Flowercrash

by Stephen Palmer

  Silence fell as they immersed themselves in their thoughts. Manserphine watched a single bright star move behind a chimney stack, then emerge on the other side. She felt momentary awe at the sight. It was so simple, yet so profound. At length she said, “Who is the mermaid who inhabits my every vision?”

  “I do not know. Though she looks somewhat like you.”

  Manserphine turned to stare at Zoahnône. “You think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps she is related,” Manserphine joked.

  “If she is related,” Zoahnône pointed out, “she may share your ability to sense future networks. There will be a close genetic similarity.”

  Manserphine frowned. “I have no relations like me, let alone like mermaids. Nobody I know is like me.”

  “There may be somebody. What of your cousins, your parents?”

  “My mother was lost at sea some years ago. My father is old, my brother a cleaner at the Shrine of Root Sculpture. No, my family is ordinary. Except for my great-grandmother, who was captured by Sea-Clerics and never reappeared.”

  “You should investigate your family tree,” advised Zoahnône. “Relevant facts may appear.”

  Manserphine stood up, and stretched. It was late. “What now?”

  “I have a number of immediate tasks. For the moment, the only thing to consider is how we should keep in touch.”

  “Through the networks,” said Manserphine. “There are some very rare flowers that people tend not to use because of the difficulty of operation. That would help conceal our traces.”

  “You say they are not used because of their rarity?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then they may not be suitable.”

  Manserphine shook her head. “In the right districts they are obvious. The large orange snapdragons are the best. All you need is an insect pen specialised to the form of the humble bee. The Shrine of Flower Sculpture would be best for that.”

  “I cannot realistically return there.”

  “No…” mused Manserphine. “I’ll see if Pollonzyn can get one.”

  “And until then?”

  “I”ll be at the inn tomorrow, and the morning after. We should have found a pen by then.”

  “All right,” said Zoahnône after a moment. “For now I shall skulk around the garden here.”

  They parted. Manserphine was exhausted, for midnight was not far off. She entered the inn, bade goodnight to Vishilkaïr, then made for her room, where, after some hours of turning amidst her bedclothes, she managed to drop into slumber.

  ~

  Next day she lazed in bed until noon. After a relaxed breakfast she spent time readying herself for a walk to Novais. But Vishilkaïr discovered her intentions, and he said, “Not just yet, Manserphine. I have a favour to ask of you. I’m supposed to be mixing vermouth cocktails and I’m in a hurry. Could you go out and find me a few dandelion nuts?”

  “Oh… very well,” Manserphine replied. She scoured the eastern paths of the kitchen garden until she had picked a handful of last year’s crop, still orange on the twig. Glancing behind the compost heaps, she saw no sign of Zoahnône. She returned to the inn. The inner hall door had been closed, so she opened it—

  “Surprise!”

  She almost dropped the nuts. There was laughter and applause. Four people stood in front of a table laden with exotic food and drink: Vishilkaïr and Kirifaïfra, Omdaton, and Pollonzyn.

  Vishilkaïr laughed and pointed at her. “Surely you didn’t think we’d let you go without a farewell party?”

  “Er…”

  “You thoughtless woman! How dare you not realise what we were up to? What do you take us for, vagabonds?”

  “To the food,” Omdaton said, sitting at the head of the table.

  Still stunned, Manserphine sat in the chair pulled out by Kirifaïfra, who then sat at her side. She looked at the repast before her. Metal trays arranged on a helix were full of bubbling sauces, a nightlight under each, while elsewhere there were bowls of salad vegetables in wine, and unleaven dough hanging on tiny lines, ready to be dried into crispcakes with candles. Bottles of gin and whiskey twinkled as the late afternoon sun lit them. There were dishes of deep fried crispy worm. Saucers with spicy corn relish. Handbowls filled with mint water. Suddenly she sank into her seat, feeling tears come to her eyes.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she managed.

  “Say nothing,” Vishilkaïr advised. “Dig in.”

  Manserphine dried her eyes with a napkin and followed his instructions. The food was magnificent; Omdaton was an experienced cook. It dawned on her that leaving this idiosyncratic inn would be far more difficult than she had imagined. Please don’t let there be speeches, she thought.

  The rules of etiquette demanded that the men sit at the foot of the table, so Manserphine found Pollonzyn opposite her. Once the first round of eating had passed, and they were sitting back in their chairs, dipping into relishes and cracking crispcakes, Manserphine thought to mention the humble bee pen.

  “There’s a petal you can lend me,” she said. “I need a humble bee. Do you have a spare at the floral home bed?”

  Pollonzyn had seemed subdued during the meal, but this request made her blanch.

  “You have reservations?” Manserphine asked, concerned.

  “The floral home bed is not as it was. Dustspirit has become scentless, and Cirishnyan has knowledged us all that you did that particular bit of gardening.”

  Manserphine glanced at the others. They were listening, but she knew they would fail to understand the nuances. “I did no gardening like that,” she replied. “Dustspirit has fickle pollen. She shall return.”

  “That is as may be. But Cirishnyan wants you to droop, maybe even wither.”

  Manserphine digested this news. Clearly the absence of Dustspirit had been noticed, presumably because she no longer appeared in the upper chamber. The clerics would make the connection between the speech of Dustspirit and herself, and this disappearance. That could cause a problem. Suddenly Manserphine felt afraid of her old employer, and she knew she would never work there again. Pollonzyn must have been invited to the inn as a friend, and had probably come here on that basis. That was some consolation.

  There came hammering on the front door. Vishilkaïr frowned at Kirifaïfra. “Go and see who it is,” he said. But as Kirifaïfra opened the hall door Vishilkaïr thought better of his words, and followed his nephew.

  Manserphine turned to see men at the door, and she recognised them as the trio from the Cemetery who had frowned at Kirifaïfra. They were in an ugly mood. They forced their way into the hall, with much swearing and thwacking at the walls.

  Vishilkaïr stood by Kirifaïfra at the hall door. “What do you want here?” he demanded.

  “We’re bloody gatecrashing,” one man replied in slurred tones. “Let us in. ‘S an inn, innit? We’re bloody thirsty. Wanna drink.”

  “This is a private party,” Kirifaïfra said, barring the way as the leading man tried to muscle past. “Get out.”

  The man whistled and pointed at Manserphine. “Wa-hey, look at the blonde! She’s mine.” He pushed back the two men behind him.

  Kirifaïfra thumped the man on the nose, then thrust him into his friends. The man snorted out blood. Vishilkaïr watched, then rolled up his sleeves, removed his cravat and joined Kirifaïfra. After a minute of kicking, thumping and profanity the three men were out in the street, whereupon Kirifaïfra drew a lead-shot convolvulus, which he brandished at the men.

  “Return and I’ll lead-line your breeches,” he said.

  The men ran off, and the pair returned to the inn.

  “Sorry about that,” Kirifaïfra said, touching Manserphine on the shoulder.

  “Who were they?”

  “Thugs,” Omdaton said.

  “Nobody, nobody worth mentioning,” Kirifaïfra insisted. “More whiskey?”

  “They seemed dangerous,” Manserphine said.

  Vishilkaïr scowled. “Forget
them, Manserphine. They were just oafs from Kirifaïfra’s past.”

  “Uncle!” Kirifaïfra protested.

  Vishilkaïr shrugged and took a mouthful of whiskey.

  Pollonzyn departed as evening fell, and then Omdaton staggered over to the fire, where she fell asleep. For some minutes they chatted about times past, until Vishilkaïr departed for his room upstairs.

  So Manserphine was left with Kirifaïfra. Somewhat tipsy, she had almost forgotten that in less than a day she would be in her old room at the Shrine of Our Sister Crone. They took a bottle of vodka and a couple of square glasses to the bay window.

  “So tomorrow you will be gone,” Kirifaïfra said.

  “Yes. But you shall be able to see me in the Garden—at least, for those official sessions that are broadcast.”

  “It’s not the same as having you here.”

  Manserphine began to feel uncomfortable again. “For somebody who I knew well, perhaps not.”

  “Then you do not know me well.”

  “Not so well as kin at my Shrine.”

  “There are other relationships of obligation,” Kirifaïfra said. “Don’t you have any of those in your life?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want any?”

  “I’m close to my father and brother,” said Manserphine.

  “But they are family. Surely you are lonely?”

  “Not really. Our Sister Crone provides.”

  Kirifaïfra seemed confused. He drank his glass of vodka, then refilled it. “That seems to me to be a sterile existence,” he said, distractedly.

  “Look,” Manserphine said, deciding to be plain, “I wonder if you haven’t become a little too attached to me these past months. Frankly, Kirifaïfra, I hope you have not, because I can’t be approached.”

  “Why not?”

  “I am the Interpreter of the Garden. I am a senior cleric at the leading Shrine of Zaïdmouth. You are a classless man.”

  “You aren’t so perfect,” Kirifaïfra said bitterly. “You were banished for your misdemeanor.”

  “We all make mistakes.”

  Kirifaïfra turned to her, a look of desperation in his face. “But I love you, Manserphine. Can’t you feel that? I love you.”

  Manserphine looked away. She had missed the clues. And yet she was not shocked, as if part of her had guessed the truth, and suppressed it.

  “This is going to be difficult to tell you,” she said, apologetically. “You can’t approach me, Kirifaïfra. I’m different to you, not some common woman of Veneris, but somebody apart. Forget what you just said. You didn’t say it. I shall go tomorrow, and you shall continue here.”

  “I’ll never forget it,” said Kirifaïfra; and in a moment of lucid understanding he added, “and I know you won’t either.”

  Manserphine was silenced by this. Of course, neither of them could deny this moment. Nonetheless, she had to. She said, “Senior clerics take an oath of celibacy.”

  He looked at her, astonished. His round eyes flickered as his gaze faltered. “You’ve forsworn sex?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why? How?”

  “Our Sister Crone demands it. It is part of her doctrine.”

  Kirifaïfra sat back, laughing. “But it is impossible. You are denying your humanity, and that is tantamount to cruelty.”

  “Nevertheless, I have taken the vow. If I were caught with a man I would return to the minor laity. All members of the Garden take a similar vow, regardless of their affiliations.”

  “But how can it work?”

  “Celibacy is the path taken by senior clerics. Lesser clerics take lovers, some men, some women. Men in particular are frowned upon. It is considered that celibacy encourages a purity of thought.”

  “What nonsense!” said Kirifaïfra. “It is simply a denial of a natural urge for reasons of control.”

  “You may think that. But I, a cleric of Our Sister Crone, do not. So you see that we can never be lovers. Put the thought from your mind.”

  “Such thoughts burn my mind every night,” Kirifaïfra replied.

  Manserphine stood up. “I think it’s time we retired. I have to leave tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Kirifaïfra stood. “Wait. I have something for you.”

  “No, Kirifaïfra—”

  “You must see it.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew what seemed to be a string of many colours.

  “Is it hardpetal?”

  “Fabric,” he replied. With a quick motion he laid it over her head, whereupon it twisted itself around a lock of her long, blonde hair, extending itself, until the entire lock was a twist of colour. “Very fetching,” he said.

  Manserphine felt she could not reject the gift. Tomorrow, she would be gone, and that would be the end of it.

  “I could give you more gifts.”

  Manserphine struggled to find further excuses. “I am important,” she said. “They would have to be extraordinary gifts—beyond your reach, in fact.”

  “I could take you into the Cemetery to find such gifts,” he said.

  “You know I can’t go there.”

  “Yes. Your vision.”

  “I saw myself buried in earth,” Manserphine said. “The feeling was very strong and I won’t ignore it… besides, I recently learned that these visions may hold elements of truth.”

  “This would be from the gynoid in the back garden.”

  Manserphine said nothing.

  “It is our secret,” Kirifaïfra said, “but where has she gone?”

  “I honestly don’t know. And now, I must go to bed. Goodnight, Kirifaïfra. Try to understand my position.”

  She departed the common room. After locking and barring her door, she sat on her bed and considered the evening. Part of her wanted to stay here. Part of her felt ashamed at having to reject such a charming man. But these things had to be done. Unhappily, she lay on her bed.

  The night passed. Inevitable insomnia struck, and with dawn a few hours away she still lay awake, looking at the stars through her window. At dawn she managed to drift into dreamless slumber.

  The bright sky woke her.

  It was mid morning. She had slept perhaps for three hours. Time to pack her meagre belongings and depart.

  They stood by the front door of the inn as she departed, Vishilkaïr and Kirifaïfra and Omdaton, while she carried her bag and her sack, and with her free hand fiddled with the coloured braid. A few yards away she turned and waved to them. Tears ran down Kirifaïfra’s cheeks.

  She turned the corner of the street leading down to the thoroughfare on which the Shrine stood. Out of sight of the inn, she put down her belongings, and wept.

  CHAPTER 10

  The day came when Nuïy was taken to meet Sargyshyva, First Cleric of the Green Man. He felt apprehensive, not least because neither of his teachers would be going with him, just Zehosaïtra. In addition there was the humiliation of being forced to wear the pink eyepatch. He was now known as Nuïy Pinkeye. He felt he occupied a split position, at once despised for his inability to follow orders, yet treasured for the new life he had brought to the programme of network transformation. But even his naive enthusiasm was not enough to mask the thought that one day he might go too far.

  The brutality of the Green Man had earlier seemed a good thing, for Nuïy had imagined that brutality used to subdue others who did not believe what he believed. Now it had been used against him, he saw the dark side. Yet he accepted it as an inevitable part of living in the Shrine. The Green Man sanctioned such behaviour, and so it must be correct.

  Zehosaïtra took him to the Inner Sanctum. The weather was mild and Nuïy wore a light green robe and low boots. Men and youths stared at him as they walked by, for the legend of his achievements had spread to all parts of the Shrine. Inside, he was led to the upper floors, along increasingly opulent corridors, decorated with statues of the Green Man, gold-plated acorns the size of his head, and lines of copper and silver twigs hanging from tracerie
s of bronze. The air was dense with the smell of deep forests. The stones themselves were damp, and moss, lichen and even algae had been left to grow in a mark of respect to the demiurgus who had been so insightful as to create plants with no blooms. Nuïy looked up to see streams of nutrient trickling from nozzles. Gutters lined the sides of the floor.

  At a door of gold-shod oak, Zehosaïtra paused. He turned to Nuïy and said, “This is the private chamber of the First Cleric. You must behave with the utmost respect. I know of yer checkered career. So far, the Green Man has been merciful. But if you stray from the path laid out by the First Cleric he will make humus of you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Zehosaïtra stared through his thick lenses. “Do you understand, Nuïy Pinkeye?”

  The name emphasised the mark of his failure to obey. This told him that Sargyshyva would never be merciful. “I understand,” Nuïy replied.

  “Let us hope so.”

  Zehosaïtra opened the door and led Nuïy into the most sumptuous chamber he had ever seen. It was ten yards on each side, with a high roof painted green. Columns supported the walls, each shaped as a tree trunk, while from the coving branches hung, some painted white, some black, but mostly a glittering green, as if gold dust had been sprinkled upon them. The furniture was opulent in the extreme; deep, embroidered, large and welcoming. Centrally placed stood a gold statue of the Green Man, naked, with muscle-bound limbs, a thick cock jutting out, and real hair, curly and black down to the shoulder. His eyes were of diamond. He held a drum in one hand, noticeable for its real hide and the unusually thick basal cables leading down to the pool of papyrus in which the statue’s feet were sunk.

  Nuïy noticed that the couches, tables and desks of the chamber had been placed around this statue, so that wherever the occupant sat he would see the Green Man.

  Today the occupant sat in a chair facing away from the door. Zehosaïtra said, “We are here, First Cleric,” and led Nuïy to the seat. Nuïy noticed golden statues of seated dogs beside the chair, heavy breeds with thick jaws and extended claws.