Free The Mazer by C.K. Nolan Page B

Nonetheless, he was a master tree, strong, wise, and brave enough to fight back, unlike the weaklings in Skeps Wood.
    He prepared a ladle and flask, then put on two pairs of gloves, first silk, then leather. Once, he’d wondered if Great Aspen might recognize him simply from his touch, a strange hunch, but one he hadn’t been able to put out of his mind. It was only when he’d been a guest at a naming ceremony for Wystan’s second child that he’d begun to understand how the trees could sense who’d touched them. Guests had crowded onto the Albatorium roof for the occasion, Medrella hugging her newborn, and Wystan proudly writing his son’s name, parentage, and date of birth on one of Great Aspen’s leaves. Everybody waited until the words had faded, and then the child, screaming and wriggling, was held up to the trunk of the tree, and one of his tight little fists was prized open and his hand was pressed against the trunk. Then there were the usual cheers when Great Aspen confirmed the baby’s name and details on that very same leaf, which was then taken and stored with the other birth leaves in the library’s family history archive. He’d attempted to test his theory several times, but the trees had always refused to cooperate, which only proved the matter quite satisfactorily, didn’t it? For there was a tree who didn’t insist on anyone identifying themselves: Old Elm, that silly, wishy-washy wishing tree up in the north of the island. He seemed to recognize his hapless visitors as soon as treequill met leaf, spewing out the half-baked, sentimental advice so beloved by Southernwooders, but he was an eccentric exception. The other trees ignored Old Elm. They never mentioned him. And no wonder.
    He shook his head. What a waste of time it all was! They’d always been taught that when writing to a tree, it was polite to begin by introducing yourself. Everybody presumed this was because the trees wouldn’t know who you were otherwise. He’d written his name down for Master Ash, hadn’t he, on his first visit to Ashenwood? That had no doubt been necessary, as the Ash had had no contact with the other trees for generations, and wouldn’t have been able to tell who he was. But these other master trees, well, they’d never told anyone that there was no need for all this I’m so-and-so nonsense every time someone wrote to a tree. What other much more important matters had they kept secret from the islanders?
    One of the bubbles burst, splattering the sides of the pot with a smelly, sticky, mucus. A brilliant concoction, if he did say so himself. One dose of this, and Great Aspen would start to…what? It would be interesting to see how the tree would react. Would the other trees on the island notice? How would this affect the Aspen that appeared in the Mazer? The Mazer itself might change in some way. It was a risk, a big risk, but he had to get this tree under control and kill it if necessary. This was, after all, the tree that had come up with Silva’s name. Great Aspen’s root was sitting there, thinking, calculating, analyzing, and storing who knew what information for who knew what purposes, and it was time it got a nice injection of this toxic little brew.
    He carefully ladled the scum into his flask, and then pocketed a sharp knife and a pot of wax. He took them into his chamber, lit a lamp, and climbed into the tunnel. He wouldn’t have much time. Flask in one hand, lamp in the other, he hurried along the tunnel.
    He set his lamp on top of a rock, the flask next to it. Then he found his knife. A clean cut into Great Aspen’s root to begin with. Now deeper still, turning the blade around this way and that, working it into the root until he’d formed a deep, vertical hole. Time for that brew. Pour it in gently; watch it bubble; wait a minute or two; fill the hole with the rest of it. The wax was next: spread it over the top of the wound; seal in the rot; and it was done!
    The root began to glow. Steam