The Mazer

by C. K. Nolan

  Not that they need have worried. Whatever Winifred had added to her dishes that evening had had its desired effect; everyone was sound asleep. They could have rung any bell a thousand times that night, and nobody would have heard. Poor Wystan! Beautiful Medrella! Wystan had been good to him, offered him work, given him free rein about the Albatorium in a way that other children in the city could only dream of. Medrella was a second mother to him. But they were in this together. And they’d beat that Bassan, they would!

  He gritted his teeth and stumbled after Rath. They’d rested occasionally, but Rath had said there was so little time to get up to Maplewood and across to the Round Tower that they couldn’t stop for long. They were aiming to reach the Wishing Tree that afternoon; if Hortus thought “dusk of day” was an important time, Old Elm would have to hurry up and tell them where they needed to be by the end of today.

  Through the last trees of Oakenwood and the wild, low Holly Hags, their green, prickly bushes and trees lying huggled together in treacherous hedge and trench, then across bare stretches of bramble, bristlebroom, bracken and gorse, on and on they went, not helped by a damp, sickly wind blowing in from the east. To the west lay the valley of Southernwood River, Ashenwood beyond.

  At last they could see the hills of Northernwood ahead. They crossed a shallow river, kicking off their shoes, dancing about, shouting and laughing at each other, enjoying the cold water on their blistered feet before entering glades of pine and birch. They spotted the Wishing Tree with relief, his great arms shooting into the sky before drooping back down to earth as if he’d wanted to say something terribly important, then changed his mind.

  Harold ran up to him. “Hello, Old Elm! Ah, yes,” and he fished in his pocket for the leaf Rath had given him. “I think you have some explaining to do, my dear Wishing Tree. Will you make my wish come true?”

  “We can only ask,” said Rath, smiling. “What would you wish, Harold?”

  “Oh, so many things. A nice house for Mother and Father and my brothers, I suppose. Some new shoes would come next. My feet hurt so! And a decent boat for Father, too, one without holes or barnacles.”

  He dropped down on the soft grass, then gazed at Rath, who stood with a treequill in one hand, his dripping boots in the other.

  “What about you, Rath?”

  Rath screwed up his face. “What would I wish? That’s not easy to answer, I must say. Oh, I know! New shoes for me, too!”

  He smiled again, but looked sad. Rath didn’t really want new shoes. What about his home, his family? Harold didn’t know much about this man, and he didn’t want to ask. He missed his own family a lot but went over to Quagfen when he could, taking them the little coin he could save, lots of Winifred’s pastries, and tales of life in the Albatorium. It was crowded, noisy, and smelly at home, but who cared? They were his family! He felt sick with longing to see them. That’s what he wanted more than anything, apart from his wish for Medrella and Wystan to be safe; for Silva and the others to find their parts of the key; for Bassan to be thrown out of the legatorship; and for the Albatorium to return to its usual chaotic, dusty, funny self.

  “Changed your mind about the shoes, have you?” asked Rath softly.

  Harold nodded. “And you?”

  “I like my old boots!” grinned Rath, throwing them onto the ground.

  “Now, Harold, we need to think what to ask Old Elm. He’s a friend, Hortus says. But you’re much cleverer than I am with these old manuscripts. What should our wish be?”

  Rath knelt next to him, got out the poem and read it out loud while Old Elm’s branches swayed above them.

  “We could ask him about the two whatever-they-ares,” said Harold hopefully.

  “Oh no, you can’t do that!” said Rath. “You’ve got to make a wish. You can’t just ask any old question that pops into your head. And remember—this old tree only gives one answer to each wish, so whatever we write had better be good.”

  Old Elm’s branches stretched down as if to get a better view of Hortus’ words. Rath and Harold racked their brains for the right wish, muttering “No, that’s a ridiculous idea!” or “A wish, a wish, I wish I could think of a wish!” while pointy tipped leaves brushed over their heads and tickled their ears. It was no good simply wishing they understood this poem. Old Elm wouldn’t know what poem they were talking about, would he? So that meant…

  “We’ll have to tell him!” shouted Harold.

  “Tell who, what?”

  Was it his imagination, or did Rath’s innocent expression show that he knew exactly what Harold was going to say next?

  “Tell Old Elm!” Yes, that’s what they would do! “We write the poem on Old Elm’s leaves. Then,” he finished rather lamely, for suddenly his idea didn’t sound so impressive after all, “we read what he says to us.”

  Rath leapt up and hit his head on a branch. “Ouch! But that’s it! No silly old wish at all! Ah, Harold. You’d make a wonderful Librarian, did you know that? I’ll tell you what,” and he leaned down, his eyes gleaming with—what? Amusement? Amazement? A fever, perhaps?

  “If I ever become Librarian before you, young man, you can be sure that I’ll choose you to be my apprentice.”

  Rath must mean what he said, for he held out a hand, pulled Harold up, and gave him his treequill.

  “I’ll read out the lines, and you write them down. Wait for each line to disappear before starting the next. I hope Old Elm is a patient fellow. Ready?”

  Harold chose a leaf, placed it on his palm, and Rath started to read. Harold’s fingers trembled with pride, for after all, hadn’t Zossimo trained Rath? Everyone knew that. From bell ringer to apprentice Librarian! Whatever would Mother say?

  “The key ablaze…between the two,” repeated Rath. “Good! We’ve only got—”

  A cold gust of wind nearly blew the vellum out of Rath’s hands. Old Elm’s leaves quivered, then quietened. Harold’s writing faded, and then words began to appear not only on his leaf, but on low leaves and high leaves until the whole tree was covered in a wordy cloud.

  “What do they say? Are they all different?” said Harold holding his branch and leaf tightly.

  “Yes. They’re wishes people have made to the Elm, see?”

  Rath turned away as if he didn’t want to read any more. Harold couldn’t resist peeking at some of them. Wishes for health, coin, work, a child, love, fair weather, a doll, even a pair of new shoes.

  “Hey, you’ll never guess what I’ve just read!”

  But then a horrible thought struck him. “Rath!” he cried. “Won’t the leaves fall off? He’s never going to answer us, is he? All that writing at once. He could die, couldn’t he? There won’t be any more wishes now. What have we done?”

  Rath gazed up at the Elm, frowning. “Wait, Harold! The words are fading.”

  Harold turned back. Yes, it was true. How gray those words had made Old Elm look! Now he was lovely and green again. He stared down again at the leaf in his hand. Tiny letters began to spring up.

  “He’s writing something else!” yelled Harold. Rath ran up behind him, and they leaned down to take a closer look.

  “Young Harold

  Friend of Hortus, old,

  May you belong

  To Maplesong.”

  “Maplesong? Who’s that? A tree? Well, we must be looking for a maple,” said Harold. “But Wishing Tree, you haven’t told us where it is, have you? And how did you know my name? I didn’t tell you. Rath, do you—”

  The leaf slipped off its twig.

  “I don’t think Old Elm’s going to say anything else, I’m afraid, Harold,” said Rath, putting on his boots. He shivered. “The evening draws in. Come on! We’ve got to find this maple.” He ran off and disappeared into the trees.

  “But where?” shouted Harold, forcing his shoes on his feet. “Rath! Wait! Your treequill! Oh—Old Elm. Goodbye, funny old tree. I’m sorry to leave in such a hurry, but I’ll be back to see you again.”

  Old Elm’s branches whisked
over his shoulders as if to say “Off you go, Harold! Off you go, quickly!” so he did just that, running after Rath through the glade, up a muddy path, breaking out into the open and—

  “Oof!”

  He was flat on his face in the soaking grass.

  “What was—”

  “Sh!” Rath was crouched down ahead of him. “Stay there. Don’t move!”

  Harold raised his head tentatively. Far across the meadow stood a tree. Flames lit the trunk; they leapt through the steaming branches while smoke curled into a red and gold sky.

  “It’s on fire!” he said. “Is this the tree Hortus spoke of? It’s just like in the poem, isn’t it?”

  “Nothing to do with the poem. Looks like the guard—over there, can you see them? They’ve set the Maple on fire. This is the work of man, not of tree.”

  “Look! They’re leaving.”

  Three figures moved along their line of sight. Then one mounted his horse and two climbed onto a wagon. Away they rode, shouting and whistling triumphantly.

  “Quick!” shouted Rath, getting to his feet. “We have to see this tree now! Sun’s going down!”

  Harold stood up and took a few steps forward. Everything went black. Rath seized his shoulders and spun him round. “That way, Harold, to the other side of the field. I’ll go to the tree.”

  Rath ran off to the left. Harold stumbled in the opposite direction. Oh, for supper in the Albatorium kitchen! Winifred, Lisette, Medrella, and a pot full of soup. What could beat that? “Nothing, nothing, nothing!” he said as he paced through the high grass. Then he stopped. The corner of a low wall lay ahead. Its stonework surrounded a long, rectangular stretch of water. At the other end of the lake, the burning Maple stood against the setting sun.

  “The other tree,” he whispered. “Floating in the sky—in the water! Two trees, indeed, one a reflection of the other. And the key? Held up between the two. Hortus - here I come!”

  He wriggled out of his cloak and shirt, pulled off his shoes and clinging socks, and then plunged into the lake. He half swam, half walked towards Rath until the base of the pool dropped away before him, the waters becoming deep. A pedestal of some kind lay below, with a statue on top. A child, it was, reaching up, holding something. He caught his breath, then shot down to grab the glinting object held tight between the child’s chubby fists. He pulled and pulled, for the key was stuck fast, but then, softly, the child released it into Harold’s frozen hand. He shook his head in disbelief, then took one last look at this strange little person who rose from the murky depths beneath the Maple, before pushing himself up to the surface, gasping for air—and now gasping with shock, for two of the guard were throwing Rath to the ground, the third running to help! Harold swam to the edge of the lake by the Maple. The heat and smell of the tree made his stomach turn.

  “Ha ha! Couldn’t resist taking a look at our fine work!” cried a guard.

  Another chuckled. “This fellow seems to like being tied up and carted off to the Albatorium, doesn’t he?”

  “We’re not going to the Albatorium,” objected a gruff voice. “Bassan told us to go straight to Yewlith, remember? Make room in the wagon and throw him in. No, hold on! Not down this slope, it’s too rough. Go up the track first, then down to the Ashenwood road. I’ll ride…”

  The guard moved off. Harold ducked down and swam over to the side of the lake where the air was cleaner. He hauled himself out. The guard were making their way slowly up the track. So they were setting off to Yewlith, were they?

  Harold stood up. He examined the key in his hand. Small and bright it was, with straight edges. Not like any door key he’d ever seen. Could this really be what they’d searched for? It didn’t seem—but the Maple was still on fire!

  He sped past the lake and set the key carefully on the wall. The guard had built their fire at the base of Maple’s trunk. Not that they’d spent much time trying to destroy the tree—just look! Traces of a fine old picnic littered the ground: a scorched blanket, one of Winifred’s best earthenware pots broken into smithereens, chicken bones all over the place…and empty barrels from the undercroft. He grabbed a barrel and went back and forth as fast as he could, hurling water with all his might over Maple’s trunk and lower branches.

  He stood back, panting. At least the fire was out. The reeking cloud from Maple’s crown gusted into his eyes and out across the lake, then back again around the trunk, blowing a sheet of vellum towards him.

  “Hortus’ poem!” he exclaimed. Rath must have dropped it here. What’s more, this manuscript was neither wet nor dirty, nor even hot. He began to read it, tears pouring down his face. This tree must have been so beautiful. Now she was in a dreadful state, her branches misshapen and black, the leaves that remained wizened and stiff, her trunk terribly scarred.

  She needs more water! He got back to work with the barrel, feeding her roots and soaking the soil until a great puddle surrounded her. Then he picked up the key and the poem, retrieved his clothes and shoes, and raced off across the fields towards the holly hedges lining the Ashenwood road, where he dived again, this time through a prickly gap between the hedgerows, landing belly down and slamming his chin onto a sharp stone, whereupon he heard a shout,

  “After him! Don’t let him get away!”

  A figure leapt in front of him. The man bent down. Harold looked up.

  It was Rath. He slapped his hand on Harold’s forehead.

  “Hide!” he rasped, before twisting round to face the guard. They seized Rath and threw him back into the wagon, cursing, pounding, and kicking until their prisoner cried out in agony, until Harold himself cried silent tears as he curled up in the holly, nursing his bleeding chin and trying not to move his crunching, painful jaw.

  “Get one of the nets and stick him in it. Take my horse, you laggard! No more mead for you two. Here, I’ll sit with him myself. Hey—you! Get out and raise the tailboard, double quick! Ride on, ride on!”

  He hadn’t been able to save Rath from the fig, but he wasn’t going to abandon him now. Anyway, how long would it take him to find the Round Tower without Rath? He’d never meet up with the others in time.

  Harold crawled out from the hedge and watched the wagon gather speed. Then, in the half-light, he shot towards it, grabbing one of the hunting nets that flapped about on the wagon’s side before swinging his legs up to find a foothold. He hung on for dear life as the wagon tore down the road and across the bridge, the driver swearing at every bump and pothole, the rider on the other side yelling out warnings. “Round this way! Watch out for that stone! Keep straight!”

  They careered down a dip, then up again, more slowly. If they stopped now, they’d spot him. But they kept going, sometimes coming to a complete halt before lurching off again over the uneven terrain. Snared like a rabbit he was, unable to untangle himself from—

  “Hey! Hey there!” There was movement in the back of the wagon. “Where are you going? No, this path leads nowhere. Can’t you see, yonder? Turn about! Back to the main road and round the hill!”

  They gathered speed and swung left. Harold bashed against the wagon. Then they swirled around to the right and he flew away from the side, the sound of galloping hoof and ripping net in his ears as he was hurled into the air and thrown onto the grass. He fought off the netting and scrambled to his feet, watching with dismay as the wagon rattled out of sight.

  “Oh no!” he groaned. “Rath! I’m sorry! What am I going to do now?”

  Where would the wagon be going? To the east was Southernwood River, if he wasn’t mistaken. They must be taking Rath around the hills to the west and then south.

  “Maybe I can catch up with them!” he cried, turning about. “We’ve come a good way up this path. It’ll take them a while to get back onto the road, and then—”

  Not far off stood an enormous tree. He was in Ashenwood, wasn’t he? And there was only one tree this could be! His favorite character from Tree Tales: Master Ash.

  Harold ran along the path and into the
thicket. His mouth fell open. This must be the tallest tree he’d ever seen. Healthy, too, despite the hollow in his trunk. Could Master Ash write? Rath’s treequill was still in his trouser pocket. Oh, there was no harm in trying, was there?

  “Let’s see if you’re as clever as Old Elm, my dear Master Ash!”

  He scribbled the first lines of Hortus’ poem:

  “In this world or the next, I swear,

  No burden should I have to bear

  If to this tree I did belong,

  Delighting in her lovely song.”

  Master Ash replied immediately:

  “That’s easy. The Maple!”

  Harold blinked, frowned, and then sucked the top of the treequill. So the Ash knew of the Maple. He’d know Great Aspen, too, of course—hadn’t he told the islanders to live by that tree? That’s what Tree Tales said. Did the Ash know of the other famous trees of Southernwood? The Oak? The Yew of Yewlith? More than likely. He thought of the map he’d once seen in Bassan’s laboratory. How lavish it was compared to the dull, workaday maps he’d studied at school! If you’d never laid foot on the island, you’d have thought it was crammed with interesting places to visit. Lush green forests, rich blue rivers, roads twisting like roots, a sturdy ship by Deep Dock, higgledy-piggledy houses representing Southernwood City and a brilliant white semi-circle marking the Albatorium. Flower-shaped gardens, large tree leaves—the ash leaf in the middle labeled Master Ash—and coastlines of golden beach, silver rock and white cliff separating the island from the sea, where fish jumped, boats sailed, and…he’d been too afraid Bassan would catch him to look at the map any longer. Too afraid to read the tiny notes in the margins. He felt afraid now. Why?

  He glanced up. Two knives were embedded in the trunk above. He took another leaf.

  “Was Silva here?” he wrote.

  “She was indeed.”

  Should he believe this tree? That answer had come even faster than the first.

  “How do you know?”

  “Newborn she was, when I first met