by C. K. Nolan
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—”
Zossimo raced off down the path to his workbench on the other side of the greenhouse. He grabbed a bag from the top of the bench and spun round, swinging the bag up, aiming for Bassan’s head. Bassan ducked, gripped the ax handle with both hands, and lunged towards Zossimo, who fell back onto the trunk of a strangler fig.
“Tell me!” roared Bassan.
Chop!
The ax bit deep into the fig. The fig trembled, then whipped its long arms away from the roof, pulling down a wooden beam and smashing a window. It slapped its tentacles around Zossimo’s shoulders and arms, and Bassan laughed as he pulled the bag free from the fig’s grasp. He chopped again, and the fig began to wind its lower branches over Zossimo’s feet and legs, circling upwards, encasing Zossimo within a writhing mass of brown twine.
“Silva, Silva!” shouted Zossimo, but he could hardly make himself heard as the tendrils wound round his head, squeezing tighter and tighter, covering his panic-stricken eyes and his open mouth, pushing him down into the earth until he had completely disappeared.
Bassan dragged the fallen beam out of the greenhouse and into the entrance of the tunnel. Then he rushed back to sweep up the shattered glass and kick the buckets away from the door. He packed Zossimo’s cloak into the bag, hauled it onto his shoulder, and returned to Southernwood overland. By the time he got there, the sun was a golden ball on the horizon, smothering Southernwood in its summer glory.
***
The Session was full, despite the early hour. Candlelight flickered on the faces of those sitting on the packed public benches. Word had got round: whispered gossip, hushed arguments, hysterical laughter, guards directing more arrivals to the back. Why hadn’t they closed the Albatorium entrance earlier? This was ridiculous! Some of these people were tucking into a quick breakfast by the looks of it, and the firesmoke clinging to their clothes mingled with a heavy scent of strong mead.
Bassan made his way to the dais and took his seat. Filibert and Wystan were already there, Wystan sitting next to his wife, Medrella. She grasped her husband’s hand and looked at Bassan. Her face was a picture of…what? Concern? Incomprehension? No. Thinly disguised hatred. Oh, well, so be it. Bassan nodded to her and sat down.
Trevello clumped down the steps from the Legator’s office, then marched to an impressively carved lectern next to the dais to address the crowd.
“Members of the Session, citizens of Southernwood, let us commence!”
Two of the guard set off to shut the main doors—about time too—and the last few Southernwooders filed in. Harold went onto the terrace to ring the bell, this time with a quicker, more excited tempo, and as the young lad rang and rang, straining his head to see the crowds gathering around the bonfire in the square below, he pulled the bell rope ever faster and harder, laughing and waving delightedly with his free hand at his captive audience. What a chump! This was supposed to be a dignified occasion, not some cheap show!
“Thank you, Harold, thank you!” bellowed Trevello, and Harold reluctantly stilled the bell, shut the doors against the chill, and sat by the window, grinning from ear to ear.
Bassan shook his head in disbelief and shot Harold an angry look: this nincompoop would be the first to go under his new leadership.
“People of Southernwood,” began Trevello, “this night the Session met to debate and resolve the crisis that threatens our island. As a result of our, er, discussion, and to abide by the law of our land, an election was held to appoint a new Legator. We cast our votes, and Great Aspen has made his choice. The leaf glows. Wystan and I will go up to the tree branch, along with our Librarian and Treasurer, as well as three public representatives. I shall remove the leaf from the tree and place it in this envelope. We shall then return to declare the result to you all.”
Chatter filled the room. Bassan joined Filibert, and they followed Wystan and Trevello up to the Albatorium roof. Behind them, the three island men: tall, handsome Arpad of the Homestead guard; Sheridan the shipwright from Deep Dock, a large man with whom Bassan had spoken occasionally on his trips to Oakenwood, and who had a surprisingly gentle voice; and Osbert from Quagfen, a fisherman who resembled a drowned rat, his damp clothes sticking to his bony frame and his sodden shoes squeaking as he trod up the steps after them.
There wasn’t much room up here. They gathered closely together to watch Trevello step up to a thin branch where a leaf gleamed in the shadow of dawn. Trevello took out a small knife, cut off the leaf, and put it in his envelope. He gave this to Arpad, and the Homesteader led the company down the s
tairs through the Legator’s chamber and back into the Session.
Arpad placed the envelope on the lectern. Those seated leaned forward. Those at the back inched closer to the benches. Harold balanced on the window ledge, peering over their heads towards Medrella, still sitting, Filibert, now taking his seat, Arpad, Sheridan and Trevello, standing at the lectern, Osbert, joining his fellow Quagfenners on the bench, Wystan, to one side, watching Bassan.
Bassan was not unaware of Wystan’s gaze. It was difficult to know whether to sit or stay standing, so it was better to just stay where he was, behind the dais, looking at the top of Filibert’s graying, balding head, a testament to the years all of them had spent in this place, working, serving, planning, plotting. How slowly the time had passed! People said that with age, time flies faster, but for Bassan, the years seemed to have stretched on and on, as if time had never started in the first place. But on this day, this very day, time could start again.
The first light of dawn crept through the windows of the Session. Trevello invited Sheridan to open the envelope. The shipwright’s hands shook. He withdrew the glowing leaf, held it up, and softly spoke the name written on its midrib.
“Silva.”
***
“Who?”
“Silva! By all the coin of Ashenwood!”
“Silva? Zossimo’s Silva?”
“It can’t be little Silva in Oakenwood, can it? She’s only a baby!”
“Who’d have thought! A woman!”
“Are you sure about that leaf, Trevello? Whatever is Great Aspen thinking?”
Trevello had calmed them, told them he would confirm the name with the Aspen, and returned to the roof with Sheridan and Wystan. Guards stood at the door: nobody was to leave.
Arpad was chatting to the Homesteaders behind the public gallery, his blue eyes darting around the room, hazel hair falling about his face, a smooth hand holding the back of a bench. Osbert, dark, thin, shivered in his seat in clammy clothes, listening to his wife whispering in his ear as she patted his forehead with a kerchief. Medrella sat straight, a butterfly brooch pinning her hair back, one chestnut curl escaping onto the nape of her fine neck. Filibert, doubtless searching for some tasty morsel, rummaged in the bag on his lap.
Bassan shifted from one foot to another, looking down at the floor. He’d have to get down to the laboratory as soon as possible. Something had gone wrong, and he’d need to put it right. What had happened? How had Silva’s name come up? Surely nobody had voted for her! Had there been some sort of conspiring going on in the Session before the vote? No, couldn’t have been. Nobody had known there would be an election, and Wystan’s position had never been questioned. Everyone seemed equally shocked about the result. Apart from Wystan. He hadn’t reacted at all. Or had he? Maybe there’d been just a shimmer of a smile on his brother’s lips. Couldn’t blame him, of course.
There were footsteps on the stairs from the Legator’s room. Trevello and Sheridan went to the lectern, and everyone sat up expectantly.
“My dear Session members. Great Aspen has confirmed that Silva Leon, daughter of Zossimo and Eldis, will be our new Legator!” announced Trevello. “I want to ask everybody to remain in the Albatorium until we find out where Silva is, as she will need to be told, and I expect this is going to be quite a surprise for her. Better to hear the news from us, rather than from island gossip. I suggest we all go down to the halls and have something to eat and drink while we wait. Thank you.”
A voice spoke in Bassan’s ear. “Well, brother, what do you think about that?”
Bassan turned round. “I’m as shocked as you are, Wystan. There’s only one way this could have happened, but I cannot imagine it.”
“Yes,” said Wystan. “Did you vote for Silva?”
“No. Did you?”
“No, and I’m sure nobody else did. Which means that while Zossimo was in power, he must have given Silva’s name to Great Aspen. Only Legators have that right. Why did he feel that it was necessary to name his daughter as a future Legator?”
Why, indeed. What else had Zossimo told this tree? Had he told Great Aspen never to trust Bassan? Zossimo! Would he never stop meddling, even in death?
“I don’t know, Wystan. Maybe Silva can tell us.”
“I doubt it! She’s kept to herself since Zossimo’s disappearance and certainly has no pretensions to power. But I do find it strange that, if Zossimo was considering future Legators, he didn’t put your name forward. After all, you worked with him, trained under him. But he didn’t choose you. Why not, Bassan?”
The room had become quiet, too quiet to talk. Trevello was muttering to Filibert, who picked up his bag and left the Session, pounding down the steps, followed by Harold who seemed to have darted out from nowhere.
Trevello came over to them. “I’ve sent Filibert off to fetch Silva from her cabin. I propose we go and get some food from the kitchen before the whole lot gets gobbled up, and then we’ll meet in the Legator’s chamber, if that is agreeable to you. Filibert should be back in an hour or two. Harold! Come back here, my boy! A slow bell, if you please, for the closing of the Session. Come, my friends, we have a busy day ahead.”
And the three men descended the steps to the sound of Harold’s bell. Wystan and Trevello made for the halls to eat, but Bassan lingered by the stairs, giving his fellow Session members time to disappear. Then he headed down to the underfloor, grasping the heavy laboratory key tightly as he hurried down the steps.
He fiddled with the key in the lock; his fingers felt weak, his sweaty hands trembled. He leaned his head against the door, breathing fast. What a fool he’d been to rely on the support of the Session! How could he ever have presumed that reasoned argument would assure him of legatorship? At least Wystan had been removed with the minimum of fuss. Now another Legator stood in his way, but this could prove to be an advantage, could it not? An inexperienced outsider with nothing but her father’s name to impress? It was clear what to do; he hadn’t wanted matters to get this far, but he was prepared.
He wiped his hands on his tunic, turned the key forcefully, and then shoved open the door. The laboratory was quiet. He strode over to look at the fungus pot. Thick brown bubbles edged with white floated on top of the green liquid. Perfect! If his calculations were correct, he wouldn’t need much to deal with Great Aspen. This was a single tree, not a forest, after all. Nonetheless, he was a master tree, strong, wise, and brave enough to fight back, unlike the weaklings in Skeps Wood.
He prepared a ladle and flask, then put on two pairs of gloves, first silk, then leather. Once, he’d wondered if Great Aspen might recognize him simply from his touch, a strange hunch, but one he hadn’t been able to put out of his mind. It was only when he’d been a guest at a naming ceremony for Wystan’s second child that he’d begun to understand how the trees could sense who’d touched them. Guests had crowded onto the Albatorium roof for the occasion, Medrella hugging her newborn, and Wystan proudly writing his son’s name, parentage, and date of birth on one of Great Aspen’s leaves. Everybody waited until the words had faded, and then the child, screaming and wriggling, was held up to the trunk of the tree, and one of his tight little fists was prized open and his hand was pressed against the trunk. Then there were the usual cheers when Great Aspen confirmed the baby’s name and details on that very same leaf, which was then taken and stored with the other birth leaves in the library’s family history archive. He’d attempted to test his theory several times, but the trees had always refused to cooperate, which only proved the matter quite satisfactorily, didn’t it? For there was a tree who didn’t insist on anyone identifying themselves: Old Elm, that silly, wishy-washy wishing tree up in the north of the island. He seemed to recognize his hapless visitors as soon as treequill met leaf, spewing out the half-baked, sentimental advice so beloved by Southernwooders, but he was an eccentric exception. The other trees ignored Old Elm. They never mentioned him. And no wonder.
He shook his head. What a waste of time it all was! They�
�d always been taught that when writing to a tree, it was polite to begin by introducing yourself. Everybody presumed this was because the trees wouldn’t know who you were otherwise. He’d written his name down for Master Ash, hadn’t he, on his first visit to Ashenwood? That had no doubt been necessary, as the Ash had had no contact with the other trees for generations, and wouldn’t have been able to tell who he was. But these other master trees, well, they’d never told anyone that there was no need for all this I’m so-and-so nonsense every time someone wrote to a tree. What other much more important matters had they kept secret from the islanders?
One of the bubbles burst, splattering the sides of the pot with a smelly, sticky, mucus. A brilliant concoction, if he did say so himself. One dose of this, and Great Aspen would start to…what? It would be interesting to see how the tree would react. Would the other trees on the island notice? How would this affect the Aspen that appeared in the Mazer? The Mazer itself might change in some way. It was a risk, a big risk, but he had to get this tree under control and kill it if necessary. This was, after all, the tree that had come up with Silva’s name. Great Aspen’s root was sitting there, thinking, calculating, analyzing, and storing who knew what information for who knew what purposes, and it was time it got a nice injection of this toxic little brew.
He carefully ladled the scum into his flask, and then pocketed a sharp knife and a pot of wax. He took them into his chamber, lit a lamp, and climbed into the tunnel. He wouldn’t have much time. Flask in one hand, lamp in the other, he hurried along the tunnel.
He set his lamp on top of a rock, the flask next to it. Then he found his knife. A clean cut into Great Aspen’s root to begin with. Now deeper still, turning the blade around this way and that, working it into the root until he’d formed a deep, vertical hole. Time for that brew. Pour it in gently; watch it bubble; wait a minute or two; fill the hole with the rest of it. The wax was next: spread it over the top of the wound; seal in the rot; and it was done!
