by C. K. Nolan
“You could talk to Trevello,” sighed Winifred. “He was in charge of that affair and probably has the records of it kept safe somewhere. And Bassan can tell you what he knows of it all. But really, Silva, this happened such a long time ago. And you’ve got so many other things to sort out, what with Rath, the treesmoke, and the people—your people now. They may be smiling and joyful today, but if matters get any worse, it’s you they’ll blame.”
“Yes, Winifred. But I do feel that everything that’s happening is connected to Father. If I can discover anything that points me in the right direction, that will be a start.”
“We’re here, Silva,” said Winifred, standing up. “Anytime you need us, we’ll help out.” And she pulled off her apron, screwed it into a ball, and flung it into the half-barrel where they put the kitchen laundry.
***
Silva stood on the Albatorium roof. It was perfectly clear why Father had chosen to work down in his laboratory: getting up here from the kitchen had been almost impossible. Session members had wanted to congratulate her. Others had wanted to talk and find out more about her, Zossimo’s daughter, a woman most of them had taken no interest in for many years.
She gazed across the city, the early afternoon sun bathing the roofs and streets in bright yellow, the breeze blowing fat, white clouds across the sky to Oakenwood.
How much had changed since she’d set off for Winifred’s house yesterday morning! No longer was she the pitied daughter of Zossimo and Eldis, living in a cabin on the beach, brooding over her past, touching the treasured mementos of a lost family, and weeping into her pillow with the hopelessness of it all.
No, now she was Silva Legator, and it was a good feeling, because she’d wanted things to change for a long time. It had all begun with Isleaf, hadn’t it? She’d never read such urgent words on a leaf. Had they ever spoken like that before? The trees were older than anyone knew. This was their island, and there had been peace between the trees and man ever since the Albatorium had been built around Great Aspen. Her pledge was a promise to respect the trees, to live together with them, enjoying their calm, quiet wisdom, telling them about the most significant goings-on of the people, delighting in their strange ways, and, in return, the people of Southernwood would enjoy the protection of the trees, who gave them not only wood, fruit and shade, but also knowledge, words of comfort, gentle reminders of how to proceed in complicated matters, and most important of all, a connection with this growing, changing, frightening earth without which no man could wish to live. What would happen if the trees stopped talking to them or taking an interest in their lives? They would be totally alone.
These trees were very frustrating to deal with, however. They never simply said, “That’s a wonderful idea!” or, “What a silly thing to think!” They’d speak of the seasons, the sun and the wind above, the earth beneath their feet. But now they sensed a danger, a physical danger, as well as evil among the doings of men.
She still had her treequill. She’d write something to Great Aspen. She could ask him about the Mazer.
“But please, Great Aspen,” she whispered, “no riddles today!”
She stepped up to pull down a branch, and wrote:
“It is I, Silva Leon.”
The leaf glowed.
“Tell me what you know of the Mazer,” she wrote.
The branches above her quivered. Her words disappeared, slipping into the sap, down through the trunk, into the earth to…where? The middle of the earth? Had anyone ever tried to find out? Mother would have smiled at her questions, saying, “Only the trees know, Silva, and they won’t share their secrets for all the coin in the world!”
But Father, he wouldn’t have laughed. He’d have wanted to find out, too. Was this another of his secrets?
Great Aspen answered.
“Old, old. And very cold.”
A stronger, cooler wind pulled the leaf off the tree, whisked it out of her hand and blew it away. Great Aspen’s branches stretched into the sky, leaves shivering fiercely. This wasn’t what she’d expected! What did he mean? It wasn’t that cold, only late summer. Was this clever, thoughtful tree ill?
Looking past Great Aspen to the north, she could see the Hintermounts: high hills of mixed forest, meadow, and orchard. Southernwooders would take their families there on rest days or holidays. She’d gone there often with her parents. She’d scrabbled down steep slopes to the river paths and caves hunting for mushrooms and climbed the huge, fallen tree trunks—what fun that had been! Zossimo would stride on ahead, wanting to check the piles of timber along the forest trails, or keeping an eye out for wild pig. There was Mother, some way behind, collecting flowers and berries. All around them shards of sunlight cut through the canopy of beech and oak, falling upon the softest, greenest clumps of moss, dancing around the clean, cold stones lying under the bubbling waters of the river bed. The water in those hills was fresh and sweet, and one of its many streams flowed down towards the north side of the Albatorium, filling Little Lake, which would freeze in winter, giving ice for the icehouse and water all year round for Winifred’s kitchen.
“Winifred thought you might be losing your wits, Great Aspen. But you’re not. Didn’t Father give you my name, wanting me to be Legator one day? You remembered that, didn’t you? But if you get ill, what will we do?”
She looked up into his branches. He didn’t want to say any more. She’d felt annoyed when Isleaf had refused to talk yesterday. But she couldn’t get angry with Great Aspen. No, something must be very wrong for him to behave like this. She’d have to discover the truth about the Mazer for herself.
“And how am I going to do that, I wonder?” she muttered, stepping back onto the roof. What about Father’s notebook? He hadn’t written anything about a Mazer in there, she was sure, but he might have said something else that would help her. So she climbed back down into the Legator’s chamber.
Her sack from Yewlith lay next to a pile of her belongings from the cabin. Trevello had told her that they’d managed to save her little home but that the back wall was badly scorched and smelling foul. How had the fires reached the coast so quickly? The guard would have to be better organized. People wouldn’t be celebrating for much longer if their homes ended up like hers, or worse.
Father’s notebook peeked out of the top of her bag. She took it out of its leather pouch and lay it on the small table. She sat down, bent over the first page of the text, and read:
Silva your name, but gold you are at heart.
Graceful and wise, yet silent night and day.
If you could write, what would your wise words say?
If you could read, this skill, this vital art
Of joining letters, words and minds would chart
A course unto an island far away,
Where bark and leaf of tree their words display
In silent speech.
If you could smile, you would be smiling now,
Because you know that these things came to be.
Or do you weep? For danger flies toward
This treasured isle. And so, to keep our vow,
I write this book to leave behind a key
For those who live, amongst my trees adored,
Beyond my reach.
She’d always loved these words. It seemed that Father was writing only to her, warning her of the bad times to come. The rest of the notebook contained more verses describing gardens he’d planted around the island, and clearly these had been dear to Father’s heart, but this first page was the one that spoke to her and made it seem as though Zossimo was in the room with her, so close she could almost hear him reciting the poem. She usually ended up in tears by the end of it.
But this time there was one word that caught her attention.
“This key, Father,” she said. “Didn’t Isleaf mention a key? The Mazer key! Is this book—”
There were shouts from the stairs. She stuffed the notebook into its pouch, and then hesitated. She’d been careful to keep the book
well hidden in her cabin. She couldn’t leave it here. There were too many people about.
“I’ll take this to Marchus,” she decided. “I think I can trust him to keep it safe. He’ll have the Arboral, too. I could look at that this evening, maybe, after I’ve seen Trevello and the others.”
***
She crept down the steps from the Legator’s chamber. Raucous laughter came from the Session; goblets clashed; and a song rang out:
“Lie in a boat and let it float
Far, far out to sea.
When I wake up and want to sup,
There’s briny water in my cup,
And that’s the end of me!
Lie in a bed and rest my head,
And dream a dream so sweet.
When I wake up and want to sup,
There’s tea and honey in my cup,
And land beneath my feet!”
It was true: the city folk were quite happy to eat the fish that the Quagfenners brought to market, but they found these seafaring folk a little strange, not as strange, however, as the men at Deep Dock. Who would want to spend their days building ships that would take them to distant waters with no land in sight at all, only to return and plan their next expedition?
She continued down around Great Aspen’s trunk to the library. Where would Marchus be? This level was divided into four parts. The writing room and the family history room lay on the south side, under the Session above. On the northern side, in two smaller rooms, were the museum and the archive, where, if she was not mistaken, there had once been a small office.
She’d start in the archive. She walked round the Aspen trunk to a low, oak door that creaked as she opened it.
It was cool in here, and dark, too, but then another door opened at the back of the room. Silhouetted in the faint candlelight from within stood a skinny man with tousled hair: Marchus, old Marchus they called him, and always had. He’d looked old the day he was born, so they said, and this was no doubt why he’d preferred to hide in the library most of his life, flitting between bookshelves and benches, bending down into deep chests, disappearing behind shelves of maps, or muttering away to himself in his cubicle in the writing room as he pored over the latest leaves to be copied.
“Silva, let’s sit in my office. Don’t forget to shut all the doors.”
There was nothing wrong with his sight, then! He must have got used to seeing in the dark if he spent a lot of time in here. At least his office was warm, though, with a stove set into the wall and a candle on the table beside it.
“You’re pleased to see me, Marchus.”
“Of course I am! Sit by the stove. Let me look at you.”
He gazed down at her, a big smile on that pale, lined face, his golden eyes as sharp as ever, his bony hand on her cheek.
“I knew you’d come. You used to run around the archive as a child, don’t you remember? Jumping off the benches and crashing into our precious chests and shelves! Zossimo got very annoyed with you, but we liked having you around. You gave light and life to that old archive as nothing else could. Yes, I’m glad you’re here.”
She smiled up at Marchus and took his chilly hand in hers.
“Thank you. I never thought I’d come back to the Albatorium in these circumstances, though.”
He took his hand away and sat opposite her.
“No. I don’t think anyone could have predicted what happened in that election. I expect everyone’s just as surprised as you, Silva. I heard that Bassan argued strongly against his brother continuing as Legator, so forcing a vote. I’m supposing,” and he leaned forward, pursing his thin red lips and looking up at her, “that our Librarian hoped to convince the Session that he would be the ideal candidate, without actually saying so, of course.”
“I can’t see that Bassan would want to become Legator,” said Silva slowly. “He was Father’s apprentice, and a very good one as far as I know. He must have been happy in his work, as you have been Marchus, both of you spending years here devoting your lives to this place. He wouldn’t have wanted to give up his position as Librarian, would he?”
“Oh, he is not a true Librarian! He loves the stuff of books and trees, yes, but only for the knowledge and power they give him. The beauty of the archive, of this whole library, is that its collections are available to everyone. That is our task, is it not? To collect and preserve each manuscript, book, leaf, map, or work of art, and to use them to teach, to understand the truth about who we are and where we live? Dealing with Bassan here at the Albatorium has never been easy. Why, he even keeps Zossimo’s Arboral down in his laboratory, and in all my years here I’ve never been able to study more than a few parts of it.”
“You mean the Arboral isn’t in the archive? I can’t believe it! Why not?”
“Bassan seems to think it’s far too important,” said Marchus grimly. “He says he’s been making his own personal copy of it, or claims it’s vital to his work with the trees and therefore belongs downstairs. I don’t know what he finds so fascinating about it, but he won’t part with it, and it should be up here, not down in that laboratory with all those plants. Worst place for it!”
“I want to read it,” said Silva. “That’s one reason I came to see you. And I’ve brought something I thought I’d leave in your care. Would you like to take a look?”
She eased Zossimo’s notebook out of its pouch.
“Oh, Silva,” said Marchus, taking the notebook carefully and laying it on the bare table. “Oh, look at this!” And he started to laugh.
“What is it, Marchus?”
“Do you know what this is?”
“Of course I do. It’s a letter, a poem, from Father. I found it in our apartments after he disappeared and took it with me to the cabin after Mother died.” She swallowed. “It’s very precious. I don’t know what’s so funny about it.”
Marchus was bending over the notebook, turning the unbound pages carefully.
“It is extremely precious, Silva. But it’s not a letter to you.”
“Yes it is! It’s got my name on the first page.”
“Yes, your name is there, isn’t it? Strange, that. Coincidence? Probably not!”
This was ridiculous. Marchus didn’t know what he was saying. Maybe Bassan was right to keep the Arboral down in the laboratory.
“Very fine vellum, this, don’t you think? The best I’ve ever seen. Now, watch.” He removed the middle sheet and held it above the candle, letting the flame lick the bottom edge.
“What do you think you’re doing?” gasped Silva, getting up and making a grab for the sheet.
“Nothing at all, look! Nothing’s happening to this clever vellum, see? It doesn’t burn!” He dipped the corner of a page right into the flame, and what he said was true: there was not a mark to be seen, not even a little soot.
“And,” continued Marchus, putting the sheet back down on the table, “it’s not even hot!”
She touched the vellum. Marchus was right about that, too.
“What is it? What’s it made of?”
“I’m not sure. You can see it’s not the kind of vellum we are familiar with. But I’ve seen this before, and if I’m right, it comes from the same document.” Marchus licked his lips, went to the door, and looked back at her, his eyes gleaming. “A moment’s patience, Silva. I’m going to fetch something from the archive.” He slipped out the door in his tatty woolen slippers.
Only then did she notice that the room was almost completely empty apart from the desk, their chairs, and a metal bucket next to the fire. There were no books, no shelves, no quills, nothing. The door opened, and Marchus slid in. He shut the door firmly behind him.
“Marchus, don’t you work in here? I thought this was your office?”
Marchus grimaced. “I only come in here if I want a bit of peace and quiet. It gets too stuffy with the stove on, even though I keep it very low. I don’t like to disturb the archives any more than is necessary, you see. They don’t like heat, light, or dust, although this pa
rticular specimen seems to be an exception.”
He held up a folded sheet of smooth vellum with a picture on the front.
“I knew it! Same size, same material, and the same style of writing. Let’s put them together and see what we’ve got.” He slipped the pages inside the illustrated sheet. They fit together perfectly.
“There we are, Silva. There’s nothing more satisfying than finding the missing part of a book and making it complete, exactly as the author intended. Don’t you agree?”
The documents definitely belonged together. Indeed, her treasured notebook seemed to have taken on a whole new personality. It was akin to meeting a close friend who had suddenly adopted a different style of clothing or manner of speech.
“So this is the cover of Father’s notebook,” she said, frowning. “But I cannot understand the title, nor the picture that accompanies it.”
She gazed at the writing on the front cover, trying to fathom its meaning:
The Book of Hortus
The drunken Session members upstairs would have laughed at the picture. A man sat in a boat, a small vessel with a single sail, riding on a silvery blue sea, with sun and stars above and fish in the water below.
“I don’t know who or what Hortus is, and I cannot see why Father would have wanted a picture of a boat here. It makes no sense to me.”
“Pull up your chair, Silva. Remember I told you this is not a letter to you? That’s because the author was not your father. And how do I know that?”
Marchus opened the notebook and pointed to the bottom of the inside back cover. More lines were written in that neat, clear script, and she leaned forward and read their words:
Heartwood of Ashen and Maple and Yew,
Oaken and Aspen and Elm ever true,
Rare was our friendship, and so, when I die,
Turn to each other and weep not, for I
Under your branches forever shall dwell.
Silva! My Island! I bid you farewell!
