EDITOR / CONVERTER NOTES
Thanks to IRCHighway #ebooks for the high quality PDF Scans of the original book. I converted it using Adobe Acrobat DC Pro to plain text file and edited it using Gutcheck and Notepad++ to remove most errors from the file then created the ePUB using Sigil. As all ways this is not 100% perfect without a proper proof read so there will be the odd mistake. Enjoy the book and remember support the author if you like it.
- EyesOnly
CHAPTER 1
Mallory's oak was down. It lay where the woodcutters felled it. The villagers hired to clear that stretch of woods had already moved on, leaving a wake of toppled trees and raw stumps. Once, Mallory had pretended the old oak was her enchanted tower that would stand forever; now it sprawled with limbs tangled in the underbrush. She would have turned bitterly away, but then she saw it: a gray wisp curling from the trunk. Falling, the tree had split along much of its length and something was caught there; likely a squirrel or weasel. She hurried through brambles that plucked at her skirt, set down her basket, knelt, and peered into the crack.
What she had taken for the tail of some small animal was, instead, the tip of a straggling beard. A sharp pointed nose jutted from the splintered wood; two eyes glared up at her. From deep within the trunk came a tart voice:
"When you have quite finished staring, I suggest you make some effort to get me out of here."
Mallory's jaw dropped, she fell back on her heels, trembling too much to run and too curious to do so even if she had been able. What came suddenly to her mind was the old tale of the dwarf with his beard caught in a stump. This creature, however, had all of himself trapped and he was bigger than any dwarf she had imagined.
"Enough!" snapped the voice. "Get on with it. Now!"
Despite her bewilderment, Mallory sprang to obey. She braced herself and took a firm hold, bending the strength of her arms and hands to force open the crack. She desperately wished for a hatchet, an iron bar, even a knife; the woodcutters had left not so much as an ax handle behind them. She halted, breathless, shaking her torn fingers.
Her glance fell on a pointed stone. She snatched it up and worked it into the crevice. With a second stone, she pounded the makeshift wedge as far as it would go, then looked for another.
The tree, meantime, had begun rocking back and forth. Even as she watched, the crown of a balding head, wreathed by long strands of grizzled hair, thrust up from the trunk; then a lean, wrinkled face, its beard tangled in the splinters. Cobwebs trailed from its nose and a clump of mushrooms sprouted from one ear. The bright eyes blinked furiously.
"Do you mean to take all day?"
"Who, who are you?" Mallory stammered. "What are you doing in a tree?"
"Obviously, trying my best to get out. First, some idiot with an ax nearly chops off my toes, and now another wants to ask me foolish questions. Merciful moon, am I to be spared nothing?"
A dead branch lay nearby. Mallory seized it and pried at the wood. The tree groaned, ripping and cracking in a shower of bark and splinters. It split in two, spilling its captive onto the ground.
In her first glimpse of him, Mallory saw he wore a moldering leather jacket and a tattered cloak green with moss. Splotches of mildew covered his boots; in his beard hung a number of empty eggshells, and the twigs and leaves of a long-abandoned bird's nest. Before she could reach out to him, the strange being climbed unsteadily to his legs, wiggled his fingers, flexed his arms and beat them against his sides, thereby raising a cloud of midges from the folds of his cloak. He sneezed violently several times; then, heaving sighs of relief, thrust one hand after the other inside his jacket, luxuriously scratching himself.
"Are you-all right?" Mallory asked, uncertain what to say to this odd figure, let alone what to make of him. The old tales told of tree-spirits; but this being, who stood as tall as she did, was of solid, though much withered, flesh.
"Do you have anything to eat?" Without invitation, the freed captive bent down and rummaged through the basket.
"Mushrooms-" began Mallory, about to explain that Mrs. Parsel had fancied some of those delicacies with an omelet that morning. The bearded man, however, had already discovered the contents of the basket and wrinkled his nose in distaste:
"Fungus? No, thank you, I've been living with toadstools long enough."
"There's food in the cook shop larder," Mallory said. "I'll fetch some for you. The village isn't far."
"Never mind. I shall manage without refreshment." Wrapping his cloak around his shoulders, he started from the clearing.
"Wait," Mallory called, "where are you going? I don't know who you are. I don't even know your name."
The stranger halted. "Arbican."
Mallory frowned. "What's that?"
"Arbican. My name. What use that information may be to you, I cannot imagine. But, since you ask, there it is."
He set off again. Mallory, no better satisfied, hurried after him. "You can't just go away like that, and not another word about who, or why-"
"Young woman," replied Arbican, "let me assure you I have more urgent matters in mind than detailing my life's history. Admittedly, without your help I should still be clamped in that oak tree. If I neglected to express my gratitude sufficiently, then: Thank you, thank you, thank you. Now I suggest you go about your business and I shall go on my way. I foresee difficulties enough in reaching Vale Innis."
"Vale Innis?" cried Mallory. "Why, that's the Land of Heart's Desire-the Happy Land, I know the tale!"
In the old days, there was a ship with golden sails; and all the magicians, enchanters, wizards-all sailed away on it. That's why there's none of them left. I only wish they'd stayed.
"I regret to tell you," said Arbican, "one of them did."
"That's not how the story goes," Mallory answered. "I know it by heart. It was the end of magic in the world."
"Oversimplified, but more or less correct," Arbican admitted. "By this time, my colleagues are long gone; unless any had my bad fortune to be shut up in a tree."
Mallory caught her breath. "Colleagues? Do you mean?"
"I mean I should not be here at all," replied Arbican. "Yes, I am an enchanter. By all rights, I should be in Vale Innis this very moment. In fact, I should have been there ages ago."
"You?" Mallory gasped. "You? An enchanter? But where's your magic wand? Where's your pointed hat? Your cloak with all the magical signs embroidered on it?"
Arbican rolled up his eyes and puffed his cheeks in a mighty effort to keep his patience. "Would you mind," he said, in a strained voice, "telling me how and where you got such wrongheaded notions?"
"Everyone knows what enchanters look like. In all the tales-"
"I don't know what tales you're talking about," said Arbican. "Idle gossip and rumor, so it sounds to me, fabricated by someone who never saw an enchanter in his life. Pointed hats and embroidered cloaks? I'd feel an utter fool, decked out that way. Enchanters don't need such trappings, though I suppose you mortals might think so. Even in my day, mortals had a deplorable tendency to mix appearance with fact. I should hate to tell you how many numbskulls put crowns on their heads-as if a metal hoop had anything to do with being a king."
"I didn't mean to offend you," said Mallory. "I just thought enchanters would be different, somehow. Or at least they'd be-well, cleaner."
Arbican snorted. "Forgive me for disappointing you. Had I known, I'd have brought along a change of clothing, curled my beard, polished my boots, scented my linen."
"But if you are an enchanter," Mallory went on, "if you were supposed to sail away, then what are you doing here?"
"That's a question I've had ample opportunity to consider," Arbican said. "The answer is: my own fault. I don't deny it, much as I r
egret it. I was on my way to the harbor when I stopped here to cut myself a walking staff."
"So you got there too late, and the ship sailed without you?"
"Late? I never got there at all. Thanks to the tree. Thanks to the law we had to obey. Oh, I knew about it. I make no excuses. But this was such a small thing.
"The law warned us," Arbican went on, "to leave everything as it was; to interfere with nothing; to harm no living thing. Whoever thought that included a walking staff? The tree was alive, yes; but what harm? It could have spared a branch, it had plenty. So I started cutting one. A deplorable error in judgment. For the tree opened and swallowed me up. Snap! Sol I've been there ever since."
"You couldn't have made it open again? Commanded it? Cast a spell?"
"Not while it lived," said Arbican. "A tree draws its strength from the roots of the earth. That's beyond the power of any enchanter."
"It must have been terrible," Mallory said. "When I'm being punished, and Mrs. Parsel locks me in the cellar I can imagine, being caught inside a tree."
"I doubt it," said Arbican. "You could have no possible conception of how boring it is. Oh, there's a great deal happening; roots, leaves, rind, they all keep busy at their work But it's the same slow, vegetable sort of business over and over again. One tends to lose interest. To escape unbearable monotony, I put myself in a deep sleep. The ax woke me up. And now, since the tree is dead, my captivity is over."
During Arbican's account, an idea had come to Mallory that made her tremble with such excitement she could barely speak of it. Nevertheless, as soon as Arbican finished, she hastily began:
"About the wishes-" The enchanter gave her a puzzled glance. "About what wishes?"
"If your tree hadn't been cut down," Mallory answered hesitantly, "that is, if Scrupnor hadn't ordered the woods to be cleared-"
"Scrupnor? What's that?"
"He's the new squire," said Mallory. "He owns all this land, and the farms on the other side. He wants to build a road between here and Castleton."
"Fascinating, no doubt, to this what's his name," said Arbican, "but hardly of interest to me."
"Yes, it is I mean, if it hadn't been for Scrupnor's road, your tree wouldn't have been chopped down. Of course, the woodcutters did that. Even so, I was the one who got you out."
"I am quite aware of it. What are you driving at?"
"Three wishes," declared Mallory, plucking up her courage. "In every tale I know, whoever does a good turn to anybody with magical powers-gets three wishes. Please, this is the only chance I'll ever have. I'm asking for mine."
Arbican stared at her a moment, then retorted:
"Three wishes? Why so few? Have a thousand if you like. Granting them-that's another matter. No enchanter in his right mind would grant one wish, let alone three, to a mortal. I shudder to think how you would use them."
"But the tales-" insisted Mallory.
"These tales you keep flinging at me," said Arbican, "believe me, I know nothing whatever about them. I should guess that you humans made them up to suit yourselves, after we had gone. That's the only thing that could account for them. I assure you nothing like that happened in my day. There's a grain of truth, but it's been blown up out of all proportion. Three, indeed, is a magical number-for reasons you couldn't understand and that don't concern you. And you mortals were constantly wishing for things you didn't have. Put the two together, and I can see how such an appalling rumor might start. Wishes? Pure wishful thinking." Mallory turned her face away, trying to hide her disappointment. "Then you'll grant me nothing-"
"Do you seriously believe anything worthwhile can be had merely for the wishing?" replied Arbican. "Very well, very well, you did me a good turn. You shan't go empty handed. You shall have a gift, if that will satisfy you; you mortals have such an obsession with getting something in return, that's one thing that hasn't changed. So be it. A small trinket, a remembrance. Here, don't cry. I'll conjure up something for you this very instant."
Grateful for that much, Mallory wiped her cheeks on the back of her hands and watched as Arbican set his cupped palms one on top of the other and muttered under his breath. After a moment, he pulled his upper hand away. Mallory gave him a questioning look. The enchanter's outstretched palm was empty.
Arbican frowned. "One moment. My skill is a little rusty." Again, he cupped his palms and muttered to himself. He peered between his fingers and his face went even paler:
"Nothing," he said in disbelief. "Nothing at all."
CHAPTER 2
Staring at his empty hands, Arbican sank down on a clump of grass. Though eager to see a real wizard cast a spell, Mallory was more concerned for Arbican, so shaken by his failure that he seemed unable to speak, as his face clouded and the furrows on his brow deepened.
"It's those wretched years crammed into that tree," he muttered at last. "Something's happened to me. The clumsiest apprentice could have done that charm, but I can't get the hang of it now. It darts away, like a fish in my head. My magic's gone."
"But enchanters can't lose their power. It never happened in any of the tales-"
"More tales? Of course we can lose our power. It seldom happens; but then, one is seldom shut up in a tree. Now, please, I must think this over very carefully."
"You needn't worry about giving me a gift," Mallory suggested. "If it's too much of a strain, I don't want to trouble you."
"Gift?" cried Arbican. "Do you suppose I'm worried about conjuring up some trivial reward? There's more to it than that. I may never get to Vale Innis."
"You've forgotten where it is?"
"No, I haven't forgotten," snapped Arbican. "I mean I can't reach it at all, not in the state I'm in. Without going into details, I put it to you simply: Unless I have all my powers, I'm stuck tighter in your mortal world than ever I was in my tree."
"If you have to stay," said Mallory, "you can surely find something to do. You could learn a trade if you wanted. We need a good stonemason, and there's plenty of work for another carpenter."
"Delightful prospect," said Arbican. "I don't think you realize the situation. In the first place, I don't belong here and I have no desire to linger. In the second place, without my magic I'm helpless as a turtle out of its shell. All I can hope is that my present incapacity is only temporary."
"Until your power comes back," said Mallory, "you could live in the cook shop." Then she quickly shook her head. "No. Mrs. Parsel won't even let me keep a cat. I can imagine what she'd say if I brought home a wizard. Though I could hide you in the stable for a while."
"And if someone found me there? In my condition, the less mortals see of me the better."
"I know where you'll be safe," Mallory said. "Come with me."
Without waiting for Arbican to question or protest she took his hand and hurried him out of the clearing, half-leading and half-pushing the enchanter through the underbrush. She scrambled down a slope to a shallow gully, while Arbican tried to keep up with her long strides. At last, she stopped where the gully ended in a tumble of rocks, and pointed to the narrow mouth of a cave.
"It's my secret place," Mallory said, drawing the reluctant enchanter after her. "No one in the village knows about it; or if they do, they never bother. Before my father and mother died, the years there was fever in the village, I used to play here all the time. But now, hardly ever. Since the Parsels took me in for their kitchen maid, they keep me too busy. You'll feel right at home."
Arbican glanced around the cave, which widened into a large, rock-walled chamber. He grimaced. "So I should, if I were a bat or a bear."
"Don't enchanters live in caves?" Mallory began. "Or grottoes, or burrows under a hill."
"I am not a rabbit," Arbican replied. "Yes, I do know of one who lived in a cave, but he was a strange sort to begin with. Fascinated with minerals: diamonds, emeralds, all that rubbish. But I assure you his cave was rather more elaborate than this."
"Then you had an enchanted tower?" said Mallory. "A real one, not like m
y tree-your tree, I should say. I used to play there, too, and climb as high as I could, and make believe I could see all that was happening in the world. Is that what you did?"
"I did nothing of the sort. One hardly needs a tower to know what goes on in the world."
"A castle, then? Is that where you lived? Full of magic mirrors, and chests of jewels, and golden cups? Did you have a high throne of crystal? And servants to fetch you anything you commanded?"
"I lived in a cottage, which suited me very nicely," said Arbican. "You mortals were the ones who put on such airs with your castles. I've never been in one that didn't have a draft howling through it like the north wind."
"I always called this cave my castle," said Mallory.
"It's damp enough," replied Arbican.
"I'd pretend it had golden turrets and banners flying," Mallory went on. "Or make believe it was a great mansion, twice as big as the squire's, and I should be mistress of the manor, with stables of horses, and fine carriages, and lovely gowns; and feather beds; and I should never have to wash dishes or scrub pots. Or if I did, they'd be my own dishes and pots, and not Mrs. Parsel's."
Arbican, pacing over the dirt floor, had stubbed his toe on a heap of smooth pebbles. "What idiot set a pile of rocks in here?" he cried, hopping on one foot. "I'll end up lame if I don't catch my death of chilblains first!"
Mallory stooped to gather up the scattered pebbles. "They're mine," she said. "I used to pretend they were wishing stones. If I held one in my hand, whatever I wished would come true. Of course, it never happened."
"I shouldn't wonder," the enchanter remarked. "Great heavens, girl, do you mind telling me where you got such peculiar notions of magic?"
"From my mother," answered Mallory.
"Oh, come now," Arbican exclaimed. "You won't have me believe your mother was some kind of enchantress."
"No, she wasn't," Mallory quickly admitted. "But she was a wonderful storyteller; you should have seen how many people in the village would come to listen. But I liked it most when she'd tell the old tales just to my father and me, and there'd be only the three of us beside the fire. My father was a cabinetmaker, the best in the village, and sometimes, when he listened to my mother, he'd carve all sorts of things from bits of wood birds and beasts, kings and queens, better than any dolls you'd ever see. They had to be burned, after my parents died; Mrs. Parsel was afraid they'd bring fever into her house, too. So, they're gone. But I've never forgotten my mother's tales. I make up my own, too. Maybe that's why they don't sound quite right to you."