A group of Sea-Clerics awaited her in a small chamber of black stone, all sat around a circular table. It was lit by oil lanterns. Paintings adorned the walls. Manserphine was asked to sit in a chair with Fnfayrq at her side. The sight of the half dozen clerics, with their black robes, shining circlets and emotionless faces made her squirm with fear. Here she would probably be punished for refusing to help. The furthest cleric seemed to be Krshnaq, for she initiated the questions, and it was noticeable how the others listened intently when she spoke. Fnfayrq translated the keening, rhyming tongue of the Shrine into sea-dialect.
First they again asked Manserphine if she would co-operate with their wishes, which involved divulging the contents of her new visions. She refused. When she complained about her incarceration, they mentioned the quality of the food and water, and told her that sea-law ruled in Aequalaïs. Manserphine explained that as a free citizen of Zaïdmouth they were breaking natural law. They disagreed.
Then came the surprise. Fnfayrq said, “In the future, the great white diatom is a symbol of the eternal bounty of our ocean.”
Manserphine surmised that the mermaid had also guessed the potential of the flower crash. She replied neutrally, saying, “There is a food chain.”
Fnfayrq smiled and said, “The eternal bounty of our ocean, oh, how we love it, how we love it, extraordinary quantities of fish leaping through the surf, immense quantities of seaweed rising like towers from our choppy ocean.”
Manserphine was for a few moments confused by this statement, implying as it did that the flower crash would somehow be beneficial. Then she caught her breath as intuitive thoughts came to her. Who was to say that the flower crash was a bad thing? Might the signs be misinterpreted? But no. Surely if the networks themselves called the event a flower crash, it would mean the demise of electronic interconnection. Could the Sea-Clerics be right? In her vision she had been convinced of the goodness of flowers emerging from the mouth of the mermaid, and that had impelled her to rise out of the vision-liquid and rain down that goodness out of her own self. Could it be that she had the power to turn the flower crash into a good event? And was this understood by the Sea-Clerics?
Of course, there was a more sinister interpretation. The Sea-Clerics might be so arrogant they viewed the flower crash as good because it would allow them to take control of Zaïdmouth. Now it was essential not to give anything away. She said, “Too-rich earth sliding into the river, into the sea, makes eutrophication, makes choked bodies of water.”
They did not like this negative interpretation. Fnfayrq, translating a clearly angered Krshnaq, said, “The diatom blends into our sea, passing as it does the goodness of ocean to all, oh, vast stretches of water filled with flowering weeds and kelps, see how many insects pass across the slowly bobbing blooms.”
Again Manserphine was struck by the positive light in which the flower crash was held here. She thought once more on how Zoahnône had regarded Kirifaïfra’s evidence. If last year’s seed over-production had been a response to an event of this year, then the networks themselves thought they were going to die off. Perhaps something would take their place. But what?
Suddenly a crucial insight came. It was only because her visions had attained a complexity indecipherable to the mermaid that the Sea-Clerics had abducted her. But the new visions were surely related to the shock she experienced in the Cemetery, for the timing could not be a coincidence. The extremity of her torture had forced her mind into a new phase, making her recall the play-yard rhythm, call the beast, and so escape death. Yet she had suffered a premonition of that event. She had interpreted the paradigm shift within her own mind as death, when in fact it was rebirth. That metaphor might apply here. Everybody except the Sea-Clerics thought the flower crash was a bad thing, but to them it might seem a good thing, a paradigm shift to a new phase of technology.
In a nutshell, they believed they would benefit.
Manserphine gasped, her eyes defocussed just enough for them to notice her lack of attention. Fnfayrq glared at her, and said, “Inside the oyster a pearl can sometimes be found.”
So they had noticed her thinking, and knew it implied something. Fnfayrq smiled, and suddenly Manserphine felt that calm pleasantness as the hungry anticipation of a spider. She swallowed and glanced at Krshnaq, who stared back with cold, dark eyes.
She remained quiet, wondering what to say. She saw now how much they wanted her. They would never let her go. She said, “If a fish quivers in the water, who can say how the currents will flow?” She hoped that was sufficiently vague.
Fnfayrq replied, “The white diatom blends into deep ocean water, oh, see how many people greet the bounty of our new ocean, sea-blooms bobbing atop the water.”
Manserphine recalled the many seaweeds and kelps inside the Shrine that, quite unnaturally, carried primitive flowers, and she saw how the Sea-Clerics were forcing the flower crash into their own preconceived notions through genetic engineering. They wanted her to guide their work.
She must refuse. Nature could only take its own form, not one devised by others. She would not be a part of the perversion of life. She replied, “The ocean is the ocean regardless of the finer feelings of people.”
Fnfayrq became forceful. Pointing at one of the paintings, a tall woman with long black hair and blunt features, she said, “The Shrine of the Sea stands at the end of the world, still golden, still black, see how our first Aequalaïs carries her shining mace and compass.”
Manserphine studied the painting. Fnfayrq had spoken of the woman depicted there as the founder of an eternal Shrine of the Sea, in whose name they would enforce their wishes. But surely she was not called Aequalaïs, for that was a man’s name. She walked over to the painting to study it from close quarters. The features were square, perhaps too square. With her hands she cropped the long, flowing hair to reveal another image. She laughed and turned to the Sea-Clerics.
“Winds blow, currents flow, so much change over the years, a sea-change, images blurring and altering like the evolution of worm to fish.”
There was quiet uproar at her words.
Choosing a metaphor to cut them most deeply, she concluded, “See strong Aequalaïs, tall, muscles, hard, see him rise up, oh so ready to slide between your welcoming thighs.”
Fnfayrq stood and shoved her from the room. Manserphine, delighted with the discovery she had made, laughed despite her situation. She had won. They knew she was right, though they would never admit it. Fnfayrq pushed her along corridors and down stairs, until they reached the cell. She unlocked the door, grasped Manserphine’s dress and threw her inside, so that she fell to the floor. Manserphine did not mind. She had won a victory they could never live down.
Now a week passed in which she saw nobody. The hopelessness of her situation began to sink in, and she missed Kirifaïfra. She remembered the melodramatic code phrase he had told her of and laughed at his romantic naiveté. He did not even know where she was. Nobody knew where she was and nobody could save her. Nor was there any way of getting a message out.
Day after day she would stand on a ledge below the tiny window and peer out. From her vantage point she could see the western sector of the Shrine yard, with all its comings and goings. Further away lay the sea, glittering on clear evenings. Often she would hear drumming, a curious sound with little perceptible rhythm, that sounded more like drunken giants stamping their feet.
She experienced more visions. The worst struck her seven days after the meeting with Fnfayrq and Krshnaq. As usual it came at dawn, when she was either about to drift into sleep or wake up. She found herself upon the shore west of the Shrine, under her bare feet a gritty, red sand, all around her strange kelps, half in the sea, half on the shore, their white flowers darkened by sea-bees and hoverflies. But it was the sea and the sky that held her attention, for the blackness of the stormclouds above her and the power of the sea crashing upon the shore made her feel as if the life was being crushed out of her. She felt unhappy, alone, as if the clouds
would descend with their weight of rain and smother her.
Isolated in this deathly scenario, she looked about for hope. From a rent in the clouds a rope fell, coloured with bright dyes, and she reached up to grasp its end. But the vision ended before she could climb away from the reach of the clouds. She woke up. From the hardpetal table the scent of giant foxglove came, and a few sea-bees disappeared out of the window. Manserphine knew that the mermaid would see little, even nothing of this vision.
After this experience she lay on her bed for some hours, aware of the rest of her life as an endless wait, symbolised perhaps by the clouds. Depressed, she wondered if she should co-operate with the Sea-Clerics, but every time she asked herself that question she replied, ‘No.’
Time passed.
~
One day, the door was unlocked and a cleric entered. She was of medium height and slim build, with the lines of middle age around her eyes. Her blonde hair was up in a bun. Intense blue eyes looked at Manserphine.
She took off her cloak to reveal a transparent dress. Manserphine immediately realised this was Klnorq, come to begin her personal relationship. Recalling what had happened with Fnfayrq and then Krshnaq, she took a handful of dust from the floor and threw it at Klnorq, refusing thereby the sexual favours offered. Klnorq frowned and wrapped herself in her black cloak, before calling out, “Ma, ha, deva.”
Fnfayrq entered the room. She said, “You here, we here, ecstatic feelings driven away by the cold light of the winter sun.”
So they were irritated that Manserphine had opted for a political relationship with the leader of the Shrine of the Sea. Klnorq of course could not pass the responsibility for any personal dealings further up the hierarchy, since nobody sat above her. Most likely they had hoped for better luck in the meeting with Krshnaq.
Manserphine replied, “An old lady cries alone, hoping the summer sun will return to warm her bones.” That would tell them how little she cared for her cell.
Fnfayrq shook her head as if this was the reply she expected. Klnorq nodded at her, and then Fnfayrq said, “The Shrine of the Sea floats, so sea-close to the starfish, turn oh Shrine, oh turn, buds arising from our sea like buoys marking the eternal stars.”
Manserphine could not believe her ears. Surely they did not think they could take over Zaïdmouth? She was tempted to laugh at them, but the levity that rose inside her was crushed by their cold faces. She said, “Starfish lives according to the eternal rules of the ocean, accumulated over millenia, nature so wonderful.”
They did not like this defence of Zaïdmouth. Fnfayrq assumed her most arrogant expression to reply, “The Shrine of the Sea gleams in the evening sun, salty water flowing north, tunnels flood, buds to flowers, see how black women chase the future with their bright minds, clarified by love and by the truth of the sea from which we all came.”
It was a grim image. So they really did think they could take over the running of Zaïdmouth. That would mean dominating the Garden. But how?
She knew why. As the two clerics departed she reflected on their cold vision, dominated by a hierarchy so strict even that of the Green Man seemed loose beside it. Here, they ruthlessly separated the personal and the political, achieving a dual existence of wanton promiscuity and iron negotiating in the political chamber, with no qualms about abduction, domination, and probably even torture and warfare. This was Zoahnône’s nightmare writ large, made possible because the emotions of these people did nothing to illuminate their intellects.
Yet Manserphine felt relaxed. She was beginning to believe now that she would spend all her days here, like her great-grandmother. She could do nothing about the impending attack.
So the blank days passed. Occasionally she would have a vision, but more often her torpid existence denied even these to her bored mind.
One day Fnfayrq and four guards entered her cell. Casually, they forced her to the ground and laid her out, a guard at both hands and feet. Fnfayrq brought out a dress. She tore off the one Manserphine wore and, against Manserphine’s struggles and yells, managed to pull the new one over some of her body. Manserphine knew it would be impregnated with softpetal. They needed to experiment some more.
With the dress on, she was released. She jumped up like a cat and ran to the end of her cell. They were expecting some sort of change. Manserphine felt none. Her ability was such that even softpetal interference could do nothing, and she knew that she had indeed passed into a new phase of existence, tied to the networks by unbreakable bonds.
She laughed at them. “Angel fish can be eaten by baracuda, but no fish eats the shark.” In these stark terms she described her own superiority.
They did not like it. Scowling, they departed. Manserphine stripped off and pulled on her own dress, securing it with bits of string. Her hat had remained on her head.
Days turned into weeks. She counted them all. On day thirty she looked out and saw that summer was close. Nothing passed her window to suggest that the invasion of Zaïdmouth had happened.
She did experience one intense vision amongst others more ethereal. It concerned the flower crash. Again she saw the spectral diatom, and again she felt it as a force for good. But now she knew the event was close. Days away, perhaps weeks.
She fretted, but still the cell contained her.
CHAPTER 15
Once the process of drumming was in full swing Nuïy started to believe they would convert the Garden. Before, he had merely thought it could happen, but now he was much encouraged by reports sent back from intelligent procedures linked to the database metaphors that he drummed across the networks. Deep roots, tall trees, the sun in a clear sky with showers at night. It would happen. The vile diversity of the jungle was departing in a mass of falling petals and unfertilised seeds, making the mind of the Green Man actuality.
Nuïy thought he felt praise emanating from the Green Man. This praise was cool, clear, uncluttered by emotion. It said simple things, and Nuïy believed it was right that he should receive it.
The intelligent procedures, however, also reported that the Garden was learning to fight back. Although Nuïy was transfering the metaphors of hundreds of databases into the Garden substrate, it was learning to reflect them back into the networks. Nuïy also thought he detected an anomaly in some transmissions. In the early days he had drummed with consideration only to rhythmic accuracy, but now, with confidence increased, he thought he could detect volume changes in the copies they had archived of metaphors successfully implanted. Research one day showed these volume changes had existed from the first week of work.
Although not unduly worried—the networks had diurnal rhythms of their own, causing information dispersal rates to change according to the time of day—he nonetheless mentioned it to Kamnaïsheva.
Kamnaïsheva frowned as he considered Nuïy’s points. “The Garden has subtle defences that only now we are meeting,” he said. “Continue the day’s work, then analyse the volume changes when we have finished.”
This Nuïy did. Reports were good. The Garden was losing its structure, and trees were growing fast to create a dim, gloomy interior, surrounded by undergrowth of bramble and nettle, set here and there with brooks and even a pool. But something was not right. The structure seemed too flexible. They had aimed for a strong, tight forest, full of trees with the thickest stems; oak, sequoia, ironbeam. But somehow the descriptions sent back were of rippling trees with tough, and yet mobile, roots. It was as if the Garden was being rebuilt on sand.
That night he rejected his bed to concentrate on the volume analysis. He was surprised to see that Kamnaïsheva stayed too, either because he was worried about the anomalies or because of some private work of his own. Nuïy glanced aside occasionally to see the Analyst-Drummer working with what appeared to be a hemispherical headset.
The night passed. Nuïy subtracted databases from other databases to reveal the volume anomalies. This left him with a stream of data, arhythmic, apparently random, yet annoyingly opaque of origin. Could it be
network noise? They had overcome that by allowing for background hiss. Could it be the daily rhythms? No, they were accounted for by the huge Tech House nets that simulated the state of the networks from minute to minute. Drummer error? No, he was perfect.
What then? At length, defeated by the randomness of the data he had extracted, he yawned, ready for sleep.
Then he had an idea. He converted his data into an audio procedure and played it.
He sat up straight. Something in his memory gave a twitch. Immediately he was immersed in the landscape of his mind, searching his memory, ever deeper, until he heard over the noise of the speaker another noise. Arhythmic drumming.
This was what he had heard on the night of the papyrus extraction. Nuïy shook himself out of reverie and looked across at the Analyst-Drummer.
“You have heard this before?” Kamnaïsheva asked immediately.
Nuïy was in a dilemma. To describe how he had heard the sound would be to give away his secret listening. He replied, “Once, some nights ago, I heard drumming like this. Yes… the patterns are the same.”
Kamnaïsheva stood back. He seemed in shock. Nuïy was appalled to see the knotted cords in his neck strain and his green eyes widen.
“Are you well, Analyst-Drummer?”
Kamnaïsheva, for once, spoke without restraint. “It cannot be! If this data is correct, then we are passing additional information along with our own. Who knows what it could be?”
“I do not follow.”
“Somebody is laying metaphors over our own. That information is being carried on the back of our own data. The Garden will interpret these volume changes as data with meaning!”
Kamnaïsheva raised his hands to the crown of his head, gripping them together in a gesture that reminded Nuïy of Sargyshyva. The sight struck him as incongruous for just a few moments, before Kamnaïsheva said in a flurry, “We must carry on with the work. Maybe it is random information. Yet there are other places in Zaïdmouth where data accumulates to constitute systems, and these could exert an influence if they felt threatened.”
Flowercrash Page 24
