by C. K. Nolan
“I haven’t been here long,” said Rath. “I thought this must be a tunnel but I didn’t know where it led.”
“Where are we?” asked Harold.
“In Oakenwood. We’ll get into the greenhouse. None of the guard go in there, and we can hide easily.”
Rath picked up the cup and examined it.
“Where did you get this, Harold?”
“I took it from Bassan’s chamber. It was in a box. Only he came into the laboratory as I was looking at it, and I couldn’t put it back.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Rath softly. He strode over to a drawstring bag thrown on the ground next to the tunnel entrance and stowed the cup inside. “I’ll keep this for now. Looks like it doesn’t break easily, but we won’t take any chances.”
“How long will we be in the greenhouse?” asked Harold.
“A few hours, I expect. The guard will come round on patrol before sunset, if they come at all, but a rider came from the city earlier today, and there’s been a lot of movement on the road from Deep Dock. So we need to keep our eyes and ears open. Shall we go? Keep down, and run after me up to Great Oak.”
Oh dear—all afternoon! Winifred wouldn’t want him to work in the kitchen again; Trevello would find another bell ringer; he’d end up working in a mill, or worse, in the papery. But he couldn’t afford to get caught by the guard, and Rath must be good at hiding by now.
Rath stopped. “Come along, Harold!” he hissed impatiently.
Harold stepped out of the tunnel and chased after Rath. Great Oak’s branches spread wide and low. Had this giant of a tree grown even bigger? Harold had visited him with a group of children from school. The best part of the trip had been climbing up the ladder by Great Oak’s mighty trunk and exploring Zossimo’s den. They’d admired the office, hung out the window and shouted across to friends skipping about on the cliff path leading down to Deep Dock, and then traversed a narrow rope bridge to a deck that overlooked the greenhouse. Now, however, the tree’s branches covered this side of the greenhouse, which was lucky for them: nobody would see Rath fiddling with the door, pulling it open, beckoning to him to enter.
Rath shut the door behind them. “I know just where we can hide,” he whispered. “There’s a strange smell in here, isn’t there? Be careful where you tread, and don’t touch anything.”
Harold drew his hand away from an impressive long leaf covered with orange spots. He sniffed the thick, warm air. A scent of sweaty green, damp earth and sweet fruit. How would they eat or drink in this place? Food he could go without, but he was terribly thirsty.
“Have you got anything to drink?”
“Sh! Keep your voice down!” said Rath. “Yes, I’ve got water in my bag, but you’ll have to wait. We’ve got to get over to the other side of the greenhouse, and it’ll be safer if we work our way through the middle.” He bent down to look under a mass of greenery. “We’ll have to crawl through here. I can just make out the old path. At least nobody will be able to see us.”
Rath slithered off, accompanied by the sound of crunching leaves and snapping twigs. The path was covered in grit, chunks of earth, twisted vines, and dead undergrowth. Heavy clumps of leaves bore down from above. Harold could see Rath ahead, on his stomach, pulling a tangle of roots aside.
“Rath! How much farther do we have to go?”
“We must be nearly in the middle of the greenhouse. Stay close to me.”
It was getting hard to breathe. That sweet smell had become a sickening stench. Harold’s stomach began to churn. He had to keep going, a bit farther, pushing himself forward to a rusty column that sat upon an even rustier plinth.
Rath helped Harold to his feet. “So far so good. We could stay down here and hide, but that way we won’t know what’s going on. Shall we get a better view? Up we go!” Rath started climbing, his feet disappearing up a knotted rope that dangled down among the plants.
How high did the rope go? To the roof? He couldn’t climb all the way up there! But then he heard scuffles, and the rope stilled. He grasped the rope tightly and pulled himself up, reaching Rath who was standing on a wooden platform amidst the plant tops.
“Well!” said Rath. “You could see the whole greenhouse from here once, but now it’s just a sea of green. What’s Bassan growing, I wonder? It never used to look like this.”
Harold didn’t dare stand. The circular platform was built around a tall pole that stretched up to the greenhouse roof. The plants had climbed up here too, winding their way towards shoots and foliage covering the beams above, then curling down around another rope that hung just out of Rath’s reach.
The platform wobbled as Rath approached a broken rail.
“Watch out, Rath,” whispered Harold. “The whole thing’s going to collapse if we’re not careful.”
“Oh, it’s always been like that,” said Rath. “But you’re right, it’s in a bad way. I don’t expect Bassan ever comes up here, do you? Or anyone else by the looks of it. I used to climb the second rope right to the top, crawl along the beams, help mend the roof or the glass, great—”
The sound of voices.
Rath dropped to his knees, and then crawled over to Harold. “There’s someone over by the door where we came in,” he whispered. “We’d better split up. I’ll go down. You’ll be safer up here. Keep an eye on the side paths, and only come down if you have to.”
Rath winked at him, then disappeared over the side of the platform. Harold crouched down, listening to the voices that floated up. But this wasn’t the guard!
“Just over here, Silva, that’s right. And there it is, the prize of my collection. A magnificent specimen, don’t you agree?”
Bassan! And Silva? What was she doing here? Where was Rath? Could he hear them too?
“Oh no, it’s perfectly friendly. I’m convinced it enjoys the sound of a human’s voice. Go on. Whisper something to it. You’ll feel it shiver if you lean against the trunk. A most unusual sensation. There’s nothing else like it on the island, I can tell you!”
He wasn’t going to stay up here. He climbed over the edge of the platform and landed on the soft earth with a bump. He’d thought they’d come to the end of the path, but now he saw that it split into a circle around the plinth, leading off to the left and right, as well as straight towards Bassan and Silva. Rath must be just ahead of him somewhere. He crawled along as quietly as he could. The sickly smell returned, stronger than ever.
There was whispering. A rattle of tools in a bucket then a sharp swish, a splintering crunch, and a high scream.
Harold scuttled forward. Rath’s feet stood on the path before him. “Ah!” shouted Bassan. “So this is where my intruder is hiding. Look who it is! The notorious Rath! By the stars above, my man, you’ll be sorry you ever set foot in the Albatorium. Meet my strangler fig!”
Harold peered out between the leaves. Bassan raised his ax and chopped into the fig again. Vines shot out, trapping Rath’s legs. Harold strained forward to see Silva’s twisted body pinned against the fig, her arms flailing as the fig wound itself around her, poking into her eyes and mouth.
“Help! Help!” yelled Rath, fighting off the powerful vines.
“Oho!” laughed Bassan, holding his ax high. “I’ll give you help, I will!” He plunged the ax into the fig once more, then strode over to Rath, bent down, and whispered: “You stole something from me today, didn’t you? Where is it? Tell me, and I’ll let you go.”
“Here!” gasped Rath. “Under me. In the bag!”
Bassan kicked him over onto his front. He fumbled with a key hanging from his belt, then took a knife from his pocket, and cut through vine and sack.
“Got you!” whispered Bassan, holding up the cup. Then he turned to Rath.
“And how is life on the run, my old friend? Been enjoying yourself since I set you free?”
“You?” said Rath, scrambling to his feet. “It was you who unlocked the door that night?”
“Yes, Rath. Me! And off you went, just like I hop
ed. You were always the ‘good’ apprentice, weren’t you? Never disappointed anyone until the day you were found guilty of murder. And now you’ll be found guilty again, won’t you? If you survive today, that is, because,” and Bassan stood up and moved slowly towards the ax, “my little fig is very well trained, you know. He doesn’t like strangers. He doesn’t like greenhouses either. And best of all, he absolutely detests oaks!”
Bassan stuck his knife into his belt, grabbed the ax, and swung it high into the fig’s trunk above him. There was a slight shiver, a heavy shudder, and then the ground shook as fig roots poured from the earth beneath, slapping Rath onto his back, and throwing Harold onto the path.
Rath had disappeared. Silva’s body was encased by twirling vines, and above the fig, roof beams were moving, as if thick, green snakes were slithering and snapping along them. A high-pitched moan filled his ears, followed by glass and timber crashing to the floor, and the last thing he saw was an oak leaf fluttering down and landing on his nose.
***
~~ Chapter Four ~~
The Trial
“Silva! Silva!” Father’s face, then Bassan’s, flashed before her eyes. Then voices from long ago seeped through her consciousness, pulled her out of the blackness, and set her limbs and belly on fire.
The fig. She was trapped! Squashed in, sucked down, unable to breathe, the twines pulling her ever inward.
“Silva! Can you hear me?”
Her body trembled. Sharp shivers racked her bones. A dreadful pain cascaded down her spine. Cold air brushed her face.
“It’s me, Rath. Wake up! Look at me!”
Her eyes fluttered open. Gray eyes, a shadow, a whiff of warm, dank sweat. Rath? She wasn’t standing. She wasn’t next to the fig. She was lying down, her face free, her body caught not in a fig, but in heavy rope, jolted not by pulsing twine, but by the juddering cart she lay in. The sky above was dark. She turned her head. Rath lay next to her. He, too, was tied up, his face worried, lined, gray, old.
“What happened?”
“The fig nearly swallowed you, Silva. Then the guard arrived. Bassan convinced them that you’d attacked the Oak. Seems like the whole tree’s down. He said the fig was trying to protect Great Oak and that’s why you got caught up in it. They got you out, tied us both up, and are taking us back to Southernwood.”
“What? But it was Bassan who attacked the fig! Why did he do that? Where is he now?”
“On one of the other carts, I expect. I can only suspect what he’s up to. But I’m worried about Harold.”
“Harold? How do you know him?”
“He came out of the tunnel before you. I’ve met that young man before. We—”
“Why was he in the tunnel?”
“He’d been poking around in Bassan’s laboratory. He found something there, Silva. A cup. Bassan seems to think it’s very important. I had it in my bag. Bassan took it from me. But I don’t think he saw Harold, and I don’t know where the boy escaped to, or if he escaped at all.”
She must clear her mind and think. Bassan hadn’t told her about any cup, but Filibert had, when she’d asked him what a mazer was. So Bassan had the Mazer! That explained a lot. He’d wanted to get to Oakenwood as fast as possible. His Mazer was missing, and he wanted to chase the thief down the tunnel. He’d kept looking at the tunnel floor, checking to see whether anyone else had gone that way. They’d rushed along at a ridiculous speed, and once in Oakenwood he’d climbed up to the den telling her to stay below, then taken her straight into the greenhouse. Yes, he’d been searching for someone.
“I know what this cup is,” she whispered. “It’s called the Mazer. Isleaf told me to find it. He said there’s a traitor in Southernwood.”
“Isleaf. Our tree. Remember, Silva?”
His voice was sad. She remembered. They’d raced each other through the wood, screaming with laughter, dancing around Isleaf, his smooth, pale bark sensing their touch. It was summer, yet his fresh leaves rained from above. They’d watched the leaves settle in a green carpet about their feet before returning to the Albatorium, hand in hand, in silence.
“Did you kill my father?”
“No.”
Again there was silence between them. But around them whirled the noise of horses’ hooves, cart wheels, and muffled shouts. Had she ever believed Rath was a murderer? Only because she’d been told it was so. What other choice had she had? Trevello had convicted Rath without any real proof. There was no motive, was there?
“Why did you escape?”
“I didn’t escape. I was let free, or so it seemed. The door was unlocked. I was told to go. It was the middle of the night, of course. As soon as I left the Albatorium, I heard the bells ringing and the shouts that a prisoner had escaped. I’d been tricked! And I know who let me free because he told me there in the greenhouse.”
“Bassan.” Oh, he’d tricked her, too, hadn’t he? Taking her through the tunnel, pretending they were going to Oakenwood on an important mission, planting grand ideas in her head about some glorious return to Southernwood. Now here she was, trussed up like a chicken in the back of a cart, next to an escaped prisoner!
She began to laugh. “Did you know I’m Legator?”
Rath chuckled. “Oh yes. Harold told me. I don’t think you’re going to be Legator for much longer, though, so enjoy it while you can. We’ll be back in Southernwood soon. The guard sent a rider on ahead. They’ll be waiting for us.”
And sure enough, the horse soon trod upon stone rather than earth, and they wound their way into the city through the market square, arriving in front of the Albatorium.
The cart clattered to a halt, and the back was let down by two of the guard who pulled them out and set them on their feet.
The crowd facing them pushed forward to see their new Legator. These were doubtless the same people who had cheered her, sung to her, and smiled up at her as she’d waved from the terrace above. Their attention moved to the Albatorium steps. Trevello and other Session members appeared. Filibert stood near the back, Winifred behind him. Harold was nowhere to be seen.
“Untie the prisoners!” shouted Trevello. He marched up to them, looking into Rath’s face with contempt.
“What have you done?” he hissed. “How long have you had our new Legator under your sway? I can hardly believe you plotted this together.”
His glance moved to Silva. Doubt, sadness, disappointment, anger—no, Trevello didn’t know what to think about her.
“Plotted what?” she said, before she could stop herself.
“Hah!” said Trevello, nodding his head. “It’s no good, Silva. Clever questions won’t help you in this case. You know only too well where we search for the truth, if we can. And it seems the truth we have found does not bode well for you!”
He pointed to Great Aspen. Silva gasped. The tree’s branches drooped onto the Albatorium roof, the top of his trunk bending over at an alarming angle.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“You know the answer to that, Silva,” said Trevello. “And Great Aspen knows it, too. He told us. So now we understand exactly what you’ve done.”
He glared at her, spat on the ground before her feet, and turned to the guard. “Take her to the underfloor. Take him to the guardery. And the trial,” he raised his voice to the crowd beyond, “will start in the morning at the tolling of the bell.”
Someone grabbed her arms and pushed her forward. She stumbled and kicked the rope off her legs. It was impossible to look back to see where Rath was. At the top of the steps, however, she caught a glimpse of a dark figure who stood for a moment in the torchlight before disappearing into the Albatorium: Bassan Zabal, Librarian and Protector of the Trees and Books of the Island and City of Southernwood.
***
He paced down the steps to the underfloor. He took the key from his belt and let himself into the laboratory. He left the door open. He wanted to hear them bringing her down to the jail. They’d lock her up. And she’d scream as they
left her alone to think what she would. They always did that, the new prisoners: pleaded their innocence, cried for help, then curled up on the floor like animals, slowly accepting their fate.
He slung his sack onto a trestle and took out the Mazer.
“I found you,” he muttered, walking into his chamber. He set the cup into the writing box, and then leaned over it, shaking his head, exhaling with relief.
There was a sudden rustling from the laboratory behind him and he twirled around, a shadow by the door catching his eye. What was that?
Voices came from the corridor.
“Hurry up, get that door open. Yes, yes, I know who it is! Trevello’s orders, haven’t you heard?”
It must be the guard with Silva. He smiled. A door clanked shut. He walked over and listened. She must be in there, but she wasn’t shouting. There were no calls, no weeping. He frowned, then saw Trevello coming down the stairs.
“Ah, Bassan. We need to talk. Privately. Can I come in?”
Bassan closed the door. He joined Trevello, who had taken a seat at the manuscript table.
“Nasty business, this, Bassan. It seems we’ve been duped. Looks like Great Ash wants to tell us something.”
He put a leaf on the table. Bassan leaned over and read the words:
“Silva has poisoned me.”
“Lots of leaves,” continued Trevello, “all saying the same thing. So she’s gone and poisoned Great Ash, can you believe. What would she want to do that for? I don’t understand it. Then we got a rider from Easternwood coming in saying that she’d attacked Great Oak!”
“Yes, this is true,” said Bassan. This leaf was amazing. See? Great Aspen hadn’t let him down. That tree always spoke the truth. The trees did, didn’t they? Nobody would believe Silva now. He just had to make sure she didn’t have a chance to explain herself.
“She wanted to visit Oakenwood and her Father’s den. At least, that’s what she told me. I climbed into the Oak, but then she refused to come up with me. Said she’d take a look at the greenhouse. Don’t know what she was doing down there, but something happened. The Oak started to go over with me in it. I got down pretty quick, I can tell you. I raced into the greenhouse, where I find she’s been attacked by the strangler fig. What’s more, Rath was there, too. Yes, both of them, caught like flies in a web! Fortunately, the guard arrived from Deep Dock. Couldn’t have managed without your men, Trevello.”
