Taco Del and the Fabled Tree of Destiny

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  There are three more big, badly lit people behind me. They have faces, which, I discover is just as creepy.

  I do what anybody would do, I surrender.

  Eighth: Treed!

  Lord E Lordy’s hangout is a strangely shaped building with a big dome on top — kind of like an upside down bowl. This is a planetarium. There’s another one just like it in one of the buildings on the Farm. Scientists used these to show people stuff about the stars and planets they couldn’t see ‘cause the city lights were so bright back then.

  Scientists are a kind of merlin.

  This planetarium isn’t as well preserved as the one at the Farm. It’s practically a ruin.

  I’m taken up a flight of grody stairs and down a hallway into the heart of this building. The place is truly gross. Smells like wet camp gear and the carpets are stained and holed like old socks.

  I think about these things ‘cause it helps me not shake so much. Behind thinking about moldy junk, I’m having crazy thoughts about being chopped into little pieces and fed to the fishes. I’ve heard Lord E has big dogs and I wonder if I’m going to meet them.

  And I wonder about Doug.

  They take me to the Throneroom. I guess that’s what it is, anyway. It’s a round room, dark, with chairs all the way around like in a theater. And in the middle of the room is this big, round platform with a — well, I’d have to call it a robot — standing up on it. The thing’s all black and scary looking — kind of like a giant robot spider — and it’s shadow is all over the curved wall behind it.

  All I can do is stare. I hear this clanking sound and the robot-thing starts to turn around and flickery lights go on inside it. I realize there’s stuff happening on the ceiling, but I’m too scared to look.

  Can this robot-thing be Lord E Lordy? No wonder he’s had such bad luck with his lordettes, I think.

  But no, there’s a man under the robot-thing. A man sitting in a big chair. Light from the thing falls, quavery yellow, over his face, making him look like a jaundiced mime.

  I gulp. I’ve never seen the Alcaldé of Potrero-Taraval. I could’ve lived without.

  There is something riding on the platform with him. Something in the dark at his feet. In the funny, pin-prickly light from the robot-thing, I see that it’s Doug.

  I reach for him without thinking. A hand clamps on my shoulder.

  “Wait jussa minute, littleguy. Bow before the Alcaldé.” And he pushes me to my knees, whoever the hell he is.

  I topple.

  “Don’t look much like a merlin,” says the man on the platform. “Looks like a street monkey.”

  The man behind me wheezes. “Oh, this is the merlin, alrighty.” And he pulls the burnoose off my head. “Taco Del, at our service.”

  The man in the chair leans forward and in the quivering light his hair glistens like an oil-slick.

  “Don’t look like much. You really a merlin?” he asks me.

  I raise my head. “I am.” I have some pride.

  He points at Doug. “This yours?”

  “That,” I say, calm-sounding, I hope, “is the fabled Tree of Destiny.”

  “Yeah. That’s what we thought.” He pokes his finger into Doug’s needles. “So, how does it work?”

  I don’t tell them, of course. And, of course, I end up in the dungeon — a foul and nasty place of dripping water and cold, hard tile floors. Used to be a toilet, I’m pretty sure. If they use their toilets for dungeons, I gotta wonder where they pee.

  I also don’t tell them I’m not sure myself how the TOD works. It just does. Or at least, I think it does.

  I have visitors in the dungeon — besides the Whisperers, of course, who seem to go everywhere with me, these days. They are Lubejob, who I recognize as the other guy in the Throneroom, and some Big Ugly Dudes with safety pins and earrings stuck in places I don’t think they belong. Not a good sign.

  They are here, Lubejob tells me, to provide some incentive. What they really do is beat the crap out of me. Another thing I could live without.

  They don’t really hurt me, though — not in the lasting-effects sense, anyway. And I resist telling them anything about Doug. When the tile floors have collected enough of my blood, they just stop.

  Lubejob gives me this really weird look and says, “You a guy? Really?”

  I’m not about to show him. “Yeah.” I mumble ‘cause my lips hurt. “’Course I’m a guy.”

  Lubejob makes a rude noise. “No shit. That ain’t what I meant. I meant, are you people?”

  “I didn’t bleed enough for you?”

  Sometimes I can’t seem to keep myself from being a smartass.

  He comes a little closer to where I’m lying in a wasted little heap under a sink. His nose wrinkles and makes snuffy noises.

  “You don’t smell like people,” he tells me and takes his two pin-cushion friends out of my face.

  When they’re gone, I just lie there and smart for awhile. When I close my eyes I can almost see the forests around the Farm. Hell, almost! I can see them. And smell them. The smell of conifers is getting stronger by the second, which reminds me, suddenly, of Firescape, which makes me want to cry.

  I begin to think I’m having an olfactory hallucination. Then I decide it’s a new kind of vision — a nose vision — and I’m sure Firescape will come for me. I know she will. No doubt about it.

  Feeling a little better about having been beaten to smithereens, I get up and discover that the water in these sinks sort of still runs. It dribbles, and that’s better than squiddle.

  It’s when I lean against the sink that I feel something prick my thigh and realize something’s broken in my pocket and I’ve just cut myself on it. It turns out to be the little flask of attar. I’m not sure whether to be amazed or depressed. I decide I like amazed better. Just think, I tell myself, even attar of Doug can give you visions. That’s something. But the fact is, I’m separated from Doug like I haven’t been from the day I pulled him out from under that redwood tree.

  I start thinking about the first real vision I ever had, sitting in the Wiz reading about the first Merlin, namesake of all who followed. Doug was there in his little pot, beside me on the reading table. First, I saw his little boughs tremble, then I got a whiff of his firry perfume, then my eyes went all wonky. I daydreamed I was merlin and in my daydream I warned Bags that one of the Giants was going to fall in the next big wind.

  Funny thing was, when I cleared my head, I still knew that tree was going to fall. I remember looking out and seeing leaves blowing in the street and knowing the wind was coming up. I hopped my bike, dumped Doug in the basket and rode as fast as I could to the Farm. And I told Bags about that Giant falling and I even pointed out which one and which way.

  “Why that,” he says, “that’d take out our new greenhouse.”

  I apologized, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  There wasn’t much in the greenhouse ‘cause he was just now putting stuff into it, but he gave me this look out of his no-color eyes, then told me to help him move the stuff he’d already put in back out.

  Another funny thing — I was right. The wind came up a screamer and that old Giant fell — whammo — right down on the new greenhouse and I knew right then that there was this thing between me and Doug and I had my first wild hope that I might someday be a merlin.

  And now look at me.

  I’m starting to get depressed, when I realize the little flask of Doug’s attar probably just saved my life. In fact, I’m sure it did. Someone’s still looking out for old Taco.

  I spend about three days in the dungeon with only the Whisperers to talk to before they try again to get me to tell them about Doug. When I’m dragged into the Throneroom this time, there’s lamplight — some kind of oil by the smell. And one of those battery camp things, stolen from Embarcadero, no doubt.

  There’s another dude there, too — an old dude with one squinty eye and wearing a long, scraggy beard and a ton of chains and beads. Looks like
a court jester, but gotta be the Alcaldé’s new merlin, I figure, of which I have heard only rumor.

  I’m right. The old dude comes up to me and gives me an eyeball no less hairy than Scrawl’s finest. Then he sniffs at me: sniff! snuff! snuffle! All the hair stands up on my body, ‘cause one of the rumors making the rounds in Embar is that in Potrero-Taraval, soylent green is people, if you index my reference.

  Holy Maya, Mother of Buddha! I think, and start praying.

  But this weird old merlin dude doesn’t pull out his knife and chopsticks. Instead, he opens this squinty eye of his and says, “Are you a tree?”

  I ponder this, realizing that THIS IS IMPORTANT. I am reminded of something from the Videoschool at the Wiz — which is, when someone asks "Are you a god?" — say "Yes."

  I say, “Yes.”

  “Shit,” says the old dude and turns to the Alcaldé under his weird robot (which I realize with a bit of embarrassment is just a piece of planetarium machinery). “Shit, he’s a tree.”

  Lord E sits back in his throne and eyes me up.

  “So, then, this is your bro, hey?” He points to where Doug sits in his brass pot.

  I look, and the breath sticks halfway up my throat. The pot looks worse than my face — dinged up, I mean. Like they’ve been playing soccer with it. Worse, some of Doug’s branches are bent and broken and the little blanket of moss I laid over his earth is gone. The earth is so dry, I can see cracks in it.

  Suddenly, I can’t swallow; my mouth is bone dry and my whole body’s shaking like I’m standing on a fault line, which I am.

  Diablo, say the Whisperers.

  “Diablo!” I repeat. “What’ve you done to my Tree?”

  Lord E giggles — which reminds me weirdly of Hoot. “Your Tree? Your Tree? My Tree, I think. It’s sittin' in my Throneroom. And all we did was play a little Q and A. It won’t tell us how you work either. So...” He looks all bright and sunny at me. “Which one of you bites it first?”

  Looking at Doug, I’m afraid he’s gonna "bite it" immediate. I scowl menacingly. “Clearly, you have no idea what you’re dealing with here. This — ” I point at Doug, handquake — “is the Fabled Tree of Destiny, the Great Oracle through whose branches blow the winds of Fate and the secrets of Eternity. In this immortal conifer are the answers to all the major wheres and whyfores asked since time immemorial. This is the repository of wisdoms galore. Through this Tree, the future is seen and secrets are known...and all that.”

  “And I s’pose,” says the squinty old dude, “you’re the only one who knows how to get answers out of it, huh?”

  I nod, squinting back.

  “So...one of you’s no good without the other, right?”

  “You got it.”

  This makes the squinty dude do a dance and hi-five the thin air, which makes me muy nervous. I glance at Lord E, and Lubejob, who are also looking pretty pleased.

  “We got it,” says the Alcaldé. “Lubejob, get on the grapevine and see that our dear bud, Mercedes, gets the rumble. We got both his merlin and his damn — uh, what’d you call that thing...Ora — ”

  “Oracle,” I mumble, my heart doing a hindenberg.

  It’s clear to me that I have, once again, gone clueless. I thought I was leading them; all the time, they were leading me. Worse, I still don’t know what they really want. I mean, first I think it’s Hermajesty, then I think it’s Doug and, for a moment, I even think it’s me.

  I’m feeling truly sorry for myself when something hits me: Lord E called Hismajesty "Mercedes."

  “How’d you know-?”

  “The real and secret name of your lamebrain King?” the Alcaldé finishes for me. He grins, showing yellow teeth and I wonder what they do for dental hygiene here. “We got our ways.”

  Yeah. I’ll bet. Up to and including inside smeagols.

  “What do you want, Alcaldé?” I ask, trying to look fierce and merlinly.

  He leans down from his throne, still grinning. “For now, I got what I want. I got you and I got your Tree. Two of the things that make Embarcadero tick.”

  I glance at Doug again, seeing how pathetic he looks. “You won’t have us for long if you don’t feed us. The Tree is dying.”

  Lord E twists to give Doug a sharp look. “How the hell do you feed a tree?”

  “You give it water. If you don’t give it water it dies. Then you can forget about having one up on Hismajesty.”

  Lord E scratches in his greasy beard. “That’s it — water?”

  “I feed him other things, too — coffee grounds, oak mulch, fish emulsion — ”

  He waves me down. “Sounds like merlin stuff to me. Discuss it with Squint.” He thumbs at the squinty old dude, then tells him, “Keep them alive...for now.”

  Lord E’s leer is one of those things you could go through your whole life without seeing.

  Squint gets a couple of Big Ugly Dudes to escort me and Doug to his workshop. I’m impressed. With his workshop, I mean. It’s a little gross in some ways — a little on the primitive side — but number one jade in others. It’s a big room with high, dark rafters and this one cool window that’s like a wall only slanted in like a roof.

  There’s all sorts of fire pots hanging all over the place, giving off this scented smoke like the incense in a dios house. It smells kind of nice, which is more than I can say for the rest of Potrero-Taraval.

  Squint’s escort puts Doug down by the window and my heart drops into my shoes when I see how pale his needles are. I want to cry, but this would be un-merlinly, so I bite the inside of my cheek instead.

  Squint gets water from a rain barrel and brings it to me.

  “Where’s his mouth?”

  I am bewoggled by the sheer ignorance of him.

  “Under the earth. He drinks and eats through his root system.”

  “Yeah?” Squint watches me pour the water into the pot. “You too?”

  This old dude really thinks I’m a tree. “No. I drink like a person. Part of my schtick. You know — merlin stuff.”

  “How’d you get like this? People-like, I mean?”

  “Evolution.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know that spell.”

  Didn’t think so.

  “Look,” I say, “you got anything he can eat? Fish emulsion, coffee grounds-?”

  He’s shaking his head. “Never heard of the stuff.”

  “You guys eat fish?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “So, get me a fish.”

  “So, don’t give me orders, treeman.”

  “Please,” I say.

  I show him how to make fish emulsion and explain that it’s also good for people and makes a great, if stinky, salve for burns. I figure maybe I can make friends with this guy — schmooze a little, merlin to merlin, etal.

  I’m schmoozing away, listening to him rattle on about fertility spells that don’t work, when I see something outside the window. It’s a grey day, kind of foggy, but I think I see a flash of red and black between some scrubby-looking bushes.

  My heart flips over a couple of times. I’m sure Squint can hear it, but he just keeps talking.

  When Squint’s all through with me, he puts me in a better room. I tell him a few things about the way the TOD works — like that he needs a certain amount of sunlight. I’m hoping for a downstairs room with windows; I get an upstairs room with a skylight.

  Good enough, I hope, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I know that red and black flash. I think Doug knows too, ‘cause his needles start quivering the moment I see the flash and don’t stop even when we are in our new room.

  It’s a sign of some sort, I figure, and I stare at him until my eyes go wonky and it seems like he’s waving at the skylight.

  Suddenly, I get it. He wants me to rig a signal. But what would Firescape see and recognize that the Potreran Knighties wouldn’t?

  In the moment I ponder this, it seems to me that Doug waves even harder, filling the air with scent and making one of his bent boughs d
ance.

  All at once I understand; Doug is offering the injured bough as a beacon. Overcome by this selfless gesture, I remove the branch as gently as I can, praying I don’t hurt him much. Still, I feel a horrible twinge in my gut when the bough comes free. Doug brushes my hand to reassure me.

  I take the branch — it’s about as long as my forearm — and climb up on a table to reach the only window in this place. It’s half boarded up and half covered with stiff mesh. Inside the mesh is broken glass. I stuff the branch through a fist-sized hole in the glass and out through the mesh. Then, I let go of it, praying it will stay. It does.

  Doug sends me a waft of perfume that prompts me to gently remove the other broken tips from his boughs. I use them to rub more scent on myself, too, and put the crushed remains in my pocket.

  We settle down to wait.

  Ninth: Attar of Doug

  Aromatherapy. That’s what Bags calls the medicine side of it — the funny things smells do to you, I mean. Smells, he told me, early in my farmerly training, are powerful stuff. I was exceedingly doubtful at the time.

  I remember he grabbed a handful of the dirt from the hole he was digging at the feet of this big cedar and stuck it under my nose and said, “Sniff it.”

  I obey of course. I always obey Bags. All the little apprentice farmers obey Bags. Obeying Bags and Kaymart has a kind of soothing effect. And in my case, I’m making up for all the years I had nobody to obey but me.

  I sniff. I smell rich loam, moss, wet grass, cedary perfume.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think this soil’s fertile?”

  I nod.

  “Because why?”

  “Because it’s got good mulch in it, so it’s rich, but it’s light, so it should drain well.”

  I’m very proud of this pronouncement. Bags has taught me a lot and I like the chance to show off, even times like now, when none of the other little apprentices are around.