brought with them leaned against the temple door.
The door was never locked. Last time she’d visited, this had seemed an odd state of affairs. There was nothing worth stealing, however. The temple was empty, apart from its lifeless inhabitants, and the keeper’s room held only a couple of straw mattresses—if the rats hadn’t nibbled them to shreds. She shoved open the door and took the sacks inside.
The gallery was just as she remembered it: cold, dark, and damp. It led all the way round the temple courtyard, and she followed the benches lining the stone walls until she reached the garden door in the eastern gallery that led into a courtyard where the Yew of Yewlith grew.
At one time, the gallery had been separated from the garden by wooden panels, removed over the summer months so that visitors could sit on the cool benches and enjoy the greenery. The wood screen had later been replaced by timber frames and brick, so now the galleries were always completely enclosed. What a shame! Silva would have loved to come here in summer, tend to the garden, maybe even write and draw. The Southernwooders weren’t interested in this wonderful place. They were scared of it. They couldn’t bear looking at the Tree Tower, finding its stone branches ugly and threatening. But Silva wondered if there were a land across the seas where such trees grew, and who had seen them, and who, with but a memory of their strange grandeur, had built one here in stone to guard the temple.
The Yew, not tall, but very wide, stood in the middle of the yard. His trunk, burnished with flaky red and gray bark, wriggled into the earth. Green needles in their precise rows ran up his branches. This garden had once boasted beautiful climbers around the gallery tops, potted plants and shrubs along the paths, an alpine rockery in one corner, an herb and rose patch in another, and a low wattle fence around the base of the Yew. As had been the custom of those days, visitors brought trinkets and mementos of family occasions to decorate the fence: ribboned bells, purses of rose petals from a wedding, daisy crowns for a newborn, pebbles, laced hearts, bunches of leaves collected by the children who would have loved racing round the path surrounding this dear garden—and now, just look! Nothing remained but the Yew who surely missed the days when people celebrated their dead by rejoicing in the living.
“Nobody ever comes here, do they, Great Yew?” She smiled. “But you are ever green! Always here for all of us, alive or dead. You are…”
Yes. He really was the greatest, greenest tree of them all, wasn’t he!
Was this the tree Isleaf had spoken of?
“Then below the greenest tree,
You can set the island free.”
What was below?
“Mother’s vault!” she exclaimed.
“Silva! Where are you?” called Winifred.
Silva returned to the gallery. The sacks had disappeared. Winifred stood in the doorway of the keeper’s room and grinned.
“There you are. The ponies are happy in their stable. There were some bundles of firewood in there, too, so I’ll set the fire and get this room warmed up. Why don’t you make up our beds? I’ve put the mattresses on each side of the fireplace. That lantern I brought from the Albatorium can sit by the door. Then we’ll unpack everything else and make ourselves at home.”
There was no arguing with Winifred. Silva pulled blankets out of the sacks and laid them on the mattresses. Then she found their supplies of bread, wine, and the now crushed apple tarts. They sat down and ate, blankets round their shoulders, listening to the wind howl down the chimney.
“Winifred, I must tell you about another leaf that Isleaf wrote today.”
“Hm!” grunted Winifred. “That pastry’s a touch dry. Show us the leaf, then. What did he say this time?”
“He said I’d have to set the island free. He wouldn’t give me the leaf. The words vanished. I’ve never seen that before. Have you?”
Winifred brushed the crumbs
The door was never locked. Last time she’d visited, this had seemed an odd state of affairs. There was nothing worth stealing, however. The temple was empty, apart from its lifeless inhabitants, and the keeper’s room held only a couple of straw mattresses—if the rats hadn’t nibbled them to shreds. She shoved open the door and took the sacks inside.
The gallery was just as she remembered it: cold, dark, and damp. It led all the way round the temple courtyard, and she followed the benches lining the stone walls until she reached the garden door in the eastern gallery that led into a courtyard where the Yew of Yewlith grew.
At one time, the gallery had been separated from the garden by wooden panels, removed over the summer months so that visitors could sit on the cool benches and enjoy the greenery. The wood screen had later been replaced by timber frames and brick, so now the galleries were always completely enclosed. What a shame! Silva would have loved to come here in summer, tend to the garden, maybe even write and draw. The Southernwooders weren’t interested in this wonderful place. They were scared of it. They couldn’t bear looking at the Tree Tower, finding its stone branches ugly and threatening. But Silva wondered if there were a land across the seas where such trees grew, and who had seen them, and who, with but a memory of their strange grandeur, had built one here in stone to guard the temple.
The Yew, not tall, but very wide, stood in the middle of the yard. His trunk, burnished with flaky red and gray bark, wriggled into the earth. Green needles in their precise rows ran up his branches. This garden had once boasted beautiful climbers around the gallery tops, potted plants and shrubs along the paths, an alpine rockery in one corner, an herb and rose patch in another, and a low wattle fence around the base of the Yew. As had been the custom of those days, visitors brought trinkets and mementos of family occasions to decorate the fence: ribboned bells, purses of rose petals from a wedding, daisy crowns for a newborn, pebbles, laced hearts, bunches of leaves collected by the children who would have loved racing round the path surrounding this dear garden—and now, just look! Nothing remained but the Yew who surely missed the days when people celebrated their dead by rejoicing in the living.
“Nobody ever comes here, do they, Great Yew?” She smiled. “But you are ever green! Always here for all of us, alive or dead. You are…”
Yes. He really was the greatest, greenest tree of them all, wasn’t he!
Was this the tree Isleaf had spoken of?
“Then below the greenest tree,
You can set the island free.”
What was below?
“Mother’s vault!” she exclaimed.
“Silva! Where are you?” called Winifred.
Silva returned to the gallery. The sacks had disappeared. Winifred stood in the doorway of the keeper’s room and grinned.
“There you are. The ponies are happy in their stable. There were some bundles of firewood in there, too, so I’ll set the fire and get this room warmed up. Why don’t you make up our beds? I’ve put the mattresses on each side of the fireplace. That lantern I brought from the Albatorium can sit by the door. Then we’ll unpack everything else and make ourselves at home.”
There was no arguing with Winifred. Silva pulled blankets out of the sacks and laid them on the mattresses. Then she found their supplies of bread, wine, and the now crushed apple tarts. They sat down and ate, blankets round their shoulders, listening to the wind howl down the chimney.
“Winifred, I must tell you about another leaf that Isleaf wrote today.”
“Hm!” grunted Winifred. “That pastry’s a touch dry. Show us the leaf, then. What did he say this time?”
“He said I’d have to set the island free. He wouldn’t give me the leaf. The words vanished. I’ve never seen that before. Have you?”
Winifred brushed the crumbs
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