The Mazer

by C. K. Nolan

  But wait—this was no stump. It had moved and was standing up! There was nowhere for her to hide, but the man—and it must be a man with that tightly fastened cowl almost completely covering his head and wide shoulders—didn’t look up, but reached out to uproot each stick by turn. Then he scrambled up to the top of the bank and disappeared.

  She hung her bag on a branch and moved towards the spot where the man had been standing. Only a circle of holes remained. Each hole oozed a thick liquid that trickled through the undergrowth, extinguishing the leaf light below.

  “What is this stuff?” said Silva. She gathered her cloak about her and bent down. “Black as ink, sticky as honey, with a filthy reek of decay, ugh!”

  Wisps of stinking steam whipped around her ankles. She’d head back to the bridge path. Who knew if the man would return? She wiped her fingers on her cloak, walked carefully over the leaves, unhooked her bag from the branch, and climbed back up the bank. The light in the hollow was almost gone. She hurried through the wood, and the path widened, joining the river road.

  Lamps burned on the bridge ahead. The wind had dropped, but a fine, soaking drizzle fell, seeping through her clothes and shoes, turning the sandy surface of the stone bridge into a slippery mush.

  “I’m wet. I’m cold. I’m dirty. The day hasn’t even begun, and I wish it were over. Mother, Father, Isleaf, Rath, some madman in the woods with sticks of stench. Is it any wonder that whenever I come into this cursed city, I’m ever so glad to get home to my bed and forget about everything, and I can’t even do that today! And that awful smell; it just won’t go away. Unless it’s coming from the papery, of course, but it’s a bit early for anyone to be working there now.”

  A bell rang in the distance. A cart clattered past her, reached the other side of the bridge, and then stopped at a hut by the edge of the road. That looked like Osbert from Quagfen getting down from the driving seat. It was hard to see in this weather. Why would he use this bridge? The fish cart always crossed the river farther downstream.

  Osbert entered the hut. Silva sped along, her bag bumping against her back. She could ask Osbert to take her to Winifred’s. But just as the hut door opened, she caught her foot on a broken stone and stumbled into a deep puddle. Water filled her shoes and dripped from the bottom of her bag, and by the time she’d steadied herself, Osbert had driven off in his cart. She’d have to walk.

  So walk she did. She took the back road round by the river muttering angrily to herself all the while. At last she reached Winifred’s house tucked away in a street between Homestead Bridge and the city gardens. There was no light from the windows.

  An enormous bunch of mint hung on the stout wooden door. Silva knocked. There was no answer. So she knocked harder, whispering furiously, “Winifred. Winifred! It’s me. Open the door!”

  A crumpled note fluttered out of the mint. Silva grabbed it, flattened it out, and read, “Session called. Albatorium kitchen in chaos. Back soon. Key in pail.”

  Winifred’s milk pail stood beside the doorstep. Silva lifted the lid, took out the key, and put it in the lock.

  ***

  A door slammed.

  “Silva! Where are you? Aha, here you are, my dear. Sorry I got delayed. What a to-do in the Albatorium! Bells ringing; Session members still in their night clothes by the looks of them, a bunch of dried up old fools tripping up the steps and into the hall and expecting a midnight feast served on a golden platter. I don’t know, I don’t know at all! And what’s that disgusting smell?”

  Silva felt like a sleepy, dried up old fool herself. She hadn’t even taken off her cloak. Her muddy shoes lay by the hearth.

  “Tread in something left behind by the horses, did you?” grinned Winifred, heaving a large hamper onto the table and opening the lid. A welcome aroma of freshly baked bread escaped into the room. Silva got up out of her very comfortable chair and stretched.

  “Oh, Winifred, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me on my way here.”

  “I’d believe anything in this city today, Silva. The whole place has gone mad. A gang of louts from the Homesteads were gathering about Quagfen Bridge last night, so the guard closed it. I think the Homesteaders are frightened of the treesmoke drifting across the river from Skeps Wood. They’re afraid their orchards will catch the rot, too. What are they going to do, get a few buckets of seawater and douse every tree around the city?”

  So that’s why Osbert had driven the long way round to Papery Bridge!

  “Anyway,” continued Winifred, “I think we’ve got enough to eat!” She beamed, holding up two huge loaves. She hadn’t brought only bread; there were bottles of wine, a pie dish covered in paper, a stack of boiled eggs, and a large ham wrapped in cloth.

  “I’m sure we won’t need all that. We’re only away for a night.”

  “Oh, you never know,” said Winifred, stuffing the bread into a bulging sack. “It’s hungry work riding up to Yewlith, and you’re looking a bit peaky. What have you been eating lately? Nothing, I expect. The wine will keep us warm and give us a little extra fortification. Just what we need!”

  “That’s a good—”

  “And it’s your birthday. I haven’t forgotten! Thought we could treat ourselves to a decent meal this evening. I was in the Albatorium kitchen until late last night. I had to get the scullery ready for today seeing as I’m not here, and then I came back home and fell asleep. The moment I dropped off, the bell rang. So it was back to the Albatorium again, and —” Winifred stopped for breath, pushing her long gray hair back from her face. “I had to check the ponies to make sure they were up to standard. Didn’t want the guardery to give us two old nags that can hardly see two trees in front of them!”

  Winifred put her hands on her hips, squinted at Silva, and then sneezed. “Oh! Excuse me!” she exclaimed, pulling a handkerchief out of an over-sized pocket on the front of her cloak. “I’d better not go down with a chill. When we get back I’ll have double the work to do. These men can’t decide on anything important without a lot of noise, fuss, and food. I’m glad to be getting away for a day or so, to tell you the truth, Silva. I haven’t seen anything of the island for ages. I’ve had my head stuck over the Albatorium stewing pots for months on end—and my poor hands! Look at them! Rough and raw. Ah, well.”

  Winifred stuffed her handkerchief away. Then she stepped towards Silva and hugged her.

  “Don’t you worry about me. It’s you we’ve got to worry about. Eldis, your lovely mother, she told me to watch over you, and that I did, and now we’re going to go and make sure she’s resting peacefully. Twenty years! It’s a long time. But we’ll never forget her. Come on, let’s pack everything onto the ponies and make a start.”

  Silva took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” she said. They’d talk about Isleaf and what had happened in the hollow later. She slipped her shoes on, picked up her bag, and helped Winifred haul their supplies outside. They checked their gear and then led their mounts along the wooden track towards Homestead Bridge.

  The streets were still damp, and the night mist hadn’t quite lifted, trapping the smell from the forest, an odor of hot earth, burning branch, and rotten root.

  “Winifred, does the Session know what’s going on in the wood? What’s Wystan doing about it?”

  Winifred turned to her and grimaced. “Not a lot. I think our usually capable Legator is finding things a bit tough of late. He’s relying on Bassan to concoct a cure for the treesmoke, but if you ask me, our Librarian hasn’t got a clue what to do about it, either. You’d think that somebody with his experience and training would be able to stir up a remedy for his beloved trees in an instant, wouldn’t you? But being Librarian, or Legator for that matter, doesn’t mean what it used to. Your father would never have let things get out of hand like Wystan has, and I’m sure that he’d be sorely disappointed with Bassan’s feeble efforts so far, sorely disappointed indeed!” Winifred stomped on ahead towards the bridge where a crowd of people were gathered around a boy selling milk and p
astries from a cart.

  Silva waited with the ponies and looked back towards the city. A bell began to toll. Winifred was right; Father would have known what to do. If he were still here, she’d be living in the Albatorium, with Mother too, of course, and she wouldn’t be going to Yewlith today. She wouldn’t have to return to her empty cabin tomorrow night. She might even have married and had children, but it was too late for that now.

  “That was a bargain!” said Winifred, dropping coin into her pocket with one hand and triumphantly clutching a basket of apple tarts with the other. “Freshly made, too. I could have done tastier myself, but I can’t cook everything for us and the Session as well. What’s that? Another bell? Huh! Don’t look so worried, dear,” and she walked past Silva, guiding the ponies onto the bridge. “I’m sure they’ll manage without me!”

  ***

  How pleasant it was to ride through the Homesteads! She hadn’t been here for years. This place had changed. Gone were the dilapidated huts drowning in weeds. Now there were cottage gardens to enjoy with willow woven portals over their gates and stepping-stone paths leading to porches draped with climbing roses and clematis, pink, purple, and white, their sweet scents mingling with thyme, sage, and spicy honeysuckle in the earthy air of new dawn.

  She’d kept to herself in her cabin. When she wasn’t busy at Quagfen, she’d walk along the coast to collect shells to paint and sell as ornaments. She’d explored the Southernwood shore and had started to record her findings, writing descriptions of the beaches, plant life, animals, and fishes. She’d even begun to try her hand at illustrating some of her observations after she’d woken one morning to find a family of dolphins playing in the sea not far from the cabin.

  Yes, she had a different life from these cottage people. Many Homesteaders were farmers, either out in the crop fields or here at home, tending their herbs, vegetables, and fruit trees. Others worked in the long barn where grain was stored or in the flour mills along the river. Some cottages were kept by city folk who came for rest days or festivals because it was such a pretty place, much prettier than she’d imagined. She really should think about getting herself a cottage once she’d finished writing about the coast.

  There were already people about, but the sound of galloping hooves made her look back. Behind them, a stout horse bore an even stouter rider, brown cloak flapping wildly around him. The figure waved, nearly slid off his saddle, and then shouted out, “Winifred! Silva! Hey, hey! Stop! It’s me, Filibert!”

  Silva turned her pony about. It was, indeed, Filibert, the Albatorium Treasurer. Whatever was he doing here?

  Filibert rode up to them. Sweat poured from his brow, but his dark eyes sparkled. “Thank the Great Ash I found you both! I can’t ride well at the best of times. If I hadn’t talked to that pastry boy, I wouldn’t have known where to find you.”

  Winifred laughed. “Didn’t you think to ask the guardery? They lent us the ponies. My word, Filibert, I’ve never seen you on a horse before. You look quite dashing!”

  Filibert blushed. “A compliment, Winifred? That’s unusual! I’m glad I’ve shown myself to be such an accomplished horseman.”

  “You are accomplished in many things, Filibert, and your skill on horseback is not the least among them. Have you come to filch a slice of my savory pie? I left you a special basket in the Albatorium kitchen. I hope none of the scullery maids have helped themselves to it. How will the finances of the island prosper if the Treasurer’s stomach is rumbling?”

  It was Filibert’s turn to laugh. “My good lady, the Treasurer’s stomach is, as always, rumbling, but the basket is safe in my office, worry not.” He turned his gaze, more serious now, to Silva. “Silva, the Session ask that you come immediately to the Albatorium.”

  “Immediately? Oh, Filibert! Is it about Rath?”

  “No. We have no news of him. The Session wants to speak to you about another matter.”

  Winifred frowned. “Why on earth do they want to see Silva?”

  “I can’t tell you, Winifred, I’m sorry. I can’t tell anyone. Silva, this is important. I must insist you accompany me back to Southernwood.”

  “What’s—” began Silva, but then Winifred launched forth.

  “Filibert Muchbright! Whatever is all this fuss about? Some silly whim of the Session? I mean, honestly, Filibert, words fail me. Can’t you men ever consider a lady’s feelings? No, don’t interrupt me! I can see you don’t know what I’m talking about. We’re going up to Yewlith to pay our respects to Silva’s mother. Don’t look so surprised! I’d have told you if you’d bothered to listen, and I’m certain the Session are far too busy to have noticed what day it is. You’re all so caught up in your petty arguments and power struggles. No—”

  “Winifred, please!” said Filibert. “I wouldn’t have ridden out if it wasn’t urgent. So, again, I must insist—”

  “Filibert!” shouted Winifred. “Haven’t you been listening to me? I said we’re not coming! Now get yourself back to the Albatorium, and tell those lazy oafs to sort out their own problems! Come on, Silva, we must go!” Winifred rode off along the path.

  Silva wasn’t sure whether to be worried or amused by Winifred’s outburst. “I’m sorry, Filibert. I must go to Yewlith today, and I’m very glad to have Winifred with me. I don’t know why she’s in such a bad mood all of a sudden.”

  “No, neither do I,” said Filibert. He wiped his brow and glanced up the path to where Winifred had stopped. “If you can’t come back with me, I understand. It’s your birthday, and yes, I, for one, had forgotten. I would advise you to return to the city, but if it is your decision to continue, I shall inform the Session of your plans. When do you expect to be back?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “Today is for my mother. Your journey was in vain, Filibert. But at least your riding finds favor with Winifred, and with me, also.”

  Filibert nodded. “Then my journey has not been wasted.”

  “Oh, no, not at all,” said Silva. “Can I ask you one question before you go? Do you know what a mazer is?”

  Filibert scratched his nose. “Hmm, there used to be those drinking cups called mazers, beautiful things they were when decorated, but I’ve not seen one for many years. They’ve gone out of fashion, I suppose. Now, I must be off. Return as fast as you can tomorrow. Until then, travel well, and keep safe!” And with that, Filibert set off towards Homestead Bridge.

  Silva joined Winifred who was waving a fan about her head in an effort to drive away a small cloud of flies.

  “Well, Silva, how strange! Filibert is quite a different man when he’s on official business. What do you think this is all about?”

  “No idea,” said Silva. “I haven’t met any of the Session for a long time, and if it’s nothing to do with Rath, I can only imagine it’s some matter concerning the woods near the cabin.”

  She rode on. It was odd that the Session had sent Filibert. Why not send one of the guard? Maybe Filibert had wanted to see Winifred. Yes, that must be it. Tomorrow she’d be back in Southernwood City. She could go to the Albatorium, talk to the Session, and by nightfall she should be home.

  ***

  It took them almost an hour to leave the Homesteads behind. They crossed the fields and headed for Falls River, visible in the distance only by the line of aspen, poplar, and willow running along it. While her pony stepped softly along the track, Winifred snoozed and occasionally sneezed on its back. The croplands were spacious, an ocean of green and yellow. But after a time, their novelty wore off and Silva looked forward to getting to the river and riding through the hills to Westernwood.

  They reached the river after midday and followed its path towards First Falls. The trees became a thick wood. Leaves rustled in the afternoon breeze, and clear water bubbled over the shiny stones on its journey to the sea.

  “Aha! We’re nearly where we want to be.” said Winifred. “See that outcrop of rock? There’s a nice little spot by the river up there, so we’ll soon rest and have a bite to eat. I’m
ravenous! I wonder how Lisette is coping in the kitchen. I expect Filibert has guzzled everything I prepared for him by now. I should have left him two baskets. Or even three. Or maybe I shouldn’t have left him anything at all, the rascal.”

  “So tell me, Winifred. You’ve never said much about Filibert, but he’s obviously a close acquaintance of yours.”

  “That’s true. I’ve known Filibert almost all my life. We went to the school by the Albatorium together. We live near each other in the city. He was appointed Treasurer after your father disappeared, and I came to work in the kitchen only a few weeks later, once we’d got you settled in your cabin, as you know. He’s a good man. His parents are very elderly, and he takes care of them. As soon as the Albatorium bell rings in the morning, he’s in his office. The moment it rings in the evening, he leaves work and returns home unless there’s some essential business to attend to. He’s actually a very good cook. That’s another reason we get along so well. There’s nothing he likes better than to sit at his desk with a slab of bread and cheese, some cold meat with vegetable pickle, and a mug of mead. He’s clever, too. Filibert can estimate the number of leaves on a tree faster than a sword severing a pudding!”

  Silva couldn’t imagine Filibert with a sword, although the pudding was another matter.

  “You’ll find that some people think Filibert is a rather greedy, selfish, insular man. And they’re right, in some ways. But he’s honest, too. Look! Here we are!”

  And Winifred carefully guided her pony towards a wide, willow-draped rocky step next to the river.

  They ate bread, ham chunks smeared with mustard, and some of the eggs. The wine sent Winifred straight to sleep, but Silva couldn’t rest. She sat up and took the leaf out of her pocket.

  Cries from her father in Oakenwood. It was true that the guards had said he was going to Oakenwood, although it was presumed he’d never arrived. His cloak and bag had been found near Rath’s cottage in the Homesteads by the riverbank, stained with blood. As for this Mazer, Isleaf seemed to think it was the most important thing of all. What had he said? Something about the Mazer’s key. Three gardens. And a green tree, yes, that was it. And—