by C. K. Nolan
Not that Zossimo hadn’t had his sly side, of course. After all, he hadn’t told Bassan about the tunnel, had he? And after Bassan had discovered that little secret, it hadn’t taken much effort to sneak a look at Zossimo’s Arboral, still a work in progress at that time, to find an old tree map of the island. And what he’d read there… Well! No wonder Zossimo didn’t want anybody poking around in his laboratory.
What had he found out? Hah! Not only were the roots of Great Aspen in Southernwood joined to Great Oak’s roots in Oakenwood, but there were other trees marked on the map who also seemed to be involved in this mesh of root mystery. The Yew in the west, that had to be at Yewlith. Obvious enough. A Maple in the north. Many fine maples up there, but he’d found her, many years later, up by those ramshackle water gardens not far from Old Elm. The most interesting tree, however, was the Ash in the center of the island, for the legend of Master Ash was a favorite story among the children of Southernwood.
Bassan remembered the first book his mother had given him. Tree Tales it had been called, and the opening story was all about Master Ash, tree-ruler of Ashenwood and how the people came to live near him, built their city, then started to destroy the trees of the island. Master Ash became angry, ripped up his own roots, destroyed the city, and commanded the survivors to build anew around Great Aspen in Southernwood. And if they ever mistreated the trees again, the trees would tear the whole island apart, and the people, the city, even the trees themselves, all would be thrown into the sea, never to be heard of again.
What a frightening tale that seemed, mused Bassan, frowning at the memory and scratching his chin. But there was an element of truth in that story, as indeed, the city had been destroyed and the valley deserted.
He’d seen the place for himself as an apprentice. How excited he’d been! He’d felt, at last, that Zossimo was beginning to trust him enough to share the workload of librarianship. Their Legator had also wanted to spend more time at home with his wife and their daughter, Silva. Silva would have been a teenager by then, nearly grown up. Bassan had been more than ready to shoulder extra responsibility, relishing the opportunity to take charge of the guard on his first trip to Ashenwood. It was there that he’d met the Almanagic for the first time. He’d set off with ten men to the center of the island. Their task was to collect chunks of petrified wood that would be taken back to Southernwood and fashioned into coin. They’d traveled up the valley as far as they could on horseback and then continued on foot, leading the horses and carts along the river, picking their way past rotten tree stumps and the ruins of old stone buildings, skirting an old road, now torn up and useless, until they saw a low branch hut overhung by animal skins.
There they stopped. It was spring, but this part of the valley was almost invisible in the mist. The air had a vile chill to it. Southernwood River ran fresh and fast towards them, racing through a deep channel in the valley and onward to the city and the sea. Chunks of wood littered the ground: brown, red, gray, silver, orange, precious remains of trees from long ago and highly valued by the islanders not only for use as coin, but also jewelry and ornament.
Bassan approached the hut, crouched down, and peered inside. It stank of old animal, rotting wood, and lichen. How could anyone live here?
Behind him, a low voice offered, “Good day to you, Master Bassan.”
Bassan stood up and turned round. It was the Almanagic, a short, virile-looking man, used to the sun, living in the mist, his eyes silver, green, gold, an earring glistening despite the gloom, a staff in his hand, made of white wood. What sort of wood was that?
“Good day to you, sir,” said Bassan.
“I expect the guard know what to do,” said the Almanagic. He glanced at the men. “Is that not so?”
They nodded, respectfully. They started to remove their equipment from the carts, and the Almanagic turned back to face Bassan.
“Follow me to my home. It’s not far, and it’s warmer in there.”
He marched off. Bassan felt foolish. He’d thought it would be his job to tell the guard what to do, but it seemed they were perfectly capable of getting on with the job without his direction. There was nothing else for it but to traipse after the old man.
They didn’t walk far; the Almanagic’s house was just across the river, which was bridged by a construction of rope and planks. How nimbly the Almanagic skipped across! Bassan wobbled his way to the other side, gathered his cloak closer about him, and walked up to a doorway carved into the side of the hillock. Smoke billowed from a strangely crooked chimney protruding out of the rock farther up. This was nothing but a cave, surely! He looked back to the guard, who had begun to load smaller chunks of stone wood into the cart, then stooped down and entered the little house. The Almanagic took his cloak, pushed a wooden screen across the entrance, and motioned for him to sit by the fire.
So this was where the Almanagic lived. It was cozy for such a rough-hewn man. One room, if you could call it that. Lamps were set into recesses around the walls with ledges below them overflowing with scrolls, boxes of implements, and jars of herb and leaf. A straw mattress with pillows and blankets was neatly arranged on a lower ledge. There was a small window next to the door, framed by embroidered curtains, their thread of silver and gold twinkling in the glow from the fire. A rug lay on the floor, green as grass, and a low round table and two stools sat at the end of the room in front of the hearth where a pot of steaming water sat in the embers. The Almanagic took it and poured the contents into two mugs, adding pinches of thyme and mint.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” said Bassan. “I’ve met you many times in my life, but only through rumor or story. You are not quite as I expected.”
The Almanagic’s expression was soft. “And neither are you, Master Bassan. Zossimo has put his trust in you, I see. The honor is mine.”
So, the fellow was neither wild nor stupid.
“You’re right, sir. Zossimo has trusted me these past five years with the care and knowledge of trees, and I could ask for no greater trust than that from our Legator. I share his concern for the welfare of this island, and only wish to deepen my understanding. Now, sir, if you wish to tell me the story of this place you live in, my day’s reward would be greater than the worth of all the coin on the island.”
“Indeed it would,” replied the Almanagic.
“From what I have seen, there was nothing of the glory of Southernwood in this city,” said Bassan. “Why, the place looks hardly big enough to contain a village! Our history tells us that this valley was, however, prosperous, but nobody knows why the trees died and the city was destroyed.”
The Almanagic swirled the remnants of his tea around his mug.
“Knowledge, Master Bassan: the one thing we seek, and the one thing that destroys us. Come outside with me.”
They donned their coats and made their way back across the bridge. Once again Bassan found himself following the Almanagic, who took the path leading up a gentle slope that rose above the river. Bassan stopped and looked back down the valley. Some of the men were heaving a huge chunk of rock into the back of the cart, and the rest of the guardsmen were leaping about and no doubt shouting encouragement, but their voices were lost in the damp air. Ahead of him, the Almanagic had vanished into a clump of tangled trees, over which towered a colossal ash. The topmost branches of the ash disappeared into the mist, and Bassan trotted down the slope with excitement. This was a wonderful tree, almost as impressive as the Southernwood Aspen, and as he caught up with the Almanagic and they fought their way through the tangles to the center, he hoped with all his heart that the treasure within this leafless thicket would show some sign of life.
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, le
gend. 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?”
“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?”
