The Malevolent Tree

Getting Ahead

The next morning when Tavish left the castle through the main gate, he didn't look up. He didn't want to see poor Jock staring down at him. He hurried into the village to meet the workman Ridseard the Steward had recommended as being particularly clever with stone. 

Ten minutes later, they were standing side-by-side discussing the privy that jutted past the castle wall. As they stared, one of the holes spat brown splatter straight down to the moat, adding speckles to the foamy green scum that coated the water. 

The skinny workman studied Tavish sidelong, taking his measure.  "Too bad magic can't hocus-pocus that away."

When Tavish responded, "Only the magic of hard work," the man grinned. Good. He'd said the right thing. If only he could remember the man's name.

"My da headed the crew that added the privy. The stone masons guild—they keep their secrets—but my da taught me what he saw. If you want to add an outcropping beneath the privy to catch the shite, I think we can figure that out."

Tavish clapped a hand to the workman's back. "If you show me the stone we'll be using, I'll calculate the measurements, and you can observe. Then you can pass on the knowledge to your sons."

The workman chuckled. "Three daughters. They love making mud castles. I'm teaching them everything about building I can."

Good man. "If the composting system works, the improvement in the smell alone will put the know-how in demand. Add to that the fertilizer for the fields and the lye for soap-making, and this system could be profitable indeed."

The workman shook his head. "For the MacDaragh's. I know my place."

Sad but true. "At least Lord Cullen is one to show his appreciation—especially after he can catch fish in his moat instead of holding his breath." Tavish paused. "We will need to consider defenses." No doubt the stench had dissuaded many a raiding party.

"Aye, but that's where your magic will come in. If we make the water nice you can invite water sprites. They're gentle with their hosts but fierce with their enemies."

Tavish returned a non-comittal mm-hm. Turning, he looked out over the fields of barley, the hedges of hawthorn and crab apples ready for harvest, the rising meadows sprinkled with fat  woolly sheep, and up to the pine-covered crags beyond. Winter was several weeks away. They should be able to collect enough stone before ice and snow made quarrying impractical. The work of cutting the granite to the right shapes and sizes could carry on through the cold. Come spring, they'd be ready to complete the project.

If Princess Agneta has the information I need, I won't be here to see it.

"Tomorrow you can show me where the best stone can be dug..." as Tavish's voice trailed off, a name sprang to mind. "Alan."

The workman frowned. "Alpin."

"Ach, Alpin. Yes." Alpin, Alpin, Alpin, Tavish repeated to himself as he stuck out his hand.

His newfound colleague wrinkled his forehead. Then he grasped Tavish's hand, and they shook on it.

* * * * *

When Tavish could avoid it no longer, he walked to the drawbridge to return to the castle. The village folk, trudging back and forth, going about their business, doffed their hats or bowed—affording him respect that had been sorely lacking from the faculty and students at his high school in Glasgow. But today he noticed something not so pleasant—a whisper of fear. If the wizard could command the flies to reveal the perpetrator of a deed none of them had witnessed, no telling what secret shame, dishonor and guilt he could lay bare.

Tavish tugged at the cowl collar of his tunic. He much preferred to mind his own business.

When he reached the gate, Tavish tried to keep his eyes straight ahead, but the splash of dried blood on the wood planks drew his gaze upward to the severed head displayed on the pike above. My fault. Already the crows were picking at Jock's eyes as they had picked at Hextilda's. Princess or peasant—carrion birds made no distinction. Whether the two had any other connection was a mystery that would likely go to both their graves.

At the side of the gate, a young woman whimpered. Oh, my god, Tavish thought. She was probably the young man's sister or sweetheart or even his wife. For all he knew, the mother of his children. He could use the little influence he had to make sure she had the money and goods she and any dependents needed, but how could that ever make recompense for the loss of Jock himself? Especially if he had been innocent.

Talk to her, Tavish told himself. Later, he replied. With that assurance, he jammed his hands inside his tunic and hurried into the castle.

* * * * *

That night, Jock's head filled Tavish's dreams, wailing about the things he would never do again—see the rising sun burn the mist from the fields, hail his friends after a hard day's work, quench his thirst with a pint of ale, call a man a muck-spout sot. As the head wept, flies swarmed into a whirring black mass.

Tavish woke shivering with cold sweat. He wrestled with a desire to burrow deeper under his thick wool blankets and the compulsion to venture across his chilly room, peer out the slit window and make sure Jock's head remained safely on the pike.

He jumped out of bed, threw a blanket over his shoulders and padded across the flagstones. Yes, Jock's head still hung above the gate. That was the problem. It should be in a grave with the rest of his body.

* * * * *

At dawn's first glimmer, Tavish gave up on sleep, dressed and went to the gate.

When he asked the guard to take down the head, he got the response he expected: Hell, no. The guard was not doing any such thing until Lord Cullen commanded it. When Tavish returned with a ladder, the guard stopped him from using it.

"No, sir. I don't want you in trouble either."

The young man's face was adamant. Tavish found a barrel and sat.

When the sun beamed through the peephole in the wicket gate, Lord Cullen strolled toward him. Unexpectedly, considering the hour, Prince Osgar accompanied him.

Cullen smiled. "Wizard! You wanted to speak to Princess Agneta? She will arrive this morning. We received a pigeon."

Tavish forced himself to return a pleasant nod. If he angered Osgar, the prince might prevent him from talking to his aunt. But if he backed down from demanding common decency for poor Jock and those who mourned him, what kind of man would he be?

Suddenly, Tavish realized he had a third option—one that could sidestep power. He'd claim the right of wizardry.