“Apprentice robes,” Rowan informed Ivy dully. But Ivy was already throwing hers over her head and, with an excited twist, maneuvering the hood to its proper placement.
“I love all these little pockets!” she replied, delighted. She busied herself transferring the contents of her cherished workshop apron into the inner lining of the robe. Her Guide, her leather-wrapped poison kit, and an odd cork or two all fit quite nicely inside, with room for more.
The robes were a heady souvenir of Rowan’s former life, and they felt heavy now in his hands. His mind flashed to his least favorite classes—Irresistible Meals and Devouring I, II, and III—and then to his most thrilling of all courses, Advanced Taste Theory. This was taught by a very old Professor named Breaux, and if there was one person Rowan still admired at the Guild it was he.
“Right.” Axle pulled his beard, and Rowan finished dressing. “A pair of waders for each of you.”
“Waders?” they asked.
“Crump has advised me that there is a small stream not far from here.”
“A stream?” Rowan was aghast.
“You’ll hardly notice your wet feet, my young friend, with all that rain slashing down on you. It could be worse. We could have the Winds of Caux at our backs!”
The weather was indeed to prove an impeding factor in their travels. Thunder, lightning, and a miserable rain awaited them for their departure. The thin metallic rails of the train tracks upon the trestle were slick with runoff. The ties were overgrown with bristly grass and necessitated a careful passage. But they weren’t for long on the Toad’s topside, and once they made land, they began trudging along the tracks with a wary eye at the distance.
Thunderheads curdled the sky above them, occasionally dropping a bolt of barbed lightning nearby. Rowan began to consider the scope of his science education, in particular his studies in Terrestrial Disciplines, and he wondered whether the metallic rails were indeed a smart place to be in such a weather condition.
Axle, on surprisingly nimble legs, led the children forward as he searched around the tracks nervously for any signs of the small stream. On either side of them, the low menace of the forest began, a thick and dark black in which thousands of gleaming needles and knotted branches reverberated with each flash of lightning. He considered continuing along the tracks but knew how exposed they were upon them—exposed not only to the elements but also to the many eyes of the Tasters’ Guild.
“No bearing stones to mark our way this time,” he yelled. “Just fortune.”
Another streak lit up the sky, and with that he gave a loud shout. He had found the small stream. He urged the children on.
But Rowan did not see Axle’s small triumph. For with the same slash of blue light, his eyes were drawn to the area just behind the trestleman. Upon a ruined Royal Cauvian Rail sign, in an evil illusion that seemed to perch upon the jagged edge of the lightning bolt itself, was a vulture. A Rocamadour vulture. The taster was certain he saw it—its eyes eagerly regarding the threesome, its beak pulled back in a gruesome hiss. They were plunged again into the blackness, and the next time the lightning came, the giant bird was gone.
Chapter Thirty-one
Springforms
With a splash, Axle plodded into the stream. It cut a small path through the otherwise impenetrable forest, one that they might use to traverse the dense bramble. The way was far from easy, as the travelers had to navigate rocks slick with viscous algae and clumps of phosphorescent slime. They were forced to travel single file, with Axle leading and Rowan bringing up the rear.
Overhead grew a canopy of dark vines and interlocking limbs, blotting out much of the driving rain, so as they made their way, they were at least thankful to escape the worst of the downpour. The thick black lace of barbs and needles from the forest of hawthorns left their spirits downcast and somber.
“Hawthorns”—Axle looked apprehensively over the rim of his spectacles at the surrounding woods—“are quite treacherous. In ancient times, it was said that they bound people, entrapped them. They are thought to contain imprisoned souls.”
The threesome shivered at the thought of the vivid enchantment.
Decomposing leaves sat in piles beside the fetid stream, washed-up detritus from the forest floor. They walked on for some time in a sloshy silence. There was no place to rest—the water’s edge was an inconvenient sheer of mud from which brambles grew up as soon as they might find some earth to cling to—until they met with a large, stout rock. Its tip was flat enough to offer seating and it was, as rocks are, implacable in its position—some giant had long ago placed it in the stream’s midst. The roiling water coursed around it and rejoined downstream.
Axle clambered on top and offered his hand to Ivy and Rowan in turn. Once the group was huddled together, the trestleman set about producing some lunch. Rowan held some special memories of Axle’s picnic baskets—trestlemen are known for their cooking prowess, and during his various travels with Ivy, he had been introduced to some of Axle’s specialties. And even here, in the gloomy shadow of the Tasters’ Guild, the former taster was to enjoy a delicious—albeit hastily collected—meal from the Toad’s cafeteria’s conveyor belt.
Besides the loaves of hearty, pillow-soft bread, wax-coated wheels of cheese, chicken potpies, and chocolate fudge, something else was stuffed within Axle’s sack. Ivy spied the curious things as they finished eating in silence. Reaching in, she retrieved a small package, part of a larger collection of identical packets. Each was tied with drab canvas strapping, about the size of a young girl’s palm. After she asked her friend what they might be, Axle responded with a word.
“Springforms!”
“Springforms?” Rowan perked up.
“Yes, various springforms. A gift from Rhustaphustian.”
“What do they do?” Ivy wondered.
“It depends, of course.”
“Well, what does this one do?” Ivy indicated the one in her hand.
“Oh, I couldn’t tell you.”
“Well, shouldn’t we find out?” Ivy stared at the small canvas objects with renewed enthusiasm. “Did they come with instructions?”
“When Rhustaphustian gave them to you, didn’t he tell you what they do?” Rowan asked.
Axle looked suddenly sheepish.
“Axle?” Ivy asked suspiciously.
“Well, no. You see, he didn’t technically give them to me.…”
“You took them?” Ivy laughed out loud—an odd happy sound in the midst of such a forlorn wood. “Well, let’s see these springforms, then.” She pulled upon the secure bands.
“Be careful!” Axle warned. “They must be opened with great caution!”
“Hardly. It seems simple enough—”
With an enormous whoosh, Ivy untied the strapping and released a tensed coil of wire sewn into the seams of the fabric within. The force of the springform opening very nearly threw Rowan from his perch on the rock back into the syrupy murk, but the taster hardly cared. His thoughts returned him to the gallery at the Toad and the small card beside the set of wings he had admired.
“Springforms!” he repeated excitedly.
An enormous sucking sound filled the air between them, and quite suddenly in their midst a sizable balloon appeared. The canvas sacking was interlaced with a hemp net, and as the thing began to inflate, it hung suspended in the gloom. Quite quickly it had completed its transformation. A perfectly round, elegant balloon bobbed before the surprised group. At its base there was a paddle—more like a large pinwheel—which appeared to be its driving force. It turned lazily with a click click noise. And then, to the great surprise of the three travelers, it began to slowly rise.
“A weather balloon!” Axle gasped. How he had wanted one of these on board the Trindletrip when dealing with the impenetrable clouds!
“Wow,” Ivy added appreciatively.
“Oh,” Axle cooed, reaching up fondly, but it was already out of reach.
“Oh!” Rowan echoed, this time with dread, as
the balloon met the eventual ceiling of the forest, snagging on a fierce branch of thorns.
With a sad hiss—a noise that could really mean only one thing when in the presence of a balloon—it was over very quickly. It was soon shredded by the brambles and became an unrecognizable clump of fabric and wires.
Looking quite helpless, Axle turned to Ivy.
“I think we might practice a bit more prudence when opening another one,” he suggested quietly.
But before Axle knew it, Ivy had a new springform in her hand, and although he shouted at her to wait, she untied the binding and let it go. It instantly revealed itself to be a sturdy coatrack, and Ivy heedlessly jettisoned it downstream. She reached for a third and opened it.
What next lay between the three upon the boulder was, in fact, a most welcome sight.
“A raft, Axle!” Ivy happily proclaimed.
“Not a raft,” Axle corrected. “A skimmer!”
A skimmer is a lovely flat boat with a fan-type motor mounted behind the passenger seats. It is a craft primarily used by trestlemen and is therefore apportioned for their smaller size.
“A springform skimmer! I wonder what else you have in there—”
But the trestleman managed this time to stay her hand.
“I think we should wait to open any of the others until we know what they are—or at least until we have more space.” Axle pointed to either end of the skimmer, which, like the weather balloon, was being menaced by the dark, needle-like barbs. After wrestling with the thing, and setting it in the water finally, Ivy, still quite pleased with herself, reluctantly agreed, which left Rowan to peer through the trestleman’s curious sack alone.
“And these?” Rowan asked, holding up a handful of tiny packets he had found at the bottom. “Are these more springforms?”
“Ah!” Axle clapped his hands excitedly. “Those! I’d forgotten! I’d packed them before we left.”
Ivy turned to look, grabbing several. “Flintroot sachets!” she said happily. “Perfect!”
“Careful—that’s all there is, and we’ve just begun—” the trestleman protested as Ivy passed out the small silken squares. She had already squeezed hers, and the soft pillow was beginning to glow with a cheery warmth. After showing Rowan what to do, she settled a pair of them in her socks and, replacing her boots and waders, stood on warm feet for the first time all day.
The skimmer was designed to ride along in troubled waters just deep enough for the small set of rear paddles to propel the raft forward. Conceived by trestlemen, it was of course fastidiously made but was, Rowan was soon reminded, of miniature scale. It was intended to carry the standard crew of seven trestlemen and a captain, which made it just spacious enough for the two children, Axle, and their various packs. Rowan was finding the small bench to be an uncomfortable fit.
It was a delicate affair to avoid the thorns that threatened the canvas raft from every angle. As the whirring of the paddles commenced with a swift yank from Axle on a pull cord, Rowan huddled down, keeping warm. The stream had widened a bit. Casting a dark eye about the wood, rain drenching his face and robes, he found himself wistful for the perilous windwhipper ride over the Lake District he had endured with Ivy at the beginning of their adventure.
Despite her warm toes, Ivy noticed that the temperature seemed to have dropped, and her teeth began chattering. Axle, too, felt the cold despite his thick greatcoat. The rain had varnished each sinister barb of the hawthorns into a crystal spear. He began to imagine a fire, a place to make camp, and looking at the children—and seeing two pale faces—it suddenly became imperative to get them warm.
Shortly, Axle’s heart surged to see a break in the overgrowth. There was one particularly enormous tree root that grew up and over itself, before plunging into the earth beside the stream. It was a natural foothold, and there was a small place to make shore beside the muddy bank. Behind the gnarled root, a space above the stream beckoned—Axle was sure he saw a soft inlet of green moss.
Axle tied up the skimmer—there was no hope of manipulating it back into its tight packet with frozen hands. Hopping through a gap beside the mud-caked tree root, Axle helped Ivy disembark, and the pair turned to assist Rowan.
By now the gnarled root upon which they stood was quite slick, and Rowan was having trouble finding his balance. The stream had exposed the old tree’s root system, and its bare tendrils clawed at the eroding bank in gruesome shapes. Fistfuls of earth rained down on the travelers as more of the ledge gave way. Rowan was forced to crawl his way up the unforgiving wall, and came finally to lean against the old hawthorn trunk. Amid the heaving, muttering, and splashing, no one heard the strange creaking (and then splintering) from somewhere deep within the ancient tree. A thorny branch suddenly snaked itself around the former taster, pulling him tight.
“OWW!” Rowan shouted, struggling against the barbs that pricked his skin, and then standing quite still.
Which was worse? The taster could not decide if it was better to be soaked to the bone—and freeze to death—or to be trapped by a wicked, mean-spirited tree. Somehow they both seemed preferable to landing at the dark gates of Rocamadour. Either way, as he lazily turned the topic over in his mind, it became clear to him that he was stuck.
Chapter Thirty-two
The True Nature of Plants
As every apotheopath in Caux knew, some plants are good, some bad, but all are powerful when harnessed. It was this harnessing of Caux’s forests and glens that apotheopaths practiced, for healing and ultimately good purposes. And it was another truth that these natures—indeed, plants themselves—were again awakening, after a long, and at times fitful, sleep.
Two things happened simultaneously.
First, Rowan recalled Axle’s earlier statement that the hawthorn tree binds people and imprisons their unfortunate souls, and in the vague recesses of his brain, he remembered some of his lessons concerning lost travelers in these very woods. And, second, he began to feel quite unfortunate himself, as several more spiky branches advanced upon him, encircling his chest, compressing.
“Axle … Ivy …,” he wheezed. “The tree—I can’t breathe!”
The pair watched in horror as the tree flexed with an ancient strength, maneuvering the unfortunate taster toward a new and terrifying opening that had materialized within a hollow in its mighty trunk.
“Hawthorns!” Axle spat bitterly, casting about the skimmer for his sack. He emerged with a shout, brandishing a steely ax.
Quickly he set about chopping.
It was quite a fortunate thing that Axle’s ax had been carefully sharpened, for the first few strikes found their mark and left bitter gashes in the ancient wood, and the tree seemed to loosen its grip on Rowan. But the ax was a small one; a few more swings and the trusted tool soon dulled.
“Ivy—” Axle called. “Pull!”
The ax left less and less of a mark, but Ivy managed to help free Rowan—and as the taster shrugged off the final lasso of barbs, a bitter creaking accompanied the tree’s retreat. With great effort, and emerging scratched and tattered, Axle and Ivy managed to half-drag Rowan to the grassy area, an inexplicable oasis in the tangle of the wood. Around them the wet of the bark made the forest a dirty brown, dark slashes of damp upon the thick hawthorn trunks. From everywhere, the smell of earthy decay.
Yet—above, through the crisscrossing branches, a sliver of moon, and with this, Ivy realized that it had stopped raining, and the storm had passed.
Chapter Thirty-three
The Uninvited Visitor
The ground was crisp and even imparted a slight crunch as the threesome set up camp in the darkness. Beneath a tarp, Axle unpacked the remnants of their lunch and started to contemplate dinner, while Ivy was overjoyed to discover several springform cots with the Toad’s crest upon them. Soon Rowan was resting comfortably upon one.
Ivy offered to examine the tired taster, but Rowan was already drifting off.
“Ivy, I’m fine—I just need to rest,” he as
sured her.
Axle had built a small fire after some deliberation and was happily burnishing his iron pan after producing a length of plump sausages.
“Do we dare have a fire?” Ivy asked, happy in the moment to warm her hands over the coals. Ivy thought of the Tasters’ Guild, its tall spire. Surely someone would be on lookout, and she said so.
“I think we must.” Axle nodded at Rowan. “It’s more important to be dry. Besides, I’ve dug it deep enough where it won’t be easy to spot.”
Axle fell silent, a dark thought upon him. It wasn’t the subrectors at the Tasters’ Guild that troubled the trestleman currently. It was their spies and assassins.
“Axle, why would Vidal Verjouce meet my mother at the Snodgrass Toad?” Ivy wondered softly. Sitting quietly, waiting to get warm, had brought her back to this underlying question—and a sinking feeling.
Axle stopped tending his potatoes and spoke carefully.
“Ivy, your mother was—is—a woman of untested loyalties. She traveled easily in both the realms of the light and dark. We were told she was a spy, for us. But I do believe it was more complex.”
Ivy nodded. She found herself holding the charm she had received from Peps, the ribbon knotted about her neck.
“Your destiny is quite different from hers,” the trestleman said kindly.
In the silence, Ivy peered about the woods—so very menacing now, after what she’d seen with Rowan and the ancient tree. Axle continued, warmed by the fire.
“Ivy, I have been wrong about something.”
Ivy waited. It wasn’t often that Axle was wrong.
“Whosoever speaks to the trees speaks to the King. There is much unwritten in the Prophecy, but I now see that you—and not the tapestries—are the source of the plantworld’s awakening. And that is both a blessing and a curse.”
The Tasters Guild Page 9
