himself, he smiled. He’d have said the same in the circumstances. How alike they were! But Master Ash was making a big mistake. For this tree was too puffed up with his own importance to worry about Bassan turning against him. This tree thought he was indispensable. And he was. For the moment.

“The Aspen is poisoned, dying. The Oak destroyed by our friendly fig.”

“And Maple? Yew?”

“Their death comes also.”

“Then things will be as they once were.”

“And how was that?”

“I alone, Master of the island.”

Alone? He didn’t like the sound of that! Time to find out more.

“And the Mazer?”

Master Ash stood quite still before replying,

“The Mazer is no danger. You have it?”

“I do. I also have the Mazer keys.”

A little lie, but very effective. The Ash was lost for words. His branches bristled; his trunk creaked; then he composed himself, saying jauntily,

“Better still! Then you understand everything.”

Not everything. Not very much at all.
The Book of Hortus
hadn’t told him how to use the keys, let alone what would happen when he did.

“I learned from
The Book of Hortus
.”

Master Ash paused. Then his leaves glowed feverishly:

“Hortus! He it was who made

Me Master Ash. To me he gave

The power of the island’s trees.

If you possess the Mazer keys,

Then you, Bassan, shall now restore

Those glorious times, long gone. No more

Shall Aspen, Maple, Oak or Yew

Rule Ash! How they must rue the day

They ripped my roots, my power, away.

I vowed that once again I’d be

The island’s only master tree!

Oh, sweet revenge! Did I not tell

The trees who tried to stop me then

That if they ever tried again

I’d kill them all! Yes, every one!

And now this work is nearly done!

Fungus, fig, fire, fell!”

This was no good. It sounded as though his own position as Legator would be secondary to that of Master Ash. But for the moment, he’d better swallow his pride, pacify this arrogant lump of wood, and set off to Yewlith.

“Then Master you shall be. And I, Bassan, am now as Hortus was to you, am I not?”

The branch jerked back. The leaf fluttered away. Bassan stooped, groping about in the dark, desperate to see what was written there—ah! Found it!

“No, you are not!”

What!

“Can you explain?” wrote Bassan.

“Exactly that! Silva was here.”

This made no sense at all. And what did Master Ash mean by saying, “No you are not?” What a muddle! He had to compose himself.

“What did you learn about Silva?”

“She goes alone to the tower by Spinney Henge.”

Oho! In that case, he’d ride to Yewlith, kill the Yew, and then take the guard to the Round Tower.

“We shall talk again,” he scrawled, “when I return to Ashenwood. To victory!”

“Oh,” wrote Master Ash. “It seems you have not learned as much as you promised, Bassan. Never mind. We shall, as you say, speak again—and very soon. Good-bye!”

***

She made Spinney Henge by nightfall. The stones marked the beginning of the path Hortus spoke of. The Round Tower stood at the other end. She’d been here once with Father. They’d come from Yewlith. Not a long journey, but one that had taken her to a part of the island that seemed quite different to anything she’d ever experienced. The vast plain was bordered on the north by forests of pine, spruce, fir, and birch stretching from Maplewood in the east across to the western shore. Few dared—or bothered—to enter them. Wild forest it was, clinging to valley and hill before dropping down to the steep cliff tops lining its northern edge. No beach below to speak of, the fishermen had told her; treacherous currents, too.

“All in all, I suppose I’m fortunate I don’t have to go running about up there tonight,” she panted, throwing herself down by the henge. The ground was cold. The stonework was even colder. How smooth it was! It glinted silver in the bright moonlight. Her box sat in her pocket next to Hortus’ poem about the Round Tower. She took out the key and held it up. Hortus watched her. Was he smiling? It seemed so. No wonder, for she’d just noticed something quite extraordinary.

“Tell me, Hortus” she whispered, turning the key over and placing it against the stone, “why are these henge stones and your key made of the same material?”

She put the key away and then walked into the center of the henge and looked around. Seven long, flat stones surrounded a larger, circular boulder in the middle on which Father had stood, bowed, and addressed the stones around him: “You there! To the northeast! I’ll call you Maplestone. You! To the southeast—you’re Oakstone! South is easy. Aspenstone! Southwest? Yewstone! And you three? Let’s see. How about Towerstone for you? The Round Tower always wanted to be a tree, didn’t he? And er…well, what do you think about these two, Silva? Any suggestions?”

“What about the stone you’re standing on?” she’d shouted.

Zossimo had stamped his feet. “Old as stone, cold as stone, friends about but all alone? This is the Ashstone, of course!”

Stones named for trees? That was typical of Father. He’d never named the last two stones, though, had he? Still, his idea about the Towerstone was interesting. Why would the Round Tower want to be a tree?

She picked up her bag and trudged west through thorn and trailing weed. The tower stood on a small mound. Perhaps that was why she remembered a taller, more impressive structure, not this rather squat building that had tried to make itself more tree-like by welcoming the ivy that smothered its walls and overhung a door set into the eastern side. She pushed away the heavy boughs, peered through the door, and then hesitated. It was pitch black inside.

“I’m by the ivy wall, Hortus. No seagulls at the moment. Oh, never mind about them. Now—reveal the key!”