Flowercrash

by Stephen Palmer

  Nuïy vainly tried to hide his blush. “N-no.”

  Deomouvadaïn said nothing more as they crossed the path into the Tech House. Inside they wandered corridors of chilly stone, bare of decoration, occasionally passing cloaked men with handlebar moustaches and combed sideburns. Deomouvadaïn inspired respect; men stepped aside for him. Nuïy felt pride burning in his heart, but he showed nothing. He wanted that respect. And he would have it.

  They entered a hall filled with plants. Yellow-capped clerics strolled from bay to bay looking at leaves that seemed illuminated from inside, flickering like a hoard of fireflies, phantasmagorically green. Some stood still, wearing great black headphones like twinned hands with cables plugged into the earth. Nuïy sensed echoes of sonic information in the air, and as he did he realised there were no screens in this room, which implied nothing of visual information as epitomised by the flower networks.

  “Are these networks separate from the flower networks?” he asked.

  “They’re grafted on. The Green Man despises flowers and rejects their visual information. Our task is to monitor and record the ebb and flow of information throughout the networks of Zaïdmouth. We supply information to the senior branches. We’re their ears.”

  “This is something I could do,” Nuïy said. “I have excellent hearing.”

  “Hmph. That’ll be tested later. When you begin work here tomorrow you’ll need yer yellow cap. Don’t forget it.”

  There followed a further tour of the Tech Houses. Many of the buildings were devoted to plants sending out their roots into Zaïdmouth, and some were awash with water, their clerics wearing rubberised boots; others were more network orientated, where the clerics sat down at desks with electronic pads upon their laps, listening and jotting down notes. Nuïy noticed that many of the clerics were blank eyed, their drugged minds at one with the sounds of the networks. Others simply drooled on their cloaks, or twitched like dreaming autodogs. Understanding that their minds would simply miss the subtleties of electronic information if they avoided the trance state, Nuïy wondered if he too would need to take Deomouvadaïn’s drugs.

  He was sent back to the dormitory. Again Drowaïtash tried to persuade him to talk, but Nuïy responded coldly. “The Recorder-Shaman wishes me to take extra lessons in the capturing and recording of information. That is all. It is for the good of the Green Man.”

  He felt under his pillow for his yellow hat. It was gone.

  Frantically he searched his bed and the area around it. All five youths were watching him now, so he stopped and confronted them. “One of you has hidden my hat. That was a gift from the Green Man. You are insulting him.”

  Mehmatha guffawed. “So what? Maybe the Green Man made it vanish to teach stuck up boys a lesson.”

  Nuïy frowned. “I need it tomorrow.”

  “We don’t like stuck up boys,” Mehmatha continued. “You think you’re above us, better than us, when you’re really a moron. We don’t like morons.”

  “Yeah,” Awanshyva agreed. “And there’s three of them in this room.”

  Nuïy declared, “You have misread the situation. I am not above you, and I do not consider myself above you. Rather, I am totally apart from you. There is no connection. I simply share a dormitory with you.”

  They did not reply to this. Nuïy had spoken with glaring eyes, in his most intense manner. They found this uncomfortable.

  “Now,” he said, “I will have my hat when I begin work tomorrow. One of you has hidden it. Where is it?”

  He looked at all three of the other gang. Mehmatha’s eyes flickered to his left. Like a hawk Nuïy turned his head to see where Mehmatha had looked, a movement that startled them into taking a step back. The table under the cracked window. Nuïy walked over and rifled through the drawers, finding nothing, but when he checked behind the table he found his hat stuffed into a hole. This display of what seemed supernatural luck made the quiet trio falter. Mehmatha growled, “C’mon, lads,” and left the dormitory.

  Nuïy also marched out. At Deomouvadaïn’s door he knocked, but there was no answer. He waited, considering what had happened. He recalled exactly which herbs were which in the garden. Hurrying into the section devoted to poisons, he chose a herb and, covering his hands with a cloth, plucked five leaves. Then he ran back and made for the entrance to the main Tech House, where he asked for Deomouvadaïn.

  The old man was not pleased at being disturbed. “What d’you want, leaf?”

  Nuïy presented his hat. “I fear for its safety. Would you temporarily keep it for me?”

  Deomouvadaïn frowned. “Why?”

  “Other leaves tried to hide it.”

  Deomouvadaïn snatched the hat. “All right. Now go away.”

  Back at the dormitory, Eletela was at the kennels, leaving only Drowaïtash free. Nuïy asked him, “Would you get me some floorsoap so I can wash the floor? It stinks around here.”

  Grumbling, Drowaïtash agreed. With trembling hands, Nuïy pounded the five leaves in water, making a sticky paste. The few drops of fluid he poured into the mug of water beside Mehmatha’s bed. Then he washed his utensils and his hands, and waited for Drowaïtash.

  That night Mehmatha was taken ill with stomach convulsions. Raïtasha and a cleric carried him away. His sweating skin was white, his eyes rolled, and he vomited bile.

  ~

  Next day, Nuïy began lessons in the Tech House. Deomouvadaïn seemed concerned by something, leaving his responses short and his lessons vague, but the day passed and Nuïy learned about listening to the networks, the types of plants, and how to focus listening leaves. But that evening in the dormitory he began to feel a sweat come over him, and when he stood up to take off his vest nausea made him fall to his knees, and then vomit. Suddenly he could not stop. The floor around his bed was covered with the remains of supper.

  He heard somebody rush out, and then minutes later Raïtasha appeared, and the hospice cleric. “Can you walk, leaf?” Raïtasha asked.

  Nuïy was too confused to reply. His stomach felt as if it had been kicked. But he knew who must have had their revenge. He tried to croak out the names Baïcoora and Awanshyva, but his spasming body would not let him. Then he heard another voice, a man’s phlegmy voice.

  He was carried away. The night air was freezing and, despite his sweat, he shivered. Then there were bright lights and the smells of a house. Voices spoke. He was wrapped in blankets and put in a bed. The lights departed. Dark.

  For the rest of the night Nuïy suffered agonising stomach cramps. Even he, who felt pain less than others, could do nothing other than roll around his bed in a nauseous nightmare, until, when morning came, he was able to sleep for a few hours.

  Some hours later Deomouvadaïn walked into the room. Nuïy took the proffered mug of water and drank. His stomach rebelled, but he kept it down. “Where am I?” he asked.

  “At my house.”

  “I know who did it. The others in the quiet gang. Baïcoora or Awanshyva. They must be punished.”

  Deomouvadaïn sat by the bed. “You say you know who did it. Who was it?”

  “They stole my hat. The quiet gang, led by Mehmatha. It was one of them.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me?”

  Nuïy shook his head.

  Deomouvadaïn reached over and grasped Nuïy’s neck with both hands, pressing hard. He lifted Nuïy up so that his face was inches away. Nuïy choked, unable to breath, petrified that here he would be despatched.

  “I said, leaf, you wouldn’t lie to me?”

  Nuïy managed to shake his head.

  Deomouvadaïn flung him to the bed. Nuïy’s head connected with the headboard and he saw stars.

  The old man glared at him, clearly disgusted. “You lie to me, you lie to the Green Man. It’s not good. Lying is a flower trick.”

  “Yes,” Nuïy managed.

  “Now, then. Who poisoned you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hmph. Then who poisoned Mehmatha?”

 
; Nuïy cringed. The game was up. He was found out. He stuttered, “It was me.”

  “Did you think me such a fool as not to recognise the symptoms of galatuar poisoning?”

  Close to tears, Nuïy shut his eyes. “The truth is, I did not think.”

  “You didn’t think. That’s bad. Well, leaf, think now. Who d’you imagine poisoned you?”

  Nuïy could not imagine. He only understood facts. “I don’t know.”

  “It was me, of course. Can’t you see that?”

  Nuïy stared. How could it be? He replied, “But why?”

  “Only the Green Man has honour and intellect enough to judge others. You judged Mehmatha. You must be taught yer lesson.”

  “But,” Nuïy protested, “you poisoned me.”

  “I have the right to make humus of you. Should that ever be necessary. You are a leaf fresh from the bud. I am an old branch. I take my orders from the Green Man.”

  Nuïy shut his eyes again and bemoaned his mistakes. He understood what was being said. “I’ve learned my lesson,” he muttered.

  “Hmph. Let’s hope so.”

  The rest of the week passed without incident. Nuïy and Mehmatha passed one another like growling autodogs, but there were no further incidents and Nuïy’s property was left alone. But he felt insecure. He knew that tensions would boil up again as his career moved ever further away from theirs, and he knew he must choke down his desire for revenge, or devise some plan to avoid his dormitory enemies. He wondered if he could exploit the two youths on his side. But no. Eletela was a buffoon, who only ate and worked in the kennels, while Drowaïtash was too sly to be trusted. Nuïy decided to rely on himself. It was always the safest bet, he reflected.

  One night, Nuïy was woken by a cleric and taken to Deomouvadaïn’s house. The old man met him in the hall. Closing and locking the front door, he smiled at Nuïy and led him into a side room.

  “Is there any difficulty?” Nuïy asked.

  “Not yet. There is something you must do. Must learn.”

  “What?”

  “Follow me upstairs.”

  Nuïy did as he was told. Deomouvadaïn opened a door and told him to enter. Nuïy stepped slowly into a small room. On a low bed lay a naked woman, her legs apart, her arms flung out, her eyes wide and bright. Deomouvadaïn closed the door. Nuïy looked again at the woman. He had never before seen a woman like this. She had oiled her thighs, between them too, so that the gash he saw seemed like a slobbering mouth. Nuïy stared at the triangle of black hair. He thought he could smell her body scent. Appalled, he stepped back. Deomouvadaïn caught him and thrust him forward. Nuïy was so shocked he forgot he had been touched.

  “You must experience this before learning to control yerself,” Deomouvadaïn explained. “Un-men will trap you. If you’ve no experience of what they offer there always remains the possibility of succumbing to temptation. You can’t remain inexperienced if you’re to be of use to the Green Man.”

  “But,” Nuïy began, “I will not be touched. I cannot do such a vile thing.”

  “You must. There’s no alternative. You must show yer control of the un-men by ravishing this one.”

  “You do not understand. I will not have my skin touched. I cannot grapple with this un-man.”

  Deomouvadaïn replied, “You must. The Green Man can’t trust you if you remain inexperienced.”

  “But I cannot.”

  “Take off yer breeches. Mount the un-man, then insert yer cock inside the slit. Yer cock will go hard. Do it.”

  “No!”

  Deomouvadaïn pulled off Nuïy’s cloak, then shoved him toward the bed. “Do it. You will dominate the un-man.”

  The woman stared in horror at Nuïy’s deformed belly. Nuïy likewise stared at her. Without looking at what he was doing, he loosened his breeches and let them fall to the floor. Deomouvadaïn shoved him again, so hard that he tripped over the end of the bed, and fell to the woman.

  With a cry he twisted his body to avoid her. He slumped to the floor, then leaped up like a cornered animal. Deomouvadaïn stared at him, then strode over, hands bunched into fists.

  “Get on top of that un-man,” he demanded.

  He reached out to grab Nuïy, but Nuïy, terror surging within him, struck out with both fists, punching left, right, left, right, with his head down, screaming out: Deomouvadaïn was caught unawares by a fury. Then Nuïy lost all control. He grabbed a metal urn and swung out at the old man, screaming incoherently, until Deomouvadaïn was pushed back to the door, with blood on his head and hands. The woman cowered in the opposite corner, curled in a ball.

  “Nuïy!” Deomouvadaïn yelled. “Nuïy, stop!”

  Nuïy did not hear. He struck again and again. But then Deomouvadaïn managed to grab the urn and throw it aside, and then kick out at Nuïy’s legs and floor him. Nuïy’s head hit the floor and he blacked out for a fraction of a second. A weight pressed on him. His arms and legs were entangled in a blanket. Deomouvadaïn’s bloody face stared down at him.

  Before the cleric could speak, Nuïy shouted, “You betrayed me, you pink flower! You betrayed the Green Man by making me unite with the enemy. That is pure evil! You have done evil to the heartwood of the Green Man! We are men, we are not un-men, and we will have nothing to do with them. I will never touch them, never, never, until I become humus. Do you hear me? I will not be touched!”

  Deomouvadaïn, his breath coming hoarse, said, “Nuïy, calm down. Just quiet. Lie still.”

  Nuïy struggled to be released. Even through the blanket he could feel the touch of the old man. “No! Leave me alone. You cannot touch me!”

  Deomouvadaïn struck Nuïy on the chin.

  “Nghhhhhh…”

  ~

  Nuïy awoke.

  He was lying in a bed. The same bed as before. He must be in Deomouvadaïn’s house still. Well, not for much longer, now he had struck the Recorder-Shaman. He was out.

  He raised his head to see Deomouvadaïn standing at the door. Their eyes met, and then he let his head drop onto the bolster. He said nothing.

  “Now, then,” Deomouvadaïn said. “What do we do now?”

  “Throw me to the streets,” Nuïy answered. “I know the penalties for assault.”

  “Hmph. Let’s not be so hasty.”

  Nuïy remained silent. He dared not hope… he did not want to have hope. He could not stay here with this stain on his character. He looked up again to see the bruises and cuts on Deomouvadaïn’s face.

  The old man approached. “We must decide what to do,” he said. “I can see now that you won’t have congress. But how do we get around the dilemma?”

  “The Green Man must release me. I will scavenge on the streets of Emeralddis, and die in poverty.”

  “That’s unnecessarily pessimistic.”

  Nuïy groaned. He had failed. “There is no way out.”

  “There’s one way.”

  Nuïy sat up. “What?”

  “You must swear the most awful oath to the Green Man that you’ll never lie with an un-man. I’m able to witness this.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “If you break the oath, you’ll become humus. You can’t doubt that.”

  “I’ll do it!”

  Deomouvadaïn sighed. “One final problem remains. Oaths sworn on the Green Man require the grasping of hands.”

  Nuïy took an oak statuette from the table at the side of the bed and replied, “You hold one end and I will hold the other. We will be connected through the heartwood of the Green Man.”

  Deomouvadaïn hesitated, then said, “All right. Now, then. Swear after me. I swear by the wrath of the Green Man that I, Nuïy of the Shrine of the Green Man, shall never have congress with an un-man, until I make humus.”

  Nuïy repeated the oath.

  Deomouvadaïn stood. “Now go back to yer dormitory. I needn’t remind you of the penalty for telling secrets.”

  “You need not remind me,” Nuïy confirmed.

  After this inciden
t Nuïy was treated with noticeable respect by Deomouvadaïn, and even by Raïtasha. Nuïy conjectured that his deeds had been mentioned in the upper hierarchy, but he drew no comfort from that. Instead he applied himself to his work, which now took up most evenings, collecting his yellow hat from Deomouvadaïn, then going with him or some other Tech House cleric to continue learning in the plant network chambers.

  Another week passed. He began to understand the subtleties of recording through sonic means, and acquired a knack of noting down information passing along the most tenuous of networks. Sometimes he was asked to monitor Veneris networks, and his heart thumped when he thought of the secrets he might overhear, secrets perhaps emerging from the Shrine of the crones itself.

  He rejected all drugs. Soon it was realised that he did not need them. In the rarified atmosphere of the chambers he was considered a freak, but he did not mind this. He revelled in his uniqueness. He considered himself apart from the ordinary branches, who came in with minds entranced, deciding in the privacy of his own mind that he was a natural shaman.

  But the task of passive recording began to grate after a while. He found his mind drifting as Deomouvadaïn discussed sonic techniques, or the best shorthand to use when working. His mind was a bottomless sea of facts. He realised he wanted to make them active.

  Then one day, as he sat with headphones on his ears concentrating on the hissing voices of the networks, a shadow on the wall before him made him look up, then turn around. Deomouvadaïn stood there beside another man. The newcomer was tall, with black cropped hair, heavy beard, and fierce green eyes. He was tubby, almost flabby about the chest and stomach, but he looked strong.

  Nuïy flipped off the headphones. “Recorder-Shaman?” he said.

  “Hmph. Nuïy, this is Kamnaïsheva. He wants to speak with you. Kamnaïsheva is the Analyst-Drummer of the Green Man.”

  CHAPTER 5

  There’s going to be a flower crash!

  Manserphine knew this as she floated before her alter ego in the bubble space of her vision. The mermaid of these lucid dreams was silent today, but all around her floated a framework of purest white, phosphorescent in the blue tinted water like the remains of a ghostly diatom. Manserphine understood through the intuitive logic of her visions that this structure represented the potential for good. She floated up to the mermaid and tried to speak, but her lips were numb and her tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth, so she was forced to collect information by gesture and through flashes of insight.