signal fire to alert the guards at Deep Dock?
Bassan grabbed Zossimo’s arm and pulled him back into the greenhouse. They both fell, grappling with each other, until Bassan rolled away and stood up, panting, an ax in his hand.
“Come on Zossimo! Tell me about these trees. So you think I’m mad? Not as mad as you! You’re so protective of these trees, of your own position, of this island, of everything. You leave nothing for others; you give nothing to me, and you know what? I’m not going to wait any longer to—”
Zossimo raced off down the path to his workbench on the other side of the greenhouse. He grabbed a bag from the top of the bench and spun round, swinging the bag up, aiming for Bassan’s head. Bassan ducked, gripped the ax handle with both hands, and lunged towards Zossimo, who fell back onto the trunk of a strangler fig.
“Tell me!” roared Bassan.
Chop!
The ax bit deep into the fig. The fig trembled, then whipped its long arms away from the roof, pulling down a wooden beam and smashing a window. It slapped its tentacles around Zossimo’s shoulders and arms, and Bassan laughed as he pulled the bag free from the fig’s grasp. He chopped again, and the fig began to wind its lower branches over Zossimo’s feet and legs, circling upwards, encasing Zossimo within a writhing mass of brown twine.
“Silva, Silva!” shouted Zossimo, but he could hardly make himself heard as the tendrils wound round his head, squeezing tighter and tighter, covering his panic-stricken eyes and his open mouth, pushing him down into the earth until he had completely disappeared.
Bassan dragged the fallen beam out of the greenhouse and into the entrance of the tunnel. Then he rushed back to sweep up the shattered glass and kick the buckets away from the door. He packed Zossimo’s cloak into the bag, hauled it onto his shoulder, and returned to Southernwood overland. By the time he got there, the sun was a golden ball on the horizon, smothering Southernwood in its summer glory.
***
The Session was full, despite the early hour. Candlelight flickered on the faces of those sitting on the packed public benches. Word had got round: whispered gossip, hushed arguments, hysterical laughter, guards directing more arrivals to the back. Why hadn’t they closed the Albatorium entrance earlier? This was ridiculous! Some of these people were tucking into a quick breakfast by the looks of it, and the firesmoke clinging to their clothes mingled with a heavy scent of strong mead.
Bassan made his way to the dais and took his seat. Filibert and Wystan were already there, Wystan sitting next to his wife, Medrella. She grasped her husband’s hand and looked at Bassan. Her face was a picture of…what? Concern? Incomprehension? No. Thinly disguised hatred. Oh, well, so be it. Bassan nodded to her and sat down.
Trevello clumped down the steps from the Legator’s office, then marched to an impressively carved lectern next to the dais to address the crowd.
“Members of the Session, citizens of Southernwood, let us commence!”
Two of the guard set off to shut the main doors—about time too—and the last few Southernwooders filed in. Harold went onto the terrace to ring the bell, this time with a quicker, more excited tempo, and as the young lad rang and rang, straining his head to see the crowds gathering around the bonfire in the square below, he pulled the bell rope ever faster and harder, laughing and waving delightedly with his free hand at his captive audience. What a chump! This was supposed to be a dignified occasion, not some cheap show!
“Thank you, Harold, thank you!” bellowed Trevello, and Harold reluctantly stilled the bell, shut the doors against the chill, and sat by the window, grinning from ear to ear.
Bassan shook his head in disbelief and shot Harold an angry look: this nincompoop would be the first to go under his new leadership.
“People of Southernwood,” began Trevello, “this night the Session met
Bassan grabbed Zossimo’s arm and pulled him back into the greenhouse. They both fell, grappling with each other, until Bassan rolled away and stood up, panting, an ax in his hand.
“Come on Zossimo! Tell me about these trees. So you think I’m mad? Not as mad as you! You’re so protective of these trees, of your own position, of this island, of everything. You leave nothing for others; you give nothing to me, and you know what? I’m not going to wait any longer to—”
Zossimo raced off down the path to his workbench on the other side of the greenhouse. He grabbed a bag from the top of the bench and spun round, swinging the bag up, aiming for Bassan’s head. Bassan ducked, gripped the ax handle with both hands, and lunged towards Zossimo, who fell back onto the trunk of a strangler fig.
“Tell me!” roared Bassan.
Chop!
The ax bit deep into the fig. The fig trembled, then whipped its long arms away from the roof, pulling down a wooden beam and smashing a window. It slapped its tentacles around Zossimo’s shoulders and arms, and Bassan laughed as he pulled the bag free from the fig’s grasp. He chopped again, and the fig began to wind its lower branches over Zossimo’s feet and legs, circling upwards, encasing Zossimo within a writhing mass of brown twine.
“Silva, Silva!” shouted Zossimo, but he could hardly make himself heard as the tendrils wound round his head, squeezing tighter and tighter, covering his panic-stricken eyes and his open mouth, pushing him down into the earth until he had completely disappeared.
Bassan dragged the fallen beam out of the greenhouse and into the entrance of the tunnel. Then he rushed back to sweep up the shattered glass and kick the buckets away from the door. He packed Zossimo’s cloak into the bag, hauled it onto his shoulder, and returned to Southernwood overland. By the time he got there, the sun was a golden ball on the horizon, smothering Southernwood in its summer glory.
***
The Session was full, despite the early hour. Candlelight flickered on the faces of those sitting on the packed public benches. Word had got round: whispered gossip, hushed arguments, hysterical laughter, guards directing more arrivals to the back. Why hadn’t they closed the Albatorium entrance earlier? This was ridiculous! Some of these people were tucking into a quick breakfast by the looks of it, and the firesmoke clinging to their clothes mingled with a heavy scent of strong mead.
Bassan made his way to the dais and took his seat. Filibert and Wystan were already there, Wystan sitting next to his wife, Medrella. She grasped her husband’s hand and looked at Bassan. Her face was a picture of…what? Concern? Incomprehension? No. Thinly disguised hatred. Oh, well, so be it. Bassan nodded to her and sat down.
Trevello clumped down the steps from the Legator’s office, then marched to an impressively carved lectern next to the dais to address the crowd.
“Members of the Session, citizens of Southernwood, let us commence!”
Two of the guard set off to shut the main doors—about time too—and the last few Southernwooders filed in. Harold went onto the terrace to ring the bell, this time with a quicker, more excited tempo, and as the young lad rang and rang, straining his head to see the crowds gathering around the bonfire in the square below, he pulled the bell rope ever faster and harder, laughing and waving delightedly with his free hand at his captive audience. What a chump! This was supposed to be a dignified occasion, not some cheap show!
“Thank you, Harold, thank you!” bellowed Trevello, and Harold reluctantly stilled the bell, shut the doors against the chill, and sat by the window, grinning from ear to ear.
Bassan shook his head in disbelief and shot Harold an angry look: this nincompoop would be the first to go under his new leadership.
“People of Southernwood,” began Trevello, “this night the Session met
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