The Mazer (7 page)

The tree trunk was split, revealing a hollow. Its branches, dark budded, headed up into the sky.

“This tree still lives,” panted Bassan.

“Oh yes, he’s old, this one, and has suffered. But he comes into leaf every year, albeit late for the season. You know him also from rumor and story. Or, should I say, legend. Master Bassan, meet Master Ash.”

Wisps of mist trailed round Bassan’s face, and he looked at the monstrous girth of the old tree, almost expecting him to say “How do you do?” Instead, a plume of fine dust blew out of the trunk.

“Master Ash? He really exists?” asked Bassan, climbing into the hollow. It was warm in here.

“This tree is indeed your Master Ash of long ago,” said the Almanagic. “His purpose was to protect the island, not unlike your own position, Master Bassan. But when he became unable to do so, his power was removed by other masters.”

“So there are other master trees,” said Bassan.

The Almanagic’s eyes gleamed through the crack in the tree trunk.

“Yes, Master Bassan. Zossimo has long learned this. And that is why I am here, and why the city was destroyed, and why you are in that tree. Look down, if you will.”

Bassan peered at his feet.

“The hollow behind you widens at the base,” said the Almanagic.

Bassan twisted round and bent his knees, trying to keep as straight as possible while lowering himself to reach into a space crammed with splinters, dead insects, and rotten leaves. When he shifted the rubble out with his hands, a damp brown dust filled the inside of the trunk.

“But this is just stupid! There’s nothing to see in here.” The tickling spelks in Bassan’s throat made him cough hard, and when he opened his eyes, the space before him shimmered with a familiar green glow.

“Oh!” He stopped short. A bedraggled sapling poked out of the depths of the Ash, one leaf shining brighter than the others.

“Help me,” he read.

The leaf fell off into his shaking hand. Quick! Where was his treequill?

“As you can see, this tree is very much alive,” came the voice of the Almanagic. “But he speaks only to himself these days. Never wants a quiet chat, not with me, no!” The Almanagic stamped his feet and laughed, a kind of gasping, hiccupping sound.

Bassan collected his thoughts. Had the Ash been connected to the other master trees? If so, that connection had been cut off, pulling the city apart and causing enough havoc to kill almost every living thing in this valley. But there was still power here. And there was only one answer to give to Master Ash.

So he wrote as clearly as he could on one of the leaves, “I am Bassan. I will help you.”

“I’d come out now if I were you,” said the Almanagic. “We don’t want you getting stuck. My old tree friend still has a few tricks up his branches, and I suppose you’ll need to check the guard isn’t sitting on the job. Zossimo wouldn’t be pleased!”

The Almanagic’s voice grew distant. Bassan turned round and squeezed out of the hollow. The Almanagic had left the tree clump and was pacing back along the path. What an extraordinary character, but useful, too. When had this Almanagic come to live in Ashenwood? Was it possible he knew more about the trees on the island than Zossimo?

He remembered leaving the Ash and following the path back over the hill towards the horses and carts. By the time all the petrified wood had been checked and the workmen sent on their way, the Almanagic had disappeared. He’d never seen him since.

The bell rang. Bassan sat up with a start and banged his head on the back of his chair. It was time.

***

Bassan lingered in his laboratory for a while, then went upstairs. Most of the Session members had voted and left. Filibert was still here, though. The Treasurer looked at him questioningly, but he said nothing; they were not allowed to talk, anyway. Filibert walked across the Session and onto the terrace, closing the doors behind him. Bassan went up to the Legator’s chamber.

To his surprise, Wystan was sitting at his desk, his back to Bassan. This room was small and simple, filled with bookshelves, a couple of stools, a couch covered with an old cloth, and a desk by the window overlooking the city. Only one side of the tree trunk came through here, with steps leading up to the roof, where Trevello would supervise the election.

“So, you’ve come to vote, Bassan. I hope you have a suitable candidate in mind? No, don’t tell me; we don’t want to break any rules, do we?”

Wystan stood up, turned round, and looked at his brother.

Bassan was shocked. This was not the man he knew. Wystan’s bright, short curls were grayer; his face was tense, his body shrunken. His usually twinkling, silver eyes were dull.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, Bassan. I never expected opposition from you, of all people. Not that I’ve ever relied on family for position or power, with only our poor mother to take care of us. I’ve always led our people to the very best of my ability. I’ve done a good job; Zossimo would have been proud of me. And you? Can you say the same? I hope so, Bassan, I really do.”

And with that, he shuffled to the stairs and began to make his way down.

Bassan watched the candlelight flickering on the chamber walls. Outside, a few shouts, but no real signs of disorder. Not the freshest air out there, it was true, but nobody would come to any harm. He’d make sure of that. As for this chamber, the next occupant wouldn’t have any trouble settling in. Wystan had already removed his belongings from the desk. But who would wish to use this sorry looking place for anything?

He climbed up onto the roof to find Trevello waiting for him.

“Bassan. You are the last member to cast your vote. Once you’ve finished, you can leave. You’ve got your own treequill? Good. I’ll wait down in the Legator’s office.”

Trevello heaved himself through the opening in the roof. Bassan looked up. They usually wrote on leaves growing from a higher branch. There were a few little steps carved into the tree so that the Session members could reach them. The steps were well worn. In summer, the Albatorium Session opened its doors to the public, encouraging them to observe how the government of Southernwood was run, and there was always a queue to come up here and write a personal message on Great Aspen’s leaves. Each visitor was given a certificate, shaped like an aspen leaf, just as the island was, with the date and their name written on it by one of the scribes sitting at Wystan’s desk—what had been Wystan’s desk, of course.

Bassan took hold of a leaf, and started to write. The leaf glowed green; the name disappeared. Now the tree had all the names, and they would wait until morning for the result. But for him, his work this night was done.

***

The night was nearly gone; soon the sun would rise over Southernwood, and a new day, his day, would come. Bassan did not doubt that Great Aspen would agree with the majority of the Session and choose him as Legator.

He dozed in his chamber. The air was chilly, and he pulled another blanket over him, digging deep into his pillow to lay his head flatter and get some rest before the busy day ahead.

From the corridor came muffled shouts from the guards, bangs from the door of the icehouse and the thud and roll of barrels past the wall behind him. Soon the stairs around the tree trunk would bear the feet of the Albatorium staff, up and down and round and back up again.

He’d walked down those same stairs himself that evening long ago, just after sunset, and met Rath, Zossimo’s newest apprentice.

“Good evening, Rath. Have you seen our Legator? I need to ask him about the work for next week.”

“Zossimo rode to Oakenwood this afternoon,” said Rath. “He dismissed the guard and told me he’d return when the new Session begins. He asked me to tidy his laboratory, and leave the keys inside the door for the guard to lock up later.”

Zossimo trusted this young pup enough to let him into the laboratory alone, did he?

“Very good. So, do you happen to know what work is planned for us?”

“We’re going to check the root bridge in Skeps Wood,” said Rath. “It’s grown wild and dangerous with all the rain lately.”

“If that’s true, why didn’t Zossimo tell me before he left? That’s a dirty job, and we’ll need guardsmen to help us. Won’t be easy to organize over the next couple of days, will it?”

“The guard have been told, Master Bassan. I saw them myself earlier. They’ll meet us here to depart at dawn on the first day of Session.”

“I’m glad everything is so well organized, Rath. Then let us go home and rest. This past Session has tired me, and you too, I suppose.”

“Oh, Master Bassan, no, not at all. I’ve learned so much this year already, and I enjoy the work, to be honest with you.” Rath nodded enthusiastically, and continued up the stairs.

Bassan followed him up to the Albatorium entrance.

“Good evening to you, Master Bassan. Rest well!”

“Good evening to you, too, Rath,” said Bassan.

The young man ran down the steps and set off for the Homesteads. Bassan hastened back downstairs, entered the laboratory, and shut the door, leaving the keys in the lock.

He lit a new lamp, pulled back the tapestry, climbed into the tunnel, and made his way underground to Oakenwood.

He emerged not far from Great Oak. Night had fallen. He knocked the dirt out of his socks and shoes, dusted down his clothes, and wiped his grimy face with his handkerchief.

“Bassan! What in the name of Ashenwood are you doing here?”

“Oh, Zossimo! You startled me. I went to find you in your office, saw the tapestry moving, and discovered a tunnel. It leads straight here from your laboratory, and the roots follow the tunnel, too, Zossimo, such roots! They glow, alive and green. It’s incredible!”

“It’s extremely dangerous for you to have come this way. There are parts of the island that no man should interfere with.”

“Oh, I understand that. I was worried about your safety, not mine. After all, you’re alone here. Why don’t we go into the greenhouse where it’s warmer?”

They entered the greenhouse next to the Oak and sat on a couple of upturned buckets just inside the door. Now it was too hot; the air was thick and moist, and Bassan began to sweat.

“Bassan, why did you come?”

“I wanted to talk to you. You know as well as I that the trees are special: these trees are more than alive. No one on this earth could imagine the treasure we have here. But, Zossimo, you carry this responsibility yourself. You are Legator and Librarian. It’s all too much. You’ve led us through the last fifteen years wonderfully, but the moment has come, you must agree, to share those responsibilities with those you trust—with me!”

“But I’m not sure I do trust you, Bassan.”

Bassan was speechless. How could Zossimo say this? Ten years he’d worked for the man!

“You know there are other master trees.”

“Yes, Zossimo, this is true.”

“Tell me something. You learned of the island’s master trees from the Almanagic a long time ago. Yet you’ve never asked me about them. Why’s that? You keep your thoughts and intentions hidden, I see. And those are stronger than any weapon.”

“Weapon? What are you saying? I mean you no harm. But what will the Albatorium think when they discover that you have also hidden what you’ve learned about the trees? Zossimo, it’s time to share your knowledge, at least with me. Let me take over the librarianship, and we will say nothing of the master trees to the Albatorium Session.”

“How can you contemplate speaking of this to the Session? You don’t even understand the matter yourself!”

“Where’s the master tree in the north? Why do the Aspen roots glow in such a fashion? Isn’t it true that the trees rule this island, not you?”

“These trees are intelligent, wise, yes. They communicate, and they have their own power. But any power can be used for good or evil by man, and if you pursue this any further, Bassan, you could put us all in terrible danger. I will not let you use the power of these trees for your own gain.”

“But it wouldn’t be for my own gain. We could work together. What a force we would be! Just imagine, with you as Legator and me as Librarian, we could rule the people and the trees and use our knowledge to control more than just this small island. You know there are other islands, don’t you? My father was convinced of it. Just think. People believe in the trees and their words. Through the trees we could command the islanders in any way we see fit, and they wouldn’t even realize we were doing it!”

“How would you do that? Lie to the people about what the trees say? Forge a few leaves to convince the Session to do your bidding? Or lie to the trees of our island? Threaten them, even? Hasn’t your apprenticeship taught you anything? Our trees are neither weak nor gullible, believe me!”

“Oh, Zossimo, come on! You can’t lie to a tree. After all, it’s only a tree!”

“You’re mad.” Zossimo got up and opened the door. What was he doing? Would he light the signal fire to alert the guards at Deep Dock?

Bassan grabbed Zossimo’s arm and pulled him back into the greenhouse. They both fell, grappling with each other, until Bassan rolled away and stood up, panting, an ax in his hand.

“Come on Zossimo! Tell me about these trees. So you think I’m mad? Not as mad as you! You’re so protective of these trees, of your own position, of this island, of everything. You leave nothing for others; you give nothing to me, and you know what? I’m not going to wait any longer to—”