The Mazer

by C. K. Nolan

  “But what was it that Wystan had done, or not done?”

  “My brother loves the city, Silva. He’s one of these people who likes to pace the stone road, to buy his meat fillet at the market, to smell the filth of a drain behind a well-built house. He loved dealing with the Session, fighting with old men’s minds, offering a smile, a compromise, or some old coin. Anything to keep the peace. But this was a false peace, wasn’t it? Something’s been brewing on this island, and not only around Southernwood City, if you ask me. Our trees and gardens have been neglected. No work has been done at Deep Dock for many years. The place is falling into disrepair and the guard there, well, what a joke! Island defense? Shipbuilding? I would imagine those men are more familiar with the oak of a barrel than the helm of a ship.”

  “There is truth in what you say, Bassan,” said Silva. “Trevello spoke to me of increasing the city guard by recalling men from Oakenwood, but I can’t see how this is going to stop the treesmoke. The Session’s meeting tomorrow. It will be all talk and argument, won’t it? Wouldn’t it be better for me to go and see our island’s trees for myself, just like Father used to do?”

  Didn’t she look worried! She obviously wasn’t relishing the idea of addressing the Session. But a trip would be a very good idea indeed. To Oakenwood, perhaps?

  “Silva, you are a true Legator!” He leaned forward and looked into those clear, hazel eyes. She’d follow his plan; yes she would; he could see it.

  “I know just what to do. Take action! Show your mettle and set about your business of leading the islanders of Southernwood. If you don’t, the political weeds of the Session will grow around your feet, and you’ll never escape them. You’ll end up like old Marchus, glued to the Albatorium, oblivious to the workings of our great island.”

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  “I was up in the archive with Marchus earlier. He told me the Arboral was here. Why don’t you keep it upstairs?”

  Ho! Marchus hadn’t told him about any meeting with Silva. Crafty old man. He’d no doubt recounted how unhappy he was that he couldn’t get his hands on this precious document.

  “To tell you the truth, Silva, I think it’s much better kept down here. I study it almost every day. It’s the best resource we have, very thorough, full of detail, and, most importantly, meant to be used. Not stuffed away in an airless room!”

  He got up to fetch the Arboral from the display cabinet.

  “Here we are,” he said, setting the book on the table. Silva’s eyes gleamed as she opened the book at the first page.

  ~ The Arboral of Zossimo Leon ~

  ~ Begun 1111 Years after the Dark Days ~

  ~ For the People of Southernwood and its Trees ~

  ~ Maps and Ways between Places ~

  ~ The Leaf Star ~

  ~ The Book… ~

  “Oh,” she said. “Begun in 1111. A year after Father was appointed Legator. And as for the Leaf Star, I remember Mother always called her the Tree Star.”

  “Zossimo hadn’t finished it, you know, although whether such a book can ever be complete is another matter. This is another reason I keep the Arboral down here. I’ve been copying it as best I can, adding new observations and details of my research, and keeping this work alive.”

  He wouldn’t mention the map of the master trees that he’d removed from the Arboral. He didn’t want anyone seeing that! But Silva didn’t seem convinced. Time was passing. And there was one more thing he wanted to ask her.

  “Look at the title for the last chapter. The Book it seems to be called, with a space after it. See how the following words have been scrubbed out? I don’t know what was written there, but on the page before the illustrations of Zossimo’s tree den in Great Oak,” and he turned to a section near the back of the Arboral, “he says that during the building of the den, they found a book in the Oak, The Book of Hortus he calls it, and he says it’s included in the Arboral. But it’s not there. So I’m wondering if that is the last part of the Arboral, and if so, where it can be. I asked Marchus to search the archives a long time ago, but that fusty old fool couldn’t find anything. Have you ever heard of this book, Silva?”

  He’d often wondered about that last chapter. Had Zossimo purposely removed it? Or had someone else taken it and removed the reference to it at the beginning of the Arboral?

  Silva was looking carefully at the space where the text had been rubbed away. She turned to the description of the den, and checked Zossimo’s words there. Then back to the beginning again.

  “Silva?”

  Silva frowned. Her hands were white.

  “Er, no, Bassan. I don’t know why it’s not here. He found it in the Oak, you say?”

  “That’s what Zossimo tells us!”

  She seemed bothered. His tone had been too sharp. He leaned across the desk.

  “Let me show you something else I’ve discovered.”

  It didn’t matter what she found out now. She’d never be able to tell anybody. She wanted to find out more about Zossimo, did she? Well, she was going to find out more than she could imagine!

  “Zossimo didn’t write everything he knew about the trees in the Arboral. Oh no, he kept many of their secrets to himself. You say you’re worried about Great Aspen. So was Zossimo at one time. Do you know what he did? He dug down beneath the Aspen’s roots and found a tunnel that led out to Oakenwood. I’m sure this root will be quite unlike anything you’ve ever seen!”

  He had to get her into the tunnel. He’d persuade her to come to Oakenwood with him, find Rath, and get rid of them both. It was so simple.

  “What’s the root like, Bassan? I often wonder about the words we write on the leaves and where they go and how the trees can understand us. They seem to speak to each other. They know what’s happening with other trees on the island. I can’t tell how they do this, but it’s true.”

  She seemed to be measuring her words carefully. Did she know something else? Not telling him, heh? A clever woman, her father’s daughter, but he’d gain her trust soon enough.

  “You’ve got to see it with your own eyes, Silva. Words would never do it justice. Come on. Get your cloak. I’ll show you the tunnel. It’s behind the fireplace in my chamber.”

  They got up. He put the Arboral back into its cabinet. He’d lock the door. Couldn’t have anyone following them! He hung the key on his belt, next to the pocket containing his knife and the pot of wax. Oh, why hadn’t he thought of this before? He wouldn’t need to poison Great Oak today. Silva could give Great Aspen some more medicine instead! He smiled.

  Silva threw her cloak about her shoulders, tied her bag around her waist, turned to him, and smiled back.

  “Ready?” he asked. She nodded. “Right, I’ll get a lamp. Spare candles, too. Let’s put all that into something. Might need this,” and he shoved the map of the island trees into a sack. “And that’s it. Here, take the lamp. Push that tapestry aside. In you go!”

  Silva disappeared into the tunnel. He picked up the flask from the mantelpiece. Then he turned to look at the writing box. May Mother forgive him for what he planned to do. She was as golden to him as its hinges, yet her memory was as faded as the strawberry flowers; her life, robbed of the happiness she’d deserved, as lost as the contents of her box.

  “You’ll be proud of me yet, Mother,” he muttered. Then he stumbled past the tapestry, following the light of Silva’s lamp down the path that would take them to Master Aspen’s root.

  ***

  Bassan’s footsteps echoed behind her.

  “Silva, wait! I can’t see where I’m going. Yes, that’s right, down here, see? Careful!”

  Down a slope, into a cavern. There it was. Hadn’t she seen a root much like this at Yewlith? So Bassan had found the same thing under Great Aspen. And Father had found it before him.

  “What’s this, Bassan?”

  Drops of black liquid trickled out of a large spot on the side of the root.

  “Great Aspen seems to be fighting off an infection, Si
lva. I found it like this a few days ago and have been trying to treat it. It’s a lot better than it was! See, I’ve stopped it up with some medicine. I think he’ll recover soon.”

  Poor old tree! It was an ugly wound. “Are you sure he’s getting better? Isn’t there anything else you can do?”

  “There is. But not here. I’m worried about the other trees, particularly Great Oak. If there’s a problem out in Oakenwood, or anywhere else, the Session needs to know, and so do you. It’s no good thinking we’ve solved this crisis by shutting ourselves in and ignoring what’s going on around the island. We’ll only regret it later. Can you imagine all the trees ending up like this? You can be sure everyone would be quick to find someone to blame.”

  “Me, you mean,” said Silva. She could see horror, then anger, on the faces of the Session members. They’d point their fingers, shake their fists—

  “Yes, you! Right, give me the lamp. Place your hand near that spot, anywhere nearby, that should do it. Can you feel what’s happening?”

  It was almost the same sensation she’d experienced with the Yew, but this root was warmer, with a softer, richer glow that lit up the cave and turned everything green. Bassan bent over to look at the black mark, his silvery hair glinting like fresh morning grass.

  “What is it doing?” she whispered.

  “These roots react to human touch,” he said, looking up at her eagerly. “Isn’t that amazing? As you can see, there’s plenty of life in this old Aspen. Why don’t you give him some more medicine, Silva. It looks like it’s doing him some good.”

  He dug around in his pocket.

  “Here’s a knife, and this is my medicine. If you carefully remove a little of the wax from the top, gently, well done! Now, pour the liquid in. It’ll steam a bit. He’s still getting used to this—excellent! Shall we stop it up again with the wax? Here you are. My word, Silva, if you weren’t Legator, I’d be asking you to be my apprentice!”

  Great Aspen didn’t seem entirely pleased to be taking his medicine. The glow was dissipating, rushing back to the steaming wound. She touched the root again but nothing happened. The cave became darker and darker, until only their lamp lit the damp walls and the path ahead of them.

  “He looks in a bad mood to me, Bassan. We’ll leave him for a while and come back later, shall we? And this tunnel. It goes to Oakenwood, you say?”

  “Yes, straight there. It’s very quick, much quicker than going overground. What do you—”

  She didn’t hear the rest of his words. Father had gone to Oakenwood the day he’d disappeared. Had he used the tunnel? Maybe something had happened to him in here, and that’s why nobody had ever found him!

  “Sorry, Bassan, what did you say?”

  “Why don’t you come with me to Oakenwood? You could see Great Oak, Zossimo’s old office, and there’s the greenhouse, too. Wouldn’t you like to see what I’ve been doing there over the years? You can inspect the guard for yourself, which is more than Trevello has done for a good while. Just imagine! Tomorrow the people will see Silva racing up the steps of the Albatorium for her first Session, fresh from the fields of Easternwood, ready to convince every doubting mind of her worthiness to be Legator.”

  “What, now? I only got back from Yewlith today, and there’s not enough time. I’m expected at the banquet. I can’t go chasing off to Oakenwood! Although…”

  Bassan’s words had merit; the Session would be much more likely to listen to someone who had all the facts at their fingertips. She wanted to see this tunnel. What was more important? Sitting in the halls all evening, everyone watching her eat and drink? Or fulfilling her pledge to the Session, to Mother also, taking action, just as Zossimo would have done? Nobody would know where she was. But if she went back to tell them where she was going, she’d never get away. She’d end up as Bassan had said, with weeds growing around her feet. Or seaweed, if the Session decided she was no good as Legator and sent her back to the cabin.

  “I’ll come,” she said.

  Bassan nodded. “It won’t take long. A couple of hours at most. We’ll be there well before sunset, and in the morning we can start back early. The guard there have horses, or we can return through the tunnel. That’s decided then. After me!”

  He set off along the tunnel. It was quite hard to keep up. A couple of hours? She couldn’t keep going at this pace for that long. She could hardly see a thing, not that there was anything to see down here, except for the root, which had twisted itself up into the roof of the tunnel, almost becoming the roof itself by the time the path widened and Bassan stopped.

  “We’ll take a short rest. My, you look quite out of breath, Silva!”

  “I am!” she puffed, laying her cloak on the dusty earth. She sat down. Bassan held the lamp high, gazing at the root above them. He didn’t seem the least bit tired.

  “How long have you known of this tunnel?” she asked.

  He crouched down. He traced a line on the ground, and then sifted the dust between his fingers.

  “Oh, ah, let me see. Found out about it shortly after becoming Librarian as far as I remember. Moved my things into the chamber, went to inspect the fire, and what did I find? A tunnel! Quite a surprise it was!”

  “Did you tell anyone about it?” Nobody had mentioned the tunnel to her. If Trevello had known it existed, he’d surely have mentioned it at Rath’s trial. But then she hadn’t attended the trial. She couldn’t have faced Rath after what he’d done to Father.

  Bassan was fiddling with the lamp. “I never did tell anyone of this place. You’ll think that strange of me. Think what would happen if word of it got out! It’s a secret way into the Albatorium from Oakenwood, isn’t it? I know the guard are supposed to be protecting our shores there, but you can guess what I think about that arrangement. No, for the sake of our island’s security, I kept quiet.”

  “But what if Father came through here the day he disappeared?”

  “He didn’t.” Bassan stood up, wiping the dust off his hands. “I checked. I’ve been through this tunnel many times. No sign of Zossimo. As soon as I discovered the tunnel, I had the same thought. There was nothing, Silva.”

  He picked up the lamp. “Got your breath back? I think we’d better keep going. I don’t like spending too long down here. The air’s not clean, and the longer we delay, the dirtier we’ll be when we come out at the other end. Come on!”

  He marched off. He didn’t even look to see if she was ready. She scrambled to her feet, shook out her cloak, then hurried after him, following lamp, tunnel, and root until the tunnel bore left, the root right, and the lamp met the pale sun from Oakenwood.

  ***

  Harold backed down the tunnel. If any light shone through the fireplace, he was done for. He heard a muffled shout. Bassan must know he was in here! He held the cup tight to his chest and slapped a hand on the mud-caked wall, sliding his fingers along its crumbling surface as he stumbled sideways, straining to look ahead, then glancing behind, expecting Bassan to haul back the tapestry and come racing after him. He tripped over his own feet, tumbled down a slope, the cup digging into his ribs, then got up, his whole body shaking, sweating. Did this tunnel go on forever? Where did it go?

  He stopped to catch his breath. Keep facing the wall. Breathe slowly. Take the stones out of that shoe. Now move, quietly, quickly, and hope that this place led somewhere. What if it didn’t? What if Bassan knew there was no way out? He’d leave him to suffer a day or two, no food or water, then drag him out like a frightened rat. Oh yes, Bassan would enjoy that! But he wouldn’t give him that pleasure.

  The wall became smoother. He felt calmer. He’d rest for a moment. Nobody was behind him. Silence surrounded him. He felt cold.

  There was nothing in this tunnel. Why hide an entrance to a tunnel if it led nowhere or held nothing of value? He’d be missed in the kitchen. Had Marchus eaten his lunch? Would anyone find the mug of milk on the underfloor? They’d start searching for him. He could only imagine what Lisette would say. “We’v
e lost Harold. Have you seen him, Bassan? He followed Marchus downstairs; carrying some milk, he was. Marchus never got it, but we found the mug! Harold must’ve disappeared right in front of the door to your laboratory. Fancy that!”

  He licked his dry lips. He should have drunk that milk while he had the chance. Marchus’ platter of white food swam before his eyes. Perhaps you had to live in the dark to want to eat such food. It certainly seemed a lot more appetizing now that he was stuck down here.

  His ears started buzzing. No, not his ears. The whole tunnel seemed to be vibrating. He stood up. Men with lamps? They were coming after him, they’d caught him up! Yet no voices, no footfall, only a green flame flaring along the tunnel roof, illuminating the path ahead, a light not of man but of the earth itself. He’d be a fool not to run with it!

  So he dashed off, clutching Bassan’s cup, the green flames shooting along above him, silent shouts of exhilaration in his throat. Who’s the fool now, Bassan! I’m getting away; you won’t catch me! Ha ha!

  The light faded after a while, but small flickers of green lit his way enough for him to run a good distance. Just when it seemed as though the tunnel would never end, he saw the mouth of the tunnel ahead. Sunshine, at last!

  Two arms wrapped themselves around his chest from behind, and he was thrown to the floor, the cup crashing onto the ground next to him.

  “Got you! But who—Harold! What are you doing here?”

  The arms released him, turned him round. Rath’s face peered down at him.

  “What am I doing? Escaping, that’s what! I got into Bassan’s laboratory. He nearly caught me, and I got out through the fireplace where I found this tunnel. We’d better not stay here,” and his teeth began to chatter, “because he might be after me, and I don’t think I can run much more.”

  He was worn out. His arms and legs were covered in dust. Rath didn’t look much better: hair hung in tails around his dirty face, where there was no trace of the kind smile he’d seen the last time they’d met.