On the Treehouse
To the gnomes, it goes without saying, the clearing is a special, even sacred place. No one is permitted, they say, to live within its bounds. To which I reply: if no one is permitted to live within its bounds, who is to say that one cannot live above it? If that makes them go quite quiet, they will often come back to me: “Mr. Whizz, how did you build your treehouse without upsetting the trees?” If only they knew, it was the trees themselves that kindly volunteered their thoughts and I just happened to complete them.
From Mr. Whizz’s Notebook: Concerning the Garden: a thing rarum.
“Look, it’s Mr Whizz!” cried Laila. “Hello, Mr. Whizz!”
Amid a column of giant snails and pannies sat Mr. Whizz on Beautifully. She called to him again, but he seemed to be rather preoccupied. Indeed, it did seem such a business getting the snails off their chairs. The poor pannies sweated and panted and slipped in snaily slime.
“Oh, I say!” cried one of the snails. “I’m beginning to think I should have never left my house this morning.”
“Well, you haven’t,” said a panny. “You’re still in it. Now stay in it, till we get you off this here chair. Then you make all the slime you want.”
Some gnomes had just arrived with boxes and sacks, and Laila was anxious to find her friend.
“Have you seen Cyril?”
“Search me… Anyone seen Cyril?”
The gnomes started calling Cyril’s name, but he did not answer.
“Cedric, you seen Cyril?”
A large and portly gnome came up carrying a sack and moping his brow.
“Not since the Gate.”
“The Gate?”
“Yes, but that was ages ago…”
Cedric regarded Laila as he moped his brow.
“You must be the one he let in.”
“Cedric, do you know where Cyril might be?”
“Frankly, after all trouble he’s caused, I don’t really want to know.”
Although she found Cedric a rather self-important gnome, Laila followed him over to the kitchen where she found Father Allen and the nuns lugging a sack of potatoes between them.
“Watch your back, Father,” said one of the nuns.
“Here,” said the other, “let me help you, father.”
“This takes me back to my youth,” said Father Allen. “You know before I became a priest, I once spent a year working as a kitchen porter.”
“Father, you are full of surprises.”
“Sisters, we’ll have these spuds done in no time.”
“Good work, Father! Sisters!” boomed Anatole.
“Here, Anatole!” cried a gnome at the stove. “What shall I do with this sauce?”
“Keep stirring!” he called back.
“Keep stirring,” muttered the gnome. “Always keep stirring, until my head spins.”
Anatole shook his head, but then his eye caught Laila’s.
“You over there!”
“Who me?” said Laila.
“Yes, you,” said Anatole. “Off you go with Cedric to lay the tables.”
“Why do I have to lay the tables?”
Anatole dismissed them with a wave of his hand and went back to supervising his kitchen. “Brazil!” he balled. “How many times have I told you not to chop onions like that! This is a kitchen, not a kindergarten! And you’re not cracking nuts. – Like this!”
“Does he think he’s on Master Chef?” said Mildred to Mercedes at the chopping table.
“I don’t know about that,” said Mercedes. “It’s the same with a dance instructor. You have to show a chef respect.”
“Don’t talk to Nose about respect,” said the gnome. “It will go to his head. Then his nose will grow bigger.”
“Will he become woody like Pinocchio?”
“Nose is Nose,” said the gnome. “He’s got a big nose, but even bigger head.”
“Move it, people!” shouted the cook.
“See what I mean.”
“Come on,” said Cedric to Laila. “We must do what Nose says… The pressure’s really on now.”
There was a giant basket with table cloths and napkins, crates of cutlery and crockery on the ground.
Cedric took one end of the tablecloth and handed the other to Laila.
“I still don’t understand why we have to lay the tables.”
“Firstly, you didn’t bring any food. Secondly, as is only right, everyone has to contribute something.”
Laila huffed as they began to spread the tablecloth…
Cedric was not only a rather self-important gnome, but he turned out to be a stern task-master.
“Is it straight your end? – No, not like that! Further down on the left.”
“And you don’t fold a napkin like that. Like this!”
Laila threw down a napkin and folded her arms.
“You do it then!”
Cedric took up one of the napkins and folded it into a neat triangle.
“See. It isn’t very hard. Or it could be a swan.”
“How did you do that?” said Laila.
“Finish laying the table and I might just show you.”
Laila was trying her best to make Cedric-like triangles of the napkins when she noticed some gnomes clambering up and down a ladder and passing crates to each other: “Steady on, moosh! Watch where you’re going with that!”
“Cedric, what are they doing?”
“Oh, I expect they’re getting the drinks from Mr. Whizz’s treehouse.”
“A treehouse! I love treehouses, in fact, I used to have one. – Can I go up there, pleeease?”
“You have to finish those napkins first.”
Laila’s grumpiness disappeared. In record time she had all the napkins in triangles: some neat and other, well…
“Finished,” she said, running across the clearing before Cedric had time to assign her another job.
The treehouse was perched high up in a beech tree. But this did not present a problem for Laila. Having had her own treehouse, she found it all rather easy, especially as the ladder was well-grooved and fixed to a balcony.
In no time she was up and over the balcony when a gnome looked at her and said:
“Have you come for the crate?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Someone’s got to come up and pick up this crate. Can’t do it all myself.”
“Is Mr. Whizz here?”
“He’s in the brewery through that door.”
In her excitement Laila forgot to knock and pushed open the door.
“Hello, Mr. Whizz!”
Mr. Whizz was standing over a cauldron with a ladle in one hand. In the other hand he was holding a sieve that was dripping liquid into a bottle.
“What are you doing here, Laila?” he said in a stern voice. “Little girls are not allowed in the brewery.”
“I really love your treehouse! Can I have a drink?”
“Very well. How about an elderberry cordial?”
“Haven’t you got a coke?”
Mr. Whizz did not do frowns but his beard seemed to pout in disapproval.
“For a girl who has ridden a unicorn,” he said, “is a fizzy drink really the drink of choice?”
“Sorry,” said Laila, going a shade of red. “Of course, I’ll have an elderberry cordial.”
“In that case,” said the wizard, “I might just show you around my treehouse.”
Laila drank her elderberry cordial, which she found completely – or was it – utterly delicious.
She followed Mr. Whizz back onto the balcony.
“Here you are, Grumble,” he said, handing a crate to the gnome, who called down below:
“Oh, moosh, get a move on! I’m not waiting here all day for you lot.”
The treehouse really was rather more than just one treehouse; in fact, it seemed to expand onto higher branches that couldn’t really been seen from the ground.
Mr. Whizz reached out with one hand; suddenly, a rope fell within it. He indicated to Laila that she should do the same. He scratched his beard, and whoosh! The rope lifted them up through the canopy onto another treehouse above.
This one was painted blue; there was a wooden bench outside the front door. Laila had to watch her step, in case she trod on a flower or trailing frond from a potted plant.
“Is this where you live, Mr. Whizz?”
“Sometimes, yes. It is where I come to think and scratch my beard.”
“What else happens when you scratch your beard?”
“Goodness knows! If I knew the answer to that I wouldn’t have to think!”
“Can I go inside, please?”
Laila pushed open the blue door and found an even more curious room behind it. Shelf upon shelf was laden with books and bottles – of the type she’d seen down below. Upon a table were several cuckoo clocks, some on their sides and others in pieces. There were cushions on the floor and several wicker chairs, one with a broken seat. And hats and walking sticks lay around the room.
“I expect you are wondering,” said Mr. Whizz, “what I do with all these things?”
“I was rather, yes.”
“They are all things that I find when they are broken. I bring them back here and mend them. After that, it is rather hard for them to leave.”
“I see,” said Laila.
“You do. Well, I must admit I am never sure whether I see or not… In fact, real seeing is a rather difficult thing and indeed a thing rarum.”
“You’re not blind, Mr. Whizz?”
“Oh, that’s not what I mean. But never mind. Perhaps you would care to see further up the tree.”
More ropes fell into their hands, and they climbed to where the branches began to thin out. Although it seemed there were nearing the top of the tree, Laila found herself on a stable but rather narrow platform. At one end of the platform there was a perching post. From here Laila saw there was a ladder hooked to a branch, and you could swing from Mr. Whizz’s tree to the next tree.
“Do you ever go to the next tree, Mr. Whizz?”
“Not as a rule. As you may have noticed, my eyesight is none too good. However, there is another person whose eyesight is considerably better than mine. He likes to use the ladders, and he it is who goes about upon them in order as he says to see better.”
“Who are you talking about, Mr. Whizz?”
“The gnomes call him Bird, so I suppose Bird is his name. Although they are not at all sure of him, I find him to be a very insightful companion. Mind you, I would not like to get on the wrong side of Bird.”
As Mr. Whizz was talking, Laila had unhooked the ladder.
“Laila,” called Mr. Whizz, “do be careful!”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Whizz! I know what I’m doing.”
And before he could do anything, anyway, she had climbed onto the ladder and swung over to the other tree.
She looked back at Mr. Whizz.
“You see,” she said, “I told you I knew what I was doing.”
And she was off again to the next tree.
She caught a branch.
When, however, she put her foot down, she found she was treading air.
“Whoa!” she cried, as she started to fall.
Laila may have liked to brag about her tree climbing ability, but she was still pretty decent at it. She grabbed another branch and found her footing.
“If you are going to go about on my ladders,” said a voice. “I suggest you treat the branches with more respect.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“They are not solid like the ones lower down, you know. You must foot it featly. Not with smarmer’s feet.”
“I don’t have smarmers’ feet,” said Laila.
“Be that as it may,” he said, “smarmers will break branches for pleasure. If you are not a smarmer, you behave like one.”
“I promise you I am not a smarmer,” said Laila, who now began to discern the figure in the light.
He was neither human, nor smarmer height but nor was he gnome height. When his face turned to the light, she saw he looked human, but he had a beak for a nose. He had arms but his hands seemed more like claws. He also had legs, but his feet had three claw-like toes. Once upon time, it seemed he had wings, but now they were clipped and small upon his back.
“Is your name Bird?”
“Who told you that? – Was it a gnome, or did you torture it out of him?”
“I haven’t been torturing gnomes. My best friend is a gnome.”
“That in itself is not a recommendation. Gnomes have been known to be friends of smarmers.”
“I told you I am not a smarmer.”
“What are you then?”
“My name is Laila. I’m just a girl. Surely you can see that?”
“You are right,” Bird conceded. “You are a girl. However, it is a long time since I have seen a girl.”
For a while Bird was silent. Laila felt as if his eye was on her, studying her.
“I am sorry,” he said eventually. “I am not used to girls or people in general. The only person I usually see is Mr. Whizz. Though, of course, I sometimes see gnomes, but we do not always see eye to eye. Then they’re the smarmers. I have to keep an eye on them, and their leader, Smarm. If I don’t, who will?”
“I thought the Mistress kept an eye on Smarm.”
“The Mistress?”
Bird scoffed.
“It is true the Mistress and I are allies in this undertaking against Smarm and the smarmers,” he said. “However, she is not always with her mind or her eye on what is really going on.”
“What is really going on, Bird?”
Bird frowned and seemed to grip his perch more firmly.
“In order to know what is really going on,” he said, “one has to see. In order to see one has to look. In order to look, one needs the right instruments.”
If Bird was speaking in riddles like Mr. Whizz, Laila seized on the more immediate question.
“What instruments are you talking about, Bird?”
“Come on,” he said. “I would like to show you something.”
“Where are we going, Bird?”
But he was already off and on his way to the next tree.
Bird moved quickly, easily and featly around the trees. His claw like feet found easy purchase on branches that were no doubt familiar to him. Laila found that if she copied him she would stumble, so she chose to trust her own judgement. And that was as well. From time to time, Bird would look back and nod his approval at her progress.
“It’s not far now,” he said.
The platform was above a canopy of trees. It was much broader than the one above Mr. Whizz’s treehouse. From here, one had a view of the clearing and Anatole’s kitchen. In the distance, one could also see a wooded hill and what appeared to be the ruins of a castle (previously noted in Chapter Eight).
Upon the platform were several perching posts. In the middle of the platform was a pole. Near the top of the pole was a lens. The lens was attached to another smaller lens on a tripod. The position of the larger lens, it seemed, could be moved by means of cogs and a wheel. The tripod with the smaller lens, it seemed, was not fixed and could be moved around the platform.
“What is it?” asked Laila.
“My viewing glass,” said Bird. “Would you care to take a look?”
While Bird perched on one of the perching posts, Laila peered into the lens.
“I can see the moon,” she cried.
“Indeed,” said Bird, “what else can you see?”
“There’s another moon,” she said. “It’s much smaller and fainter.”
“Precisely,” said Bird.
“I always thought there was only one moon.”
“And so too did I,” said Bird, “until I saw it with my own eyes through the viewing glass. – I am talking about seeing it, but I already knew it was there in other ways.”
“You did?”
“I will tell you,” he said, “how I came to know it was there before I saw it through the viewing lens.
“In those days,” he began, “when I was young, I was convinced I was going to be able to fly. As you can see, I have these wings on my back, and I thought with some exercise and patience I could manage it. That is when I became attracted to the trees, and since the trees were closest to the skies, I began to spend all my time in the trees. And often I would sleep out under the stars. One such night I was sleeping outside when I began to dream.
“Suddenly I was wide awake in my dream. I became aware that I was no longer in the Garden, but somewhere else and somewhere quite different. For want of a better way of putting it, everything seemed not quite as I remembered it, at least in terms of the trees and plants I knew. Then, in this strange place, I met an even stranger individual. He was like me with wings, except his own wings were bigger, and having bigger wings he could fly. In my dream I remained with the flying individual a long time. He showed me many things about his world. I was enthralled. Here, I thought, I could live and fly. After a while, it seemed the flying individual told me that I would have to leave. Will I ever, I asked, see his world again? It was then that he told me about the second moon. When the large moon and the small moon are aligned, he said, you will find the gate. When you find the gate, the gate will bring you back here.”
Bird finished his story, and he was quiet.
Laila had many questions on her mind, but she did not know which one to ask first.
From down below in the clearing, she heard a roll of drums, followed by a blast of horns.
“What’s going on?”
“That, I imagine,” said Bird, “is the call to the feast.”
“Oh, my word, Bird!” said Laila. “We better go. You are coming, aren’t you?”
Bird frowned and gripped his perch more firmly as seemed to be his wont when he was troubled by a thought.
“I think not,” he said. “I think I will stay here and keep an eye on things.”
That was how Laila left him, as she limbered down the timbers, the strange bird man turned his beady eye on the heavens above as below.