Flowercrash

by Stephen Palmer

  Manserphine smiled to hear this assertion that the Shrine of the Sea would not be changed by her escape. She knew now that they would not bother to recapture her. She replied, “See a thousand new shells along the shore, the product of evolution, even those frequently bathing cannot count or categorise them.”

  Fnfayrq seemed unconcerned by this declaration of natural liberty. She said, “The greatest storms have more than one channel of destruction, rain pouring, thunder crashing, lightning flashing, winds roaring, change inevitable across sprawling land next to our shores.”

  Uncomfortable with these metaphors of damage, Manserphine glanced at her two superiors, but they, with urgent gestures, encouraged her to stand up to Fnfayrq.

  She decided to mention the attack on the Garden. “If Garden merges with immeasurable ocean, how carefully we should watch its progress.”

  “The symbol of hierarchy is vertical,” Fnfayrq declared, “order bright in our minds, chaos expelled to the impractical body, oh, we can reach the stars if we think beautifully enough, minds striving to fit into the endless cells of our ocean.”

  This description of their intellectual stance made Manserphine shudder, and all her scorn of their insincerity came out in her reply. “Fish trying to be clams, whales trying to be crayfish, coral trying to be anemones, so many fractured people trying to escape the prison of their shells, so many fractured communes trying to plant grass at the edge of the sea, see how the stars remain eternal, despite our oh, so frantic attempts to reach out and turn them into baubles.”

  Fnfayrq hissed like a cat, scowled, then turned to address the other members of the Garden. “See jellyfish immobile on our shore, see the naked fish flap on sand, whales beaching themselves and dying.”

  And with that, she vanished.

  Curulialci asked Manserphine, “What did she say?”

  “Essentially she berated us for the lack of rigour in our hierarchies. I think the Sea-Clerics think of the Garden as a place of decadence, unfit to be the forum of Zaïdmouth. That is perhaps why they tried to change it.”

  “But they are the decadent ones,” Curulialci protested, “cavorting naked with men on the sands.”

  “If you separate the personal and the political as far as they do, you end up with rigorous hierarchies, self-obsessed communities and a desire to obliterate others. They hate us only because we are not like them. Yes, their promiscuity is legendary, but they see that as wholly separate from the activities of the Shrine, which is their gestalt entity. The Shrine is all to them. And they do despise their descent into bodily passion, despite rumour. They feel guilt.”

  “Will they come and fight us?”

  “The river is there. We cannot stop them.”

  Yamagyny said, “We can try. Now they have declared their intent we should think of defence.”

  “They will fight hard,” Manserphine warned. “Their emotional insincerity will allow them to distance themselves from other human beings, dehumanise us, and so commit awful deeds. They are worse even than the clerics of the Green Man.”

  “We should not parley with either Shrine,” Yamagyny said.

  “Let us see,” said Manserphine.

  It transpired that the Sea-Clerics had a final deed to perform. That night, as Manserphine stood on the roof of the Shrine of Our Sister Crone, gazing over the distant sea, she saw a black line shaped as an arc emerge from the water, and slowly, over a period of three hours, rise to a height of a yard or so. The night dragged on. Sleepless, Manserphine watched, standing in the breathless night, hugging herself, knowing that the ocean structure was part of the Sea-Clerics’ plan, knowing too that it was hardpetal responding to network orders, following procedures stolen earlier in the year from the Shrine of Flower Sculpture.

  At dawn it was four times as high. The sea level inside had risen and the estuary was flooding. Manserphine allowed her imagination free reign. She considered low lying land at the centre of Zaïdmouth. They only had to raise the water level by thirty feet or so to flood an area stretching from western Aequalaïs across to the marshes and the Blissis lowlands, and up along the river to the Woods. The flower networks in those regions would be drowned. Hoverflies would not be able to reach blooms. A wintery sluggishness would fall across the networks and the Garden could fade. Veneris was safe, for like Novais and central Blissis it lay on higher ground, and safe also were the autohives, but much of Emeralddis would be flooded. The Wild Network Guildhall might well be, too.

  Manserphine saw the grandness of the scheme and her heart sank. She walked the corridors of the Shrine, making for the Grandmother Cleric’s chamber. It was time to prepare defences.

  CHAPTER 17

  On the first day of summer the sea began to flood the outer districts of Emeralddis. At first it was thought that seaweed had choked the river, but after a day word got round of the new sea barrier and its consequences. There was a scramble for higher ground as cellars and ground floors became flooded. Those living near the marshes departed the urb and made for Blissis.

  The Shrine of the Sea was surrounded by water and could now only be reached by boat. But plenty of boats and ships lay around it, and there was much activity in the area. Elsewhere, hoverflies started appearing in places where usually they did not, as the flowers they relied upon vanished under water.

  In the Shrine of the Green Man, Sargyshyva, Zehosaïtra, Deomouvadaïn and Nuïy—as an observer—made their plans. With no way of opposing the machinations of the Sea-Clerics they decided to concentrate on their original plan of bringing down the hags, and to this end they agreed to make north for the Determinate Inn.

  First they had to disguise their origins. Putting their anguish to one side, they shaved their beards off and dressed in baggy clothes typical of the Blissis mendicant. Sargyshyva wore thick rimmed spectacles and affected a limp, Zehosaïtra wore a floppy hat and blacked his teeth, while Deomouvadaïn whitened the grey out of his hair and walked bent over with the aid of a stick. Nuïy was told to keep silent.

  With the centre of Emeralddis surrounded by salt water, they had to row across what used to be the marshes to the outskirts of Blissis, where, on a beach that was once a hillock, they tied their craft and began the walk up to the Woods. The constant stridulation of innumerable summer insects grated against their ears. Already the river was a hundred yards across, having burst its banks days ago, but up at the Woods it flowed calm, and they crossed by means of an old stone bridge, paying a toll of salted meat to the old man there. Nuïy shivered. He felt he was returning to old ground. He was frightened of meeting his mother.

  They followed the southern line of the Woods until they reached the Sump, which they rounded, before making west along the narrow streets of Veneris. Nuïy tried not to look at the flowers, but Zehosaïtra and Deomouvadaïn paused on many occasions to note the widespread damage done by roses taking over gardens and yards. People stood discussing the problem as they batted away swarms of data-carrying hoverflies. At the end of the narrow, winding street on which the Determinate Inn abutted, they paused. Nuïy scrutinised the black-and-white houses while the clerics discussed tactics. He felt sick. He had hoped never to see a Venerisian un-man again, and now here he was being stared at by some. He turned away to ignore them.

  “This is the plan,” Deomouvadaïn told him. “Are you listening, Nuïy Pinkeye?”

  “Yes, Recorder-Shaman.”

  “Hmph. Now, then. You and I will go into the inn on the pretext of requiring cool ale. I’ll do all the talking. The First and Third Clerics will listen in a side alley with the aid of this air-plant.” Deomouvadaïn took a small pot plant from his pocket. “If you’re spoken to, reply shortly. If I speak to you, back me up. Other than that, shut yer mouth. Clear?”

  “Very clear.”

  They all shuffled into a covered passage. “Come on, then,” said Deomouvadaïn. “Jump up and down.”

  Deomouvadaïn began jogging on the spot. Nuïy said, “But—”

  “Don’t argue, just do it
,” Sargyshyva irritably demanded.

  For five minutes they jogged, until Deomouvadaïn said, “Enough,” and led Nuïy up to the inn. He opened the door and they stepped inside.

  Behind the bar stood a man of medium height, wearing rich clothes and with something of an arrogant air about him. A younger man, dressed in waiter’s garb, sat at a table, while sleeping in a corner was an old un-man. Stick clacking on the tiled floor, Deomouvadaïn hobbled up to the bar and sat on a seat. “My, so it is hot outside,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow and flicking it to the floor. “A cold ale, if you please, and a half for me boy.”

  The barman drew two ales and set them upon the counter. None of the four men had been able to bring themselves to handle cowries, the currency of Veneris, and so Deomouvadaïn slapped a gem down, saying, “We Blissis folk don’t take kindly to coinage, so you’ll accept this opal. It’s worth half a dozen ales like this one.” He took a sup of his drink.

  The man examined the stone, shrugged, then tossed it over to the waiter. “Seems sound,” came the response.

  “Are you Innkeeper Magdelaïra?” Deomouvadaïn asked.

  “I’m Innkeeper Vishilkaïr. So, you’re from Blissis.” He eyed them both, then added, “Beer gone off down there?”

  “We’re itinerant researchers,” Deomouvadaïn said, “interested in snippets o’ folk knowledge. I’m interested in this here flower crash that’s s’posed to be on the way.”

  “The flower crash?” said the waiter, coming across to sit next to Deomouvadaïn. He shook his hand, then added, “I’m Kirifaïfra. So, you know about the flower crash?”

  “You might say I keep a little hedge knowledge,” Deomouvadaïn replied, tapping his forehead. “So what is it you knows about?”

  “Like you, folk knowledge relating to last year’s seed production. But we have friends who think the flower crash is imminent. Just days away. Today, even, who knows?”

  “You’re a clever bloke. ‘Course, us hedge practitioners see it a little different, like.”

  “Tell me,” Kirifaïfra said. “Unc, top up his tankard.”

  Nuïy had to stop himself smiling at the gullible Kirifaïfra, as Deomouvadaïn worked him for all the knowledge he had. For himself, he was recording every nuance of the conversation into his memory.

  Deomouvadaïn said, “We’ve noticed certain links, you see. My, but it’s not so far to the Shrine jus’ down the road, now is it?”

  Kirifaïfra frowned. “You mean they have something to do with it?”

  “Why, so they do. That’d be worth looking into.”

  Kirifaïfra shook his head. “If the answer lies anywhere, it’s in the Venereal Garden and the Cemetery. That’s where I first noticed the seed production of last year.” He told them of his reasoning, then concluded, “You see, the flower crash may be a paradigm shift.”

  Deomouvadaïn pretended shock at this, saying, “My, that’s a ridiculous thing to say. A crash is a crash, and everyone knows it.”

  “Ah, but do they?”

  “‘Course they do. We’re here to rule the networks, not let them dictate to us. They can’t crash without us making an effort to force ‘em.”

  Silence fell upon the common room. Innkeeper Vishilkaïr looked at them both and said, “You said you’re from Blissis?”

  “Aye, and proud of it.” Deomouvadaïn finished his ale, then stood up and said, “C’mon, boy, time to go.”

  They departed with no further word. Nuïy knew that Deomouvadaïn had given away too much, but said nothing about the blunder. If from his attitude the pair guessed they were from Emeralddis, where bludgeoning network ecologies into forms more suited to human needs was the norm, there could be difficulties ahead.

  In the side alley they considered their next move. “The Venereal Garden and the Cemetery would seem the places to explore,” Zehosaïtra said.

  “Let’s forget the garden of decadent perverts,” Sargyshyva said. “We’ll investigate the Cemetery. There may be a link there with clerics of the Delightful Erection.”

  They walked up to the western gate of the Cemetery, where Sargyshyva, with a grunt of distaste, led them in. Nuïy looked around. This territory reminded him of his childhood. He felt it could be his place, in a manner as yet unclear. Around him great mausoleums and tombstones lay, between them paths bordered with ivy and yew, while further away lay areas set with smaller gravestones. Nuïy saw green cloaked clerics wandering to and fro collecting mushrooms, and, in the distance, groups of men digging under tarpaulins.

  The Cemetery had its own flower ecology; Nuïy noticed purple tulips, foxgloves taller then he, and everywhere the hirsute spurs of the necrophilic iris. Small fragments of silver lay everywhere, the detritus of the ancient technologies buried here, blackened by time, greened by algae. There were no roses, no apples, no plums or meadow-sweet, no drifts of pink cherry blossom. Just silver, dark green, and violet.

  Zehosaïtra and Deomouvadaïn questioned a few clerics regarding the flower crash, but they were uninterested. So they drifted north into the hilly, less used sections of the Cemetery.

  Then at Nuïy’s feet a molehill grew out of the soil.

  They paused. Nuïy was about to kick it over in frustration, but the gleaming snout of a large metal mole emerged, then its head, and when it opened its jaws a tiny metallic man clambered out, to wave at them and speak.

  They knelt down to hear him. “Nuïy!” he shouted, making a megaphone of his hands. “Clerics of the Green Man. You must listen to me. Together we must stop the clerics of Our Sister Crone and their cronies from opposing your efforts at transmutating the Garden. We must meet inside the Cemetery reality.”

  Deomouvadaïn cursed, then said, “So there is an artificial garden based in the Cemetery. I thought so.” He turned to Sargyshyva, to say, “We need to return to the Tech Houses immediately. From there we can access this Cemetery reality, and listen.”

  But the metal mannikin said, “You need not. Go to the iris glade at the north wall, and there await me.”

  “Who are you?” asked Sargyshyva.

  “You will find out in the Cemetery reality.”

  “First Cleric, we must use our networks,” Deomouvadaïn insisted. “We can listen and control if we use our own equipment.”

  Sargyshyva sighed, clearly uncertain. Zehosaïtra said, “My advice is to send Deomouvadaïn back to the Shrine. We must go north with Nuïy Pinkeye. He is the key to this because the metal mole chose him.”

  “Very well,” Sargyshyva muttered. “Recorder-Shaman, return t’the Tech Houses immediately. Access what you can. Record everything.”

  Deomouvadaïn was displeased with this decision, but he had no option. He ran off, sprinting down the hill to the nearest gate.

  The mannikin had vanished, as had the mole. They walked north with the sun burning their backs. In these isolated sectors few graves were laid, and there were no large buildings such as littered southern parts. Insects buzzed everywhere: sea bees, butterflies, and many ordinary species of fly, though few hoverflies.

  At the north wall a great field of iris grew, some of them five feet tall with spurs as long as a forearm. There were oak saplings nearby and tangles of the ubiquitous ivy. The area was silent. Hills around them concealed the entirety of Zaïdmouth, so that Nuïy felt as if he was in a bowl. The wall itself was clothed in mosses and lichen, while the ground was damp, despite the heat and an absence of streams and springs in the vicinity. It was a place of eerie calm, of discordant features. Wisps of mist lay amidst the flowers, moisture immune to the sun, making Nuïy feel as if he stood in transplanted moorland.

  Again a molehill appeared, then a mole, and the mannikin. Nuïy was told, “Dig with your hands at the roots of three of the taller iris plants. There you will find skull caps. Lie down in the iris glade and put them on.”

  There was disquiet at this. Sargyshyva felt they were dealing with immoral technology, but Zehosaïtra, taking command, said it was more important that they learn how
to defeat the hags. He knelt at the base of a particularly tall iris and gently moved soil aside with his fingers, until he hit something hard. Nuïy crouched at his side. Six inches below the soil lay a cream coloured plate, which Zehosaïtra dug around, until he had revealed what seemed to be the upper part of a skull. Carefully, he pulled it out. A single, thick cable linked the device to the root mass of the iris.

  “Clearly this is Cemetery network technology,” he said. He examined the device from all sides. “I would guess that it simply slips on over the head. Look, inside there are audio-visual devices.”

  When they had unearthed three of the skull caps they lay inside the iris grove. Nuïy felt great apprehension. To his left, just visible behind thick stems, Sargyshyva and Zehosaïtra lay, about to pull the skull caps over their heads. Nuïy shivered.

  He glanced up at the surrounding blooms to become aware of the many insects around him, all quiescent, all looking at him. He lay absolutely motionless. Every insect head was pointing at him. He was being watched. The sight scared him into a groan of fright. He saw that the two clerics had pulled on their skull caps and were lying quiet. A nutritive tube had emerged from each device and, like a tentacle, was searching for the mouth of the skull cap wearer.

  As one, the insects descended upon Nuïy. He felt intense pain in his belly, and he tore open his shirt, disregarding the buzzing horde around him to see that every boil had bloodlessly burst, revealing a black centre. Immediately the insects descended, crawling over his belly so that his skin became dark. Nuïy had two seconds to scream with terror and try to sit up, before his senses blanked.

  Blank green. It was all he could see. He heard a breeze, smelled damp earth. His sense of taste returned after a few seconds, to tell him of fear in the back of his throat.

  He seemed to be standing upright.

  Nausea took him as he tried to sense his own body. Without sight, he felt dizzy.