Read The Disestablishment of Paradise Online
Authors: Phillip Mann
The Disestablishment of Paradise (57 page)
More organized now, she picked up her small backpack, which contained, among other things, their medical supplies and her own few treasures. Then she grabbed Pietr Z’s stick and used it to
push aside the Tattersalls. She barged through the branches that barred her way, jumped down to the path and looked around. No sign of him.
They had camped at a place where the small path turned quite sharply as it descended from the Scorpion Pass, which led to the sea. Only a hundred metres further down the path she could see the
junction where the three paths met and where one of Pietr Z’s silly signs was still in place. She ran down to the junction, and came to a place where the forest opened up. There, between the
path that led up to Redman Lake and the path that led down to the plantation, a hill rose sharply, with a concave depression at its centre. Between its two arms, all the trees seemed blighted and
bent out of shape. Some had withered, some had lost leaves. All had been leached of their colour and bent to conform to a pattern. She gasped when she saw it. It was the worst thing she could have
seen: a whirlpool, a spiral, a vast curve of energy which travelled up the concave sides of the valley, over the top and so came back down inside itself. It was like a seashell: the unmistakable
evidence of a Michelangelo-Reaper.
The only one way in was a dark arch that opened immediately opposite her. But follow that path and she would eventually come to the centre, the place where all the turning stopped. Hera
remembered. She knew what she would find living there. Sitting in state, with its leaves raised like folded hands, would be a Reaper, but not like the little one that had played with her. This one
would be big, really big if the size of its energy pattern was anything to judge by, and old too, presumably.
It had kept itself well hidden all these years, like a sleeping trap awaiting its time. There would be a stream nearby too – and yes, when she looked, there it was, meandering out from
under the trees no more than a hundred metres from her, and then wandering beside the path that led down to the umbrella tree plantation. It had not been there before and was presumably the
creation of the Reaper.
Had Pietr Z known the Reaper was here all the time and kept quiet? Of course he had.
Hera could see the marks on the dewy brevet where Mack had walked. The path led straight to the Reaper’s door. Before entering that passage, Mack had removed his overalls, the ones which
Hera had sewn for him, and had hung them on a branch. A sign for her?
A movement caught her eye. Something in the valley was changing. At the dark centre of the Reaper’s hold a mistiness was gathering, and the air wavered and distorted like the air above a
chimney where a fire burns but without smoke. She watched, her hand to her mouth, as up through the dark hole there grew a spiralling shape. It was at first like the tip of a black feather, with
every plume distinct and perfectly traced as in an etching. As it rose it turned, and as it turned so its shape expanded. The feather pulled apart and re-formed slowly into a sphere, and that
became something that Hera recognized as an eye. It was ill formed and clumsy but, as she watched, it became more precise. An eye with lid and lashes . . . Not a quick eye, but a surprised eye, or
a wondering eye. Even as it turned she saw something of Mack there. But it was gone as the eye pulled apart and re-formed and became a hand – square-palmed with stubby fingers, firm and hard.
It turned before her, slowly getting larger.
At this moment something shook Hera. It was as though a warm wind had blown right through her and she felt a sound inside herself like the breaking of a musical string. She sank down onto the
soft green brevet and watched, all fear suspended. The world beyond the Reaper lost colour. Everything became monochrome except the changing shape in the air, and this gained colour and life and
concentration as though warming. Hera was now – whether she liked it or not – within the sphere of the Reaper. She was no longer just seeing with her eyes, but with her imagination too.
She was participating. No longer passive. She watched the hand open and close. The fingers flexed in the air and made strange complex shapes. The possibilities of the hand were being explored. For
a moment it was a pianist’s hand poised above the keys, and then a working man’s hand. She recognized this. A hand for all seasons that could caress and wipe and become a hard fist when
the need arose. She knew that hand too, and had held it many times. Even the little chip on his thumbnail was there, where he had damaged it on the boat.
The shapes were getting larger and swifter, growing with confidence, folding and unfolding through one another. They were high in the sky, turning and tumbling and changing with the speed of
thought – no sooner done but thrown away. Many were abstract. Shapes and stains. But most were body parts, detached, but not in a bloody way. Reduced to form and line and texture. An ear
became a toe became a nostril became the bulging biceps of a man with an axe. Everything was being explored, just as Hera would explore something exotic and strange that dropped from the sky,
holding it up to the light and then shaking it to see if it rattled. Or . . . thinking differently, thinking of the Reaper through its other name . . . as a sculptor might explore the balance and
form of a naked woman kneeling – changing the angle of the head, adding, taking away – before finally shaping his clay into a Madonna.
She was waiting for it, wondering, but despite herself she was shocked and pleased when the giant phallus, filling the sky above the valley, unfolded. What an odd thing it was, looked at this
way, from a strange and unconventional angle. Ungainly and accidental-looking. An add-on. A single rose on a stripped tree.
And what would the Michelangelo make of that?
she wondered.
Could it understand the organ’s many functions beyond plumbing? Its slow erection and the blinding light that accompanied the movement suggested that Mack, in whatever form he now existed,
was revealing all. But then again . . . Irrelevant thoughts teased her.
Where
, she wondered,
would he find a woman to tame that?
Irresistibly, following the evolution, the phallus transformed to become his face. A surprised face, as well it might be. But what a composition! The hair, the eyes, the curl of the hair above
the ear . . . The abstract and the real, holding together. The face was caught at a moment in time. Hera remembered the expression on Mack’s face when she had confronted him at Monkey Tree
Terrace and Dickinson had stamped on the ground laughing. So there was history too. Their history. Mack’s history. A puzzled young boy. A grave-faced older woman. The Reaper was into his mind
now, peeling him open. What more could be shown? Faces, faces, faces in all attitudes and emotions. She didn’t want to watch. This was too private. We all deserve our darkness. This was
becoming painful and dangerous. Hypnotic. Compelling. Hera began to lose her sense of who she was as the images twisted and coiled in the sky above. She wanted to look away – some intimacies
should only endure the moment of their creation – but she could not look away.
But then, as though the artist had suddenly wiped his canvas clear, all images vanished save one. The last adjusted slowly, and Hera saw her own face staring down at her, with hair tumbling all
over. She saw herself as Mack had seen her. Laughing as she teased. Crying briefly and then open-mouthed in ecstasy at the moment of climax. The Michelangelo, faithful recordist, humble archivist,
saw the truth of them both.
The image grew until it filled the sky. It stretched across the horizon, killing the sunlight.
There came a moment of total stillness . . . and then the face began to break up. The centre could not hold. And yet one more image managed to assert itself, just briefly. Hera could not make
sense of it. She had to lie on her back to look up at it. It was like a tree, but with three trunks which grew into a complex knot, and at its top she could just see the tip of a gleaming silver
blade-like flower. The tree held its shape for a few seconds and then began to waver in the air, and to revolve like something on a potter’s wheel. And the faster it turned, the more quickly
it contracted, centrifugal energy in reverse, vanishing like a column of water down into the dark chamber of the Reaper. Until . . . finally there was nothing.
In the sudden vacuum Hera shivered and curled up on the damp green of the brevet. Then the warm breeze passed through her again. It was the Reaper withdrawing, its energy spent – and she
lay for a few moments still. Then she sat up. Colour returned to her world. The blue of the Tattersall weeds. The patterned deep green of the brevet. The sky. The clouds. How unreal and empty
everything looked after the tumbling brilliant images. But she was back in the real world, the world she knew. What she had seen was now only present in her memory, though undoubtedly alive in the
world of Paradise.
Hera scrambled to her feet, picked up her backpack and, without hesitation, ran towards the dark entrance to the Reaper. She was remembering the story that the Reaper, after it had devoured its
victim, returns the corpse and hangs it on a tree or some such.
16
She did not know the truth of the tale, but she wanted to know. Moments later she was
under the trees. As she ran along the incurving path she found more of Mack’s clothing. His vest. His boots. And finally his shorts. She could imagine. She had felt the grip of a Reaper on
her mind. It would have forced him, stumbling, caught between the need to walk and the need to pull his clothes off. Plants could not understand clothes.
She ran on, round the path, which gradually became tighter and smaller. But it was well formed too. Welcoming even, with dappled shadow.
She ran on . . .
And on . . .
Until finally she stumbled through an arch of tortured trees. She had reached the centre.
There she saw the Reaper, and it was magnificent! Its great serrated leaves were raised. They were folded together like hands at prayer, and of a green so deep you could lose yourself in it. The
edges of the leaves were rimmed with spikes which shone like silver. High above, on a thin stem, dangled the ubiquitous cherries of Paradise. These, as Hera knew well, were the sense organs that
the Michelangelo shared with the Dendron and with other plants too. These cherries were very black and lustrous, and about each of them moved tendrils as restless as green snakes.
She was aware of the Reaper’s presence, of its energy, of its consciousness as it allowed her to come close, allowing her in. Vaguely she realized that it was honouring her – a very
human thought – though what this might mean to the Michelangelo-Reaper she could not guess.
She stopped in front of it. She saw the leaves move. She saw them start to open, to peel back, slow and languid; and as they did, the perfume of the creature came to her.
We talk of primroses and pineapples, of the foul combustion of a bloated cow and roses in the evening – it was all of this and more.
The leaves folded down, one by one, and lay prostrate on the ground. The last two opened – what was that image Mack had used once – ‘like a choirboy opening his prayer
book’? Well, it was not quite that, but there was something ceremonial and solemn about it. Behind the leaves stood Mack, his pose relaxed and statue-like. The great
David
she had
seen in Rome stood thus, casual in his beauty. He was like an athlete after a race, not bent over and puffing, but using no more energy than is needed to stand. The muscles were firm but relaxed.
She had seen Mack stand like that once: the moment after he had delivered the butcher’s cut that severed the Dendron.
High above him hung a cluster of the dark fruit. It had become agitated with the prostration of the last leaf, and a rain now fell from each cherry, the drips making dark splashes on
Mack’s skin. Then the fruit lowered and Hera saw the care with which they touched him. His neck, his lips, his thighs, his feet – all places she had kissed at some time. And she saw the
green tendrils wrap around his legs and arms and waist and then gently lift him.
He was carried up, held for a moment, and then brought towards her, the whole plant inclining. Finally, he was laid down before her like an offering.
The cherries withdrew high and drooped and the tendrils hung limp.
Hera saw Mack sigh, as though just waking up. And that small movement rolled through her like thunder. She knelt. And she was aware, more fiercely than ever before, of the pure lovely yeast-meal
scent coming up from the dying man.
Hera closed her eyes and her heart turned to water.
Reaper – Hera
Edited transcript of interview
Hera
O Olivia, if you could have seen him. He looked so handsome, lying there before me, younger in some ways but damaged too. He looked bruised, but those
were the marks of Paradise on him – they were bruises of a different kind. He was aware of me, I could tell from his eyes. They were bright and clear and his gaze never left me. He could
hardly speak. I could see the light fading in him. But there was an urgency about him too, and I came to realize that his coming back to me was an act of will. He was in some way keeping
himself alive for me, when all he now wanted was to slip away. He lived elsewhere now, in the air and in the trees and in the roots of Paradise. Finally, I knelt down beside him and took his
hand and leaned my head over his to catch his whispers – and sometimes we touched foreheads, just as we had so often in the past.
He had heard a call. It had come at dawn, and like me he had found it irresistible. He had simply followed it – docile, and yet filled with the habits which dressed him and made him
close up the tent properly and even kiss me before parting. I discovered too that the Reaper that had summoned Mack had put the Tattersall weeds in place and made me sleep longer than I would
have otherwise. There was nothing he or I could have done.
He whispered, ‘Did you see me?’
I nodded. ‘I saw you, Mack. Above the valley, in the sky.’
I saw his eyes soften. That was as near as he could now manage to a smile. ‘Was I good?’
‘You were very good.’
I saw him nod to himself, a small movement. He whispered, ‘Wish Dickinson and the rest had seen me. They’d have laughed. Give them my love, Hera. I’ll be thinking of
them.’
He tried to move and I thought he might be in sudden pain. I tried to lift his head, but he didn’t want that. ‘Did it hurt you, love?’ I asked.
‘No pain. Just . . .’ I saw him for a moment drift away, remembering ‘ . . . just the other. It’s like my right hand now.’
I didn’t understand that remark, but I could see the effort he was making, so I didn’t push him. Now I know what he meant. He had taken over the Reaper as much as it had taken
over him. It was biddable, and he, Mack, the true spirit of the man, not the sad being I was farewelling, was in charge. I was aware too of a depth of intimacy which I could not comprehend. It
was more than my skylarking with the Dendron. Reapers take more and give more. Two had become one. He had entered its green darkness as surely as it had entered his mind and body, and there was
something in me that was shocked by that, and if I am truly honest with myself, a bit jealous.
I saw him breathe deeply, and something of the old Mack was there in his eyes – like the times when he would spit on his hands before picking up the axe, or stretch in the morning so
that I heard his bones creak or grumble before picking up his backpack. There was something he needed to say or do. I leaned very close, my head over his, and realized he would be seeing me at
this moment as he had when being taken by the Reaper. That made me so happy. He whispered, ‘Listen to me, Hera. You are in danger here and must get off Paradise as soon as possible. I am
going to help you. But you must do something very brave. You—’
‘What dang—’
‘Sh. You can’t know until you know. To be free from Paradise you must know more of Paradise. When you get back to Earth you must know more too. There will be many questions. You
must be given knowledge. I jumped circles. Now, so must you . . . but not as far as me. Don’t be afraid. I want you to stand and let the Reaper come close. Let it touch your skin.
Don’t be afraid. It will not harm you any more than I would harm you, and I will be waiting for you. It will be easier then, I promise. Take nothing with you. This . . . is too hard, too
much in the head . . .’ His voice just trailed away and I thought I was going to lose him, but he rallied. ‘Let the Reaper come close. Do it, Hera.
Jump!
’
I was not clear what I was being asked to do. It was one of those moments when, if you think too much, you waver. The first time I slipped down into the dark cold waters on Mars I felt like
that before I dived. All I could do was trust the words of my dying lover. I stood before him. And I felt shy as I undressed, for I guessed that was what he meant. But what was he handing me
over to? Can you understand my fear, Olivia? What did he want? I felt terrible.
But, naked, I knelt down again. That seemed right. What else could I have done?
Olivia
You could have said no. You could have run away.
Hera
No, I couldn’t. And where could I run to? There are times when you can’t run, when you just have to trust. He saw my fear and struggled to his
knees and he held my hands. His head was down, like a poppy before it opens, like one awaiting execution. And I thought,
This will kill him or me
. Then I felt sudden touches of rain on
my skin. I looked at my arms and the marks were black. I twisted to look up and saw that the cherries were active, and their juice was touching me and staining me. And I knew I would carry
those marks for the rest of my life. The tendrils too were reaching down. I struggled then and tried to stand and tried to pull away, but he held me and I felt the moment when the first of the
cherries nuzzled my ear. I closed my eyes. Somewhere a scream was born inside me but . . . suddenly they were all around me like wasps, and still he held me . . .
No, Olivia, I’m all right. I’m all right. It is just that, as I tell it, so I see it and feel it. No, Olivia, I don’t need a tissue, thank you.
Time. I have no recollection of time. But then I heard Mack’s voice, and he said, ‘Do you want to see some magic? You can open your eyes now.’
I did, and there he was, large as life, grinning from ear to ear. He looked perhaps a bit younger, and I thought,
That’s allowed
. And I felt younger too, and I thought,
That’s more like it
. I felt like I did that first morning after Sirius . . . and I was so full of energy and love that I tingled. He was wearing the clothes he had on when I
first met him out at Monkey Tree Terrace, and me . . . I was wearing a white dress! I had never worn a white dress in my life. I said, ‘Why am I wearing this dress?’ and he said,
‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’
Think what that means, Olivia. And it took some getting used to. But oh, it felt so right.
Well . . . I glanced around. There was no Reaper. We weren’t in the small clearing any more. We were outside in the sunshine and it can’t have been too long after dawn either, as
there was still dew on the brevet. My feet were bare.
He said, ‘I thought you might like to see our children.’
I said, ‘Really? We’ve got children now, have we? Well, I’d love to have had them first.’
He pointed behind me. I turned, and then I recognized where we were. It was the valley where we had divided the Dendron. And of course I understood what he meant. The valley was so different
now. For one thing, there were thousands of Tattersall weeds and they were clustered round the two trees. The ground was torn with clawing. The twin trunks stood tall and looked magnificent.
They had straightened and there was no sagginess about the bark. Even colour was coming back to them. One was deep blue like the parent Dendron, and the other was more purple. The flags were
flying, the cherries were glossy and I could hear the tinkle of the Venus tears. But most impressive was that from the top of each tree there streamed a narrow beam of sparkling light and it
went straight up into the sky.
‘What is that light?’ I asked.
He was amused by the question. ‘That? You’ll see a lot of that. On Earth too. Everywhere. It’s the purest energy of all. It’s the same energy that is in you when you
sparkle. It’s what drew me to you in the first place. There’s probably a name for it on Earth, but I don’t know it cos I’m just an ignorant demolition worker. It is what
makes things happen. It’s the “force that through the green fuse drives the flower”, as Granny used to say when she was peeling onions. It’s what holds things together,
everything, body and mind.’
‘Is it what makes your pendulum swing, Mr Galileo?’ I made the question innocent.
He looked at me – and it was pure Mack. ‘Yes. That too. That and more.’
‘Like thought, you mean?’
‘That and more. Hope and trust are good words too. And giving that which is best in you for the sheer fun of it. Love is not a bad word, if you want just one.’
‘And where is it going, just up to the sky and then . . .?’
‘Ah ha. I’ll show you soon. It’s a two-way flow of energy. Those flows are joined to a fractal point – and from there, who knows? That factors into untold
dimensions.’
That phrase stopped me.
For a moment I had a sudden vision of such immensity, of the deep union of opposites. Of lines of energy that mesh the universes, giving and receiving. Interfused. Then I looked back at the
two trees. ‘Are they aware of us?’ I asked. ‘The Dendron was.’
Mack screwed up his face in thought. ‘That’s a tough one. Yes and no. They’re sleeping, and will for many years. But in the way of this place. Everyone knows everyone
else’s business. You’ll soon understand. Shall we go and visit the children?’
He took my hand and immediately we were standing on the two trees, him on one, me on the other, and we were each standing on the collar of the arch where they used to be joined. The holes
that had been there were completely closed. ‘Mack,’ I said, and he pretended not to hear and to be polishing his nails or something. ‘Mack, next time can we take it more
slowly? I want to enjoy the ride.’
I stood with my back to the trunk and then I pressed my ear to it. I heard it gurgle. I tell you, Olivia, I’ve never had children, but that must be what it’s like the first time
the baby you’re carrying kicks. Is it, Olivia?’
Olivia
Well, I’ve had four children, but I’ve never heard a tree gurgle. But yes, I think it probably is.
Hera
I called across, ‘Are we here, Mack? Are we really here?’
And he said, ‘Where the hell do you think we are – Birmingham?’
‘No. I mean, I’m not dreaming all this, am I?’
‘You are here. Most of you. All the important bits. But there’s also a little bit of you back there at the centre with the little bit of me too, and we are very safe and cuddled
up together because there is one of the ugliest and meanest and toughest and most talented and brilliant of the Michelangelos looking after us.’
‘Meaning?’
‘
Me
.’
That took some thinking about
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Holiday’s over. Now you’ve got to earn your keep.’ Suddenly he was standing beside me. ‘Let’s go and spend a couple of
minutes with that old fellow.’ He nodded towards the big old Tattersall weed that had destroyed the SAS and which now sat peacefully in the morning sunlight and did not seem to have
stirred since we had left. ‘You want to float over. Is that right?’
I nodded.
‘OK. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
And we did, Olivia, we did float, except I noticed that I didn’t have a body, not until we landed among the Tattersall’s giant branches. Then I was me again. My head was my head.
My hands were my hands. And my feet were cheeky in the green brevet.
‘I bet you didn’t have breakfast this morning, did you?’
I shook my head.
‘You see, as soon as I turn my back you stop looking after yourself. Have some of this.’ He turned to one of the big blue petals. He called, ‘Hey, Granddad, do you mind if
my lady has a bit of this?’ There was no reply. He turned back to me. ‘He’s not talking to me since I ripped the other one when we set out. Temperamental Tattersalls! He has
no recollection of smashing up the SAS, by the way.’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He tore a piece off the flower. ‘Here, have some of this and let’s sit down and think.’
We sat down between two of the branches, our backs to the tree. Mack would never have done that before. We were looking down at the baby Dendron and the river and the young Tattersall weeds.
From behind us, in the depths of the forest and up on the hills, we could hear the fluting of plants which were still coming to terms with the daylight.
‘Peaceful, eh? Pretty much like it was before the
Scorpion
came, wouldn’t you say?’ I was aware of a subtle change in his manner. ‘Well, it isn’t.
I’m going to show you the problems of Paradise and you can carry the message back to Earth, Hera.
‘People probably won’t believe you, so you’ll just have to find a way to convince them. But two things before we go. We’re going to enter by the root of this old
fellow and travel down. As we get deeper you are going to feel very confused, because we’ll be meeting up with the roots of other inhabitants until we come to the place where there is
only the one root and that covers the whole of the interior of Paradise. That place is the most confusing of all, because every plant on Paradise, every blade of brevet, every fart-in-a-trance
jenny, every umbrella tree, every plum, hybla and monkey nut is linked at the deepest level of all. So there are no different “plants”, as you called them, on Paradise. There is
only one consciousness, and it has many manifestations.
‘There was a time when it basked quietly, this world which you call Paradise, content with miles of ocean and the tug of the moons and the winds and the tides. It was as unruffled as a
deep pool in a running stream. And the great charge and discharge between, say, the Reaper that you know and the sky above was so effortless that there were no stress lines to see. But there is
a sickness now. It is in the root, and you are going to feel it. If you are prepared to. I can take you down, but I can’t take you there like a tourist to a place of execution or show you
a picture or simply describe it because . . . because that is not how things are here. You feel it, and then you know the truth. You will, for a time, be part of the darkness. Is that all
right, Hera? Don’t be afraid. That is one of the dangers. I won’t let you go too far, because I want you in a fit state.’