The Mazer (4 page)

The gallery was just as she remembered it: cold, dark, and damp. It led all the way round the temple courtyard, and she followed the benches lining the stone walls until she reached the garden door in the eastern gallery that led into a courtyard where the Yew of Yewlith grew.

At one time, the gallery had been separated from the garden by wooden panels, removed over the summer months so that visitors could sit on the cool benches and enjoy the greenery. The wood screen had later been replaced by timber frames and brick, so now the galleries were always completely enclosed. What a shame! Silva would have loved to come here in summer, tend to the garden, maybe even write and draw. The Southernwooders weren’t interested in this wonderful place. They were scared of it. They couldn’t bear looking at the Tree Tower, finding its stone branches ugly and threatening. But Silva wondered if there were a land across the seas where such trees grew, and who had seen them, and who, with but a memory of their strange grandeur, had built one here in stone to guard the temple.

The Yew, not tall, but very wide, stood in the middle of the yard. His trunk, burnished with flaky red and gray bark, wriggled into the earth. Green needles in their precise rows ran up his branches. This garden had once boasted beautiful climbers around the gallery tops, potted plants and shrubs along the paths, an alpine rockery in one corner, an herb and rose patch in another, and a low wattle fence around the base of the Yew. As had been the custom of those days, visitors brought trinkets and mementos of family occasions to decorate the fence: ribboned bells, purses of rose petals from a wedding, daisy crowns for a newborn, pebbles, laced hearts, bunches of leaves collected by the children who would have loved racing round the path surrounding this dear garden—and now, just look! Nothing remained but the Yew who surely missed the days when people celebrated their dead by rejoicing in the living.

“Nobody ever comes here, do they, Great Yew?” She smiled. “But you are ever green! Always here for all of us, alive or dead. You are…”

Yes. He really was the greatest, greenest tree of them all, wasn’t he!

Was this the tree Isleaf had spoken of?

“Then below the greenest tree,

You can set the island free.”

What was below?

“Mother’s vault!” she exclaimed.

“Silva! Where are you?” called Winifred.

Silva returned to the gallery. The sacks had disappeared. Winifred stood in the doorway of the keeper’s room and grinned.

“There you are. The ponies are happy in their stable. There were some bundles of firewood in there, too, so I’ll set the fire and get this room warmed up. Why don’t you make up our beds? I’ve put the mattresses on each side of the fireplace. That lantern I brought from the Albatorium can sit by the door. Then we’ll unpack everything else and make ourselves at home.”

There was no arguing with Winifred. Silva pulled blankets out of the sacks and laid them on the mattresses. Then she found their supplies of bread, wine, and the now crushed apple tarts. They sat down and ate, blankets round their shoulders, listening to the wind howl down the chimney.

“Winifred, I must tell you about another leaf that Isleaf wrote today.”

“Hm!” grunted Winifred. “That pastry’s a touch dry. Show us the leaf, then. What did he say this time?”

“He said I’d have to set the island free. He wouldn’t give me the leaf. The words vanished. I’ve never seen that before. Have you?”

Winifred brushed the crumbs off her blanket. “Vanished? You mean, back into the leaf?”

“Yes! I read them, and then they sank back the same way they came out. I’d got a bit angry with him, I admit, but they can’t hear what you’re saying, can they, the trees?”

Winifred shook her head. “They can’t hear, no. If they can, I dread to think what they might have heard me say over the years. Are you sure Isleaf isn’t ill, you know, with the treesmoke and everything?”

That could be true. He certainly hadn’t been himself.

“And as for freeing the island,” continued Winifred, “I think you should forget about that. Setting us free from what? The treesmoke? Hardly a tragedy. Seen it before; will see it again. And if our island needs rescuing from something worse than that, I’d be interested to know how you’d do it. I mean, you’re not exactly…”

It was easy to imagine what Winifred had been going to say. Not exactly the man, let alone the woman, for the job. Not someone who had an awful lot of influence. And most definitely not the kind of person you’d expect to run to the rescue of a whole island!

“No, Winifred, I agree. I’m ‘not exactly’ anything, am I?”

The flames crackled in the grate. The gale buffeted the walls outside. The two women looked at each other and smiled.

“You’re everything you need to be, Silva, according to Isleaf,” said Winifred softly. “Don’t mind what I say. Remember who you are: daughter of Eldis and Zossimo. That counts for a lot with these trees. No, what I meant was that if our island is in danger, what could you or I do about it? We’re not in charge—more’s the pity, for when I think about those men leading us, I simply despair. Apart from Filibert, of course. I’m sure he does a splendid job. It’s a shame I didn’t tell him about our trip. He’d mentioned the Tree Tower and how much he’d like to see it again, although I’d struggle to get up those stairs, dearie me!”

“I’ve been up there with Father,” said Silva. She could only recall how scared she’d been standing on the top of the tower. It had been as windy then as it was now. “Who do you think built that tower, Winifred?”

“Oh, I don’t think anybody knows. My father said the stone came from the mines over by Ashenwood. The original gallery walls and the crypt date from before the Dark Days, and that old Yew, well, I suppose he’s been here just as long. I came here with my dear father, too. He used to help treat the wood rot, sweep the floors and stairs, and do odd jobs around the place. He liked it here, I think.”

Silva remembered the man; when Mother had died, he’d accompanied them to Yewlith for the burial and then found Silva the old fisherman’s cabin on the beach. She sighed.

“Yes, Winifred, I’m sure he did. I’m sorry he’s not with us now. Yewlith isn’t looking its best. Father wouldn’t have let this place end up in such a state, not if he’d known…” She could hardly speak. Father could never have imagined his wife dying so soon after he’d prepared the vault.

“Tell you what, Silva,” said Winifred, “why don’t you visit the crypt? I’ll come down in a bit if my legs will carry me!” She yawned, snuggled down on her mattress, and shut her eyes.

So Silva lit the lantern and set off downstairs, reaching a heavy grilled door that she pushed open to reveal a small vestibule. The silent crypt stretched out before her, and she walked slowly past the vaults. Here and there, twisted roots from the Yew in the garden above poked through the ceiling, casting their trailing shadows on the walls and floor.

Mother’s vault hadn’t been disturbed. She set the lantern on the shelf above, next to the precious, unusually shaped piece of driftwood that she’d brought here ten years ago. It was Bassan’s, but he’d given it to her even though she hadn’t wanted it at the time.

Bassan had just started work for Zossimo at the Albatorium. She’d been about nine years old. She’d gone into the laboratory to see Father, and Bassan was sitting at one of the desks, the driftwood in front of him.

“Wood from another land, this is, Silva,” he’d said.

She’d asked him how he knew it wasn’t from the island. “Oh, I know the trees here, Silva, all of them. I’ve never seen anything like this,” and he’d stroked the rough, gray wood. It was full of holes, sand, and lichen. A large rusted nail bent into its core. It smelled, too, of stale salt water and rotten fish. That man found beauty in the strangest things. But she’d grown to love it. As a teenager, she’d examine it to see if she could find any clue of its homeland. She took it and held it to her nose. It smelled the same.

She put it back and felt in her pocket for the box. “I’ve brought you some of your favorite golden rain seeds, Mother. Teardrops in a golden basket, you used to call them. These are from last year, see? I kept them just for you.” She carefully placed the delicate seed pods around the inscription on top of the vault:

Eldis Leon

Wife of Zossimo

Born 1084 years after the Dark Days

Died 1125

and

Child of Eldis and Zossimo

Never born, forever loved.

The lantern light danced briskly. Cool air brushed her face, and the papery pods rustled. Was Mother sighing? Just like Isleaf had said! But no, she was being silly. This was a draught from the shelf above. Maybe some root had grown through the back of the shelf, or perhaps a little creature had dug its way out from somewhere. Somewhere beneath the greenest tree? And she thought again of Isleaf’s words.

“Now, Mother, remember Isleaf? He told me…oh, it doesn’t matter what, but I’m going to have to climb up here. Good job Winifred can’t see me!”

She climbed onto the vault to get a better view. This shelf went back quite some way. In fact, it didn’t look like a shelf at all from this angle. She moved the driftwood to one side, and wriggled into the opening, holding the lantern in front of her. Even through her clothes, the stone chilled her stomach. She reached out with one hand. Nothing there but cold air. So she wriggled some more. She’d have to crawl backwards to get out, and if Winifred were here, all she’d see were Silva’s feet poking out from above the vault.

She shuffled along. Then the tunnel roof opened up above, and she got up.

She was in a cavern. The ceiling and walls were polished. The ground was flat. The wall at the far end was a huge square. She walked towards it, her steps echoing around her. In front of the wall stood a table, also square, with a circular indentation in the middle of it. Was it part of an ancient temple? Winifred had said the crypt was built before the Dark Days.

She put the lantern down and looked back at the tunnel entrance. There was, indeed, a flow of fresh air through here. And—how unusual—the cavern was completely empty. Not a box, not a chair, no fireplace, no firewood. Only that peculiar table. So she turned again, looking carefully at the square wall, stepping around the table and towards the end of the cavern. Then she spotted an archway in the left corner where it seemed a door should be, and as she approached it, she could feel the breeze. Better not bring the lantern. This might take her outside. At least she wouldn’t have to squeeze through that tunnel again.

Through the arch, and then a right turn. She must now be behind the square wall. In the last of the light that flickered through the archway, Silva stopped. In front of her loomed a large, black, twisting shape, crawling its way from the depths beyond. She moved closer. Her hand reached out, touching. Wood, old wood, surely? Her fingers trembled, and she let go in shock, as where she had touched, light shimmered, spreading outward, brighter and brighter, and she saw it at last, the giant bundle of roots, Yew roots of brilliant green, wending their way down the passageway ahead. And then, slowly, the light faded from where she’d set her hand. Darkness crept along the root until there was nothing left to see.

It was pitch black. The candle in the lantern must have gone out. Silva backed out of the passageway and through the arch. She stood still. This was the place. Under the tree. A very strange place indeed. But she couldn’t for the life of her imagine what could happen down here.

She felt her way around the smooth walls to the tunnel. She bent down and crawled in, quickly pulling herself through to the crypt, knocking the driftwood onto the floor. Then she swung her legs down to the ground, slithered off the vault, and searched for the wood.

She found it. From under her heel came a delicate crunch; she’d squashed one of the seed pods. She sighed impatiently, returned the driftwood to the shelf, and traced the top of the vault gently with the side of her hand to find any remaining golden rain seeds, putting them into her pocket where her box still sat. She placed the palms of her hands onto the vault and closed her eyes.

“Mother, did you know there was a room behind here? The Yew grows down into the ground and gives a light you’d love to see. I’m sure Father would have loved it, too.”

Fear cut through her stomach. Isleaf knew of the cavern, and Father must have learned of it. He’d known every part of the island, every tree, every plant, every animal. He was the author of the
Arboral
. He’d known everything. Maybe he’d known too much. He might have built the vault to hide the tunnel entrance. And why would he have done that?

Mother’s voice danced through her mind:

“Sit still, Silva child, for here is the tale of an island you know,

Where high from the hills the fresh waters flow,

And trees you could never imagine do grow

By greenhouses lit by the sun of the sky,

Whence long ago, from the Tree Star on high,

Came a leaf, floating down to the sea of our earth,

Lighting soft on the waves, the isle of our birth,

Land of life, wood, leaf, shoot,

Twig, branch, trunk, root!”

Mother had laughed, tickling Silva’s fingers, arms, belly, and legs, as she recited the last line, and Silva had giggled and squirmed about on her mother’s lap, turned to her, leaned against her warmth, her softness, imagining herself to be a tree, and wondering what it must be like to have your legs growing underground and whether she would be able to wriggle her feet.