Flowercrash (10 page)
“How did it go?” Vishilkaïr asked.
Manserphine held up her right arm. “I seem to have acquired a python.”
Vishilkaïr came over to examine it. “This is unusual, very old… where did it come from?”
“Sea-Clerics.”
“This is ancient technology,” Vishilkaïr opined. “Not from the Shrine of Root Sculpture.”
Manserphine agreed. That Shrine, the satellite of Our Sister Crone, was the main source of technology not sourced in Zaïdmouth’s flowers, but all its works had a distinctive radical character. “This is something other,” she said, “very heavy, and it’s affecting my mind.”
“Hmmm. Affecting your mind, you say?”
“Anti-Aequalaïs.”
“I see.”
Vishilkaïr glanced at Kirifaïfra, prompting Manserphine to remark, “You two obviously know something. What is it?”
“I think I could have this removed. But you would have to be brave.”
“I can take a bit of pain.”
“I was thinking more of terror. Weren’t you, Kirifaïfra?”
“If you say so, unc.”
Vishilkaïr frowned. “He knows what I mean,” he said.
Manserphine slapped him on the shoulder. “What
do
you mean?”
“This is the sort of thing that certain Bands unearth from…”
Manserphine interrupted, “The Cemetery? So this is the secret you two have been hiding. You scoundrels. You work for a Cemetery Band.”
“Now don’t get the wrong idea,” Vishilkaïr said. “I can categorically state that neither of us is in a Cemetery Band.”
“Well?” Manserphine insisted.
Vishilkaïr dipped and bobbed his head, as if searching for the right phrases. “We have certain contacts,” he said. “When you’re a man it is unavoidable, unless you become the drone of some guardian, or beholden to the Green Man. We have simply exploited our position, that is all.”
Manserphine half believed them. “So how do you intend getting this thing off my arm?”
“Have you tried pulling it off?”
“Fnfayrq said I could never pull it off.” She tested this. Pain shot through her arm. “Ooh. She was right.”
“As I thought. We will need to raise a Cemetery, er… assistant.”
Manserphine could see that this was a path she ought not to be going down. Unfortunately there was no choice. “Don’t tell me any more,” she said, sourly. “All right, I’ll do it, but I reserve the right to drop out the moment I’m in danger.”
Vishilkaïr shrugged. “That essentially is what we will be doing.”
Kirifaïfra looked at his uncle, then said, “Is this wise?”
“Of course. We must help our guest. What happened to your gallantry?”
“It’s been scared right out of me.”
“When will you go?” Manserphine asked.
“We? You must come too.”
Disappointment made her frown, then sag back into her seat. “I didn’t realise that. I can’t go to the Cemetery. You see, I have this premonition that if I ever enter it alive, I will die.”
“Premonition?” Kirifaïfra asked, sitting at her side.
“Of my own demise,” she told him. “I know it sounds odd, but I could never challenge my own vision.”
“Vision,” he murmured, deep in thought.
“Premonition,” Manserphine insisted, hoping she had not given anything away. “Anyhow, the plan is off.”
“Not off,” Vishilkaïr said, “just more difficult. There is a way. You need not enter the Cemetery. I know a ruined tower from which you could watch.”
“Well…”
“It will be safe. Come along, no time like the present.”
Bustled back into her coat and boots, a reluctant Manserphine, the two men at her side, departed the inn. They walked up the main street of Veneris into the hilly northern district, passing through markets that choked the narrow thoroughfare, fending off hawkers, merchants and demagogues. After fifteen minutes they passed the Shrine of Root Sculpture, an oval dome to their left, while at their right hand lay the scented paradise of the Venereal Garden, with its centrepiece, the Pagoda Azure, just visible behind evening mist.
At the Cemetery, Vishilkaïr pointed out the ruined tower, a mound of stone surrounded by lumps of ivy-covered masonry. “Sit up there and observe,” he said. “Come to the Cemetery wall when I call, but don’t enter.”
Ensconced on a stone, Manserphine watched. She could see ragged men in the Cemetery and more walking in and out of the Woods, which lay just a stone’s throw away. She watched the two men vault the wall and approach a green cloaked figure, that she knew must be a cleric of the Shrine of the Delightful Erection. After a few minutes talking the three knelt upon the ground and began to beat it with their bare hands, in a rhythm that Manserphine could just make out over the sound of soughing trees. She knew what they were doing. Old songs kept alive by the clerics of the Shrine of the Delightful Erection, and learned by many children in the play-yard, were supposed to bring Cemetery beasts up from the earth, where, depending on the potency of the song, they would make a bargain of lesser or greater power. Manserphine herself knew many of these songs.
Intrigued, and not a little appalled, she watched. After just a minute of beating, the earth rose a few yards away from them, as if a mole was about to emerge, but then a gleaming snout appeared and after that a six-foot beast like a fat, segmented worm with fiery eyes and a lipped mouth. Vishilkaïr waved her down while Kirifaïfra talked to the beast.
Apprehension made her stomach knot. Never having considered the male culture of this region she had not realised the element of truth in the old stories. Her eyes had been opened. At the Cemetery wall she waited while the men coaxed the metallic beast away from its hole. Manserphine could hardly look. It wriggled and flopped. Vishilkaïr ran up to her and grabbed her hand, so to display the bracelet.
“No!” she screamed, trying to pull away.
“It’s all right,” he insisted. “Be brave.”
The beast was at the wall. It raised itself and, opening a toothed mouth, eyed her wrist.
Manserphine screamed louder and in panic tried to pull away from Vishilkaïr, but his grip on her arm was too strong. The beast closed, placed its mouth around her wrist, and—
Manserphine felt herself lose control. She tried to tear herself away from Vishilkaïr.
“There,” he called out.
She looked. The remains of the bracelet disappeared into the beast’s mouth as if it had sucked in a worm. It crunched, and blue fluid dribbled from its mouth. It turned, then buried itself into the ground.
“Success,” Vishilkaïr said. “Now we can return to the inn and enjoy a good hot meal.”
They walked away in silence. Manserphine glanced back, to see three men at the wall, who looked at her and Kirifaïfra with malice in their eyes.
Later on, wondering about the details of the bargain, she noticed that Kirifaïfra’s prized insect-wire, with which he made his pigtail, had gone, leaving a few long strands free to whip about in the breeze.
INTERLUDE 1
Shônsair stood upright and motionless as the morning progressed. Behind her, stone blocks radiated heat energy, which she felt through the sensor hierarchies in her back. Somehow, she knew, she had to become one with this sensory information; she had to experience it, just as she had to experience inebriation, drugs, sensuality, and all the rest of it.
Life was experience. Living was being experienced.
Later in the morning a woman approached, smiling when Shônsair inclined her head to observe. “Morning,” the woman said. “You two got a moment? Bit of a prob you could help us with.”
Shônsair’s fellow guard Lizlaini replied, “Piss off, y’bloody beanpole. Can’t you see we got jobs to do?”
“I only wanted a chat. Not a damn lecture.”
“Just piss off or else, y’bloody posh bitch.”
The woman scowled as Shônsair glanced at her. “I only need a bit of advice,” she insisted. “Looking for gynoids, weird ones, for a friend. Nothing urgent, just a job. We all got jobs, ain’t we?”
Shônsair pondered this. Something curious here. Eventually she said, “What kind of gynoid were you after?”
“Is there any particular haunt around here where they go?” the woman countered.
“One or two. Gynoids are rare. Only a few fall prey to hedonistic existence, and consequently their numbers are small.”
After a moment’s thought, the woman replied, “I’m looking for a mad gynoid, a loony. Just the one, I s’pose. You must know something.”
Lizlaini belched, then turned to Shônsair and shouted, “Stop playing up to her, y’damned freak. You speak bad as her. Unclench your arse and get smashed like normal people!”
Shônsair’s thoughts remained calm as she considered the animal at her side. She turned away, to tell the woman, “I know little of gynoid haunts. You might try Cider Central, which is a notorious drinking hall.”
“Gynoids drink?”
“Not alcohol. There are other substances that can intoxicate them.”
“Fuck this!” Lizlaini yelled, pulling out a rusty sword from her belt. “Piss off, bitch, or it’s worm time!”
The woman ran off. Shônsair turned to Lizlaini and said, “Do you have to act like a barbarian?”
“Why don’t you get off y’bloody podium? Just ‘cos you’re educated you think you’re better than everyone else. Have a drink! Get stoned! It’s what Blissis is all about.”
“I understand that. It is partly why I was drawn here. But alcohol does not affect me in quite the way it affects you.”
“Then what you here for? Fuck off, y’old bag. I’m sick of you.”
With that, Lizlaini deserted her post. For an hour Shônsair stood motionless, considering Lizlaini and the Shrine behind her. Her search was far from over. Somehow, she must understand the world around her. If she could somehow experience all its highs and lows, its nobility and decadence, then she might acquire the secret wisdom that had obsessed her for so long. Certainly in Blissis she had ample opportunity to observe people acting decadently… but something in her wanted now to do more than observe. She wanted to
participate.
But she was artficial. She was cold.
If she temporarily left her post the chaotic clerics of the Shrine of Complete Inebriation, of whom Lizlaini was one, would not notice her absence. Their whole philosophy was of hedonistic, emotional existence. They would probably approve.
For Shônsair dared to consider the experience of her body; but she was frightened of it.
In an alcove behind her post she kept a kettle. On a blue methane flame she heated it, just for a few minutes, until the fluid inside was warm. Then she poured out a mugful.
She studied the blue and red swirls inside the mug. Coloured steam rose into her face, and she inhaled sweet vapours. But fear held her back. She had never been drunk before. Self-control had been the foundation of her moral code. Suddenly angry at herself—amazed that she felt the emotion of frustration—she downed the hot softpetal in one. She felt it line her bioengineered innards.
She laughed. The simultaneous mystery and absurdity of the world reached into the deepest part of her mind and forced the reaction. She laughed. The knowledge that welled up with this laughter she treasured. It released her from the tyranny of logical comprehension. She realised that she was enacting behaviour coded into the condition of human beings, who once she had despised. But she did not care. She could remain artificial and still learn everything of value that humans knew.
She staggered to her feet and ran away, falling into muddy puddles when her muzzy head could no longer keep balance. Spinning, spinning, the world was spinning. But at last she had joined the clerics of the Shrine of Complete Inebriation, and no longer would she consider herself a fraud, eternally sober, eternally rational.
She sat, and watched the slowly rotating world around her. This was horrible, but fun.
In the privacy of her mind, she cried out.
Baigurgône, we must talk, where are you?
CHAPTER 6
Manserphine entered the second half of her banishment. Spring and the reconvening of the Garden were, depending on forecasts, between three and six weeks away.
Because of her discoveries in Aequalaïs she remade her contacts with the Shrine of Flower Sculpture. While she did not regret what she had done—it still intrigued and worried her that so much linked her with what lay to the south—events during and following the expedition put her off adventure. But the pain of the softpetal dress haunted her. For some reason, the Sea-Clerics had wanted it made for her, and they had wanted her to try it on. Why? Manserphine sensed that the Sea-Clerics were manipulating events, but the facts were sketchy and the links tenuous.
Meanwhile, she remained the only guest at the Determinate Inn. She was convinced now that Vishilkaïr and Kirifaïfra had other identities, other work, but no method of investigation suggested itself. However, a series of incidents with Kirifaïfra made her think; he would bring her a nightcap, cleaned her boots if she went out, and every so often there would be accidental meetings when nobody else was around. Looking at herself from his position one day, she wondered if he had taken a fancy to her. Surely not. She was completely out of his reach, and he must know that.
One evening she and Pollonzyn found themselves alone at the inn, a great fire roaring in the hearth, an unattended bar full of twinkling bottles awaiting them. They spoke of the Shrine of Flower Sculpture. Pollonzyn, who had remained a simple messenger for all her years there, felt it was time for promotion, but the two senior clerics, Cirishnyan and Ashnaram, were against this. Manserphine was unable to give advice, since she had been made Interpreter on the advice of her own mother, at the time a senior cleric of Our Sister Crone.
The evening wound on. Manserphine noticed that her tumbler was never empty, but she was too drunk to care.
Pollonzyn mused, “Perhaps we could persuade Dustspirit to drop a pollen spell into Cirishnyan’s mind regarding promotion.” She giggled, impressed with her own idea.
Manserphine giggled with her. Something in the liquor was making her very receptive to Pollonzyn’s remarks. She replied, “Scented! We shall perform that. Heavy pollen in Cirishnyan’s mind.”
Laughing and whispering they pulled on their cloaks and boots, then stumbled through the hall and out of the door. “Do we lock it?” Pollonzyn asked.
Manserphine had a key, and she locked the door. As they walked along the icy lanes leading to Novais, they tripped, bumped into verges, and held on to one another in an effort to stay upright. The middle of the night was long gone. In Novais, streets were empty and dark, while to the south the lamps of Blissis blazed.
At the Shrine they quietened as they crept through the front door, then tip-toed up the steps. Pollonzyn said, “You go on up. I shall establish that we are alone.”
Manserphine giggled. “All right. Don’t be long.”
In a minute she stood outside the door of the dust chamber. A whispering sensation at the back of her mind made her look round, and she felt her mind clear, as if through a shot of caffeine. She was alone. She felt warm and comfortable. Inside the chamber all was silent, the dust-making cloths unattended, but as her eyes adjusted to the gloom she saw that the glow of Blissis, shining through the orange portal, illuminated a face that stared at her.
“Manserphine,” said a hissing voice. “So you have returned. Now we must work.”
She must be drunk. The whiskey must be making her hallucinate. “Stop annoying me,” she replied.
“Manserphine, I know what is in your mind. I have access to the same sources as you, but you are far ahead of me in terms of dream skill.”
Suddenly Manserphine found herself focussed on the exact nuances of Dustspirit’s speech. “
Dream
skill? But I don’t dream. I have insomnia.”
“Your inner vision is profound. Do you think only you have access to the source of that vision? There are others. But if we are to understand and use your potential I must become embodied, and soon. You must help me in this task.”
Manserphine shook her head. “No. I can’t. I’m just hallucinating.”
“All this is real. I am an entity. I need you.”
“I don’t need you.”
“But is that true? I too have seen the spectral, white structure of your most intense vision. I too worry about the symbolic significance.”
Manserphine felt that her privacy had been invaded. It was impossible for any other to know the contents of her mind, and that surely proved that she was delerious, probably as a result of drink. And yet… The thought that here lay
understanding
niggled her. Could it be true?
“How can you know that?” she asked.
“We both tap into the same future networks. Manserphine, we could make a bargain. If you help me locate a body, I will tell you all there is to know about the flower crash—”
“You know?”
“Yes. I do not wish it to happen. The flower networks are precious.”
So Dustspirit knew about the forthcoming flower crash. Manserphine slumped back against the wall and tried to digest what she had heard. Again she considered it a phantasm of her own mind, but again she felt the strength of her desire for understanding, particularly regarding herself. She wanted it to be true; and as soon as she thought that, she knew she would give in to this spectre.
“All right,” she said. “This body. Where is it and what do I do?”
“Good! You have made the right choice. But I suspected you would. Manserphine, because I am a network entity I must manifest my abstract being—my memories, the stored procedures of the upper levels of my mind— into an electronic corpus. This means a gynoid.”
“Any gynoid?”
“No. The brain must be blank.”
“A gynoid just emerged from the ground, then.”
“Again no,” Dustspirit said. “You will be aware that some gynoids emerge spontaneously from network entities, but perhaps you do not know that sometimes the abstract bundles causing this to happen fail, like an arrow falling wide of the mark. When this occurs, the gynoid grows and becomes an adult, but the mind is left blank, since the abstract bundles are lost to the networks.”
“This talk of pure intellect becoming body sounds false to me.”
“It is true. Once such bundles are aware of other bundles, they evolve in abstract society, to become permanent sets of memory and procedure. They are not conscious like yourself, but are models of reality, and so may be counted individuals.”
“And did you lose your former body?”
“I was forced to enter the infinities of the networks,” Dustspirit said. “But now I wish to become embodied once more. I have seen the folly of the intellect, and desire to regain the understanding of the body.”
Manserphine sympathised with this since it chimed with the teaching of Our Sister Crone. Body and mind as one. Neglect neither. She said, “So I have to find an adult blank gynoid.”
“You will not be looking for a silent, dumb gynoid. Although the mind will be blank, it will not be empty. An endlessly repeating herringbone pattern is not empty, but it is blank because it does not vary. As they experience the world, such gynoids acquire habits that cycle in their minds with meaningless fervour, so that they seem to the outside observer obsessed or mad. You must find such a gynoid, then coax it to a safe, quiet place, where it will not be disturbed. You will be able to do this because the mind will be suggestible, on account of wanting to ingest behaviours. The place you choose must be outdoors since the gynoid will need to connect with the flower networks. In time, I will enter such a body. And then we can talk.”
Manserphine agreed to this, but added, “Where should I begin?”
“My feeling is that such gynoids—and there will be but a handful in Zaïdmouth—will be drawn to Blissis, since there they will find the highest concentration of behaviours to copy. Possibly a few will be drawn to Emeralddis, but there they will be destroyed. Novais may hold one or two. Go first to Blissis and begin your search.”
“I will.”
“One final instruction, Manserphine. I have enemies. Two such should be noted by you. They exist as gynoids. One is called Shônsair and one is called Baigurgône. You must avoid these two.”
“Why?” Manserphine asked, suspicious once more. “What have they done?”
“Before the Ice Age, we three clashed over ethics. They espoused a domineering, intellectual viewpoint, while I argued for the knowledge of the body and the mind as one. In their eyes I commit a sin by becoming involved with humanity. But I will say more later.”
Manserphine replied, “I shall need to know if I am to help you.”
“Go now. Return when you find success. Follow my instructions, and I promise to relate to you what I know of the flower crash.”
Manserphine stood up, but hesitated. “Is it imminent?”
“What is your impression?”
Manserphine thought back to her vision. “It seemed close to me.”
“Trust your feelings. They will often be correct, and what is more the emotions they bring symbolise the wisdom of your body.”
Departing the dust chamber, Manserphine descended the staircase. Pollonzyn had not reappeared. The Shrine was silent. But as she walked towards the exit, a door opened to reveal Cirishnyan and Pollonzyn.
Cirishnyan looked unhappy. “So you truly can knowledge Dustspirit,” she said.
Manserphine stopped and turned to them. “What?”
“We overheard the knowledging between you and Dustspirit.”
Could this have been set up? “But—”
“You must not garden with her,” Cirishnyan said, angrily. “You are from another floral home bed and count as a weed here.”
“You overheard everything?”
The minutest hesitation, then, “Scented. We are not withered.”
Manserphine realised that Cirishnyan must be lying, for like her colleague Ashnaram she spoke only her own dialect, whereas Dustspirit had spoken to Manserphine in Venerisian cant. But since all dialects had formed from a proto-language there would be many parallels. How much had these two understood?
Manserphine walked to the door, where she felt safer, then said, “I like to grow in this floral home bed. Dustspirit is yours—”
“Do not blow away!” Cirishnyan retorted. “You will not seek this scentless, colourless coldbloom in wine meadow. She is ours.”
Manserphine realised it was time to leave. There would be no arguing here. “Flowered up,” she said. “Good pollen to you both.”
She turned and departed.
~
Next morning she considered her options. There was no doubt in her mind that she must follow Dustspirit’s instructions, and since she did not need to return yet to the Shrine of Flower Sculpture her task was not impossible. Of course the men would have to be kept out of her plans, for if they heard, Vishilkaïr would make cutting remarks, while Kirifaïfra would plead to help. This was a task for a lone woman.
She turned her mind to the safe place that Dustspirit required. From the rear door of the inn she surveyed the vegetable garden. Behind it lay an overgrown paddock, which she explored, finding at the back a line of old compost heaps screened from the rear of the inn by brambles and other undergrowth. A few early orchids rose from the damp soil. This would be ideal. Nobody came here and she could see the area from her own window.
Returning to the inn, she passed through the kitchen to the common room, where she found Pollonzyn sitting in the bay window seat.
“There has been another abstract petal theft from our floral home bed,” Pollonzyn said. “Again it is softpetal fragrance, large scale.”
“I shall come along immediately.”
“Scentless. Cirishnyan does not require you to garden. She suspects you shall cause a fray.”
“Am I plucked from your floral home bed?”
Pollonzyn seemed in an agony of indecision. “I do not believe so.”
Manserphine frowned. “Then why have you come to knowledge me?”
Again the hesitation. Manserphine glanced across to Vishilkaïr, who as ever stood behind the bar, and she gestured for a tankard of ale. He brought it across with a flourish, saying, “Beer for my dear. Cheer up, now.”
Pollonzyn waited for him to go, then said, “I wished to warn you! Cirishnyan has been knowledging about grafting you upon us. Her anger burns like summer drought, that Dustspirit chose you, not her. If you replant in our beds, you will be grafted.”
Manserphine grimaced. She was effectively banned from the Shrine of Flower Sculpture. What an irony to be banished from home and away Shrines. For some moments her spirits dived, and melancholy took her as she wondered if anybody in Zaïdmouth would ever want her.
“You are a good bloom,” she told Pollonzyn, touching her hand. “I’m obliged for the warning.”
“There is a final petal.”
“What?”
“This coldbloom in wine meadow that Dustspirit knowledged you about. Cirishnyan has already sent a covert out to begin a search.”
“Who?”
Pollonzyn seemed to be holding back tears as she stared at the ground. She drained her tankard, said, “I dare not knowledge you,” then rushed from the inn.
Manserphine thought for ten minutes, then returned to the kitchen, where she found Vishilkaïr and Omdaton making noodles. “I’m going out today,” she said, “and I’d like a lunch to take with me.”
Vishilkaïr could think of no wisecracking remark. He just shrugged at Omdaton and she agreed to put something together. Manserphine went up to her room. She would have to leave now for Blissis. She changed into a flowing green dress, found boots and socks, wrapped Kirifaïfra’s red scarf around her neck, then returned downstairs, where she collected her lunch and her coat. Then she was out in the damp streets.
An hour’s walk brought her to the edge of Blissis. To the north stood the imposing bulk of the Wild Network Guildhall, seat of gynoid power. Standing here she could smell hops on the wind from some brewery, and a more unpleasant odour of decay and filth. As she walked into the streets of the urb she passed hovels stacked together like damp cardboard boxes, lines of poverty relieved only by stone and brick taverns. There were painful signs of moral decay—delicate gladioli and pelargonium trampled into the mud by stumbling boots. She sighed. Noon had passed but still the urb was quiet, just a few drunks lying in the gutters, while the automatic trams that were a feature of less decayed sectors rolled slowly along metal rails, every one empty. Blissis came alive at night.