Ah, the temptation of Tara in the bath. It took willpower to refrain from seducing her, but the truth be told, I was saving myself. As a lone branch, the act of love would come to naught. My flowers would not know the caress of pollen; I would not bear fruit. I could never offer my progeny to the world; more, I could never offer the ultimate product of my alchemy, the nau’gshtamine-amide T that is the ultimate product and purpose of our union, offer it to that further union of the Goddess and the God, the Tara-Self we yearn to become.
I’m more acutely aware of being the first branch than the other flower-faces. Daniel and Ari did not fully understand their situations; Ari and Axel were preoccupied with fulfilling an important and urgent task. It’s true that Daniel’s first encounters were not a complete consummation, but he was happy enough; he didn’t know the difference. By the time Ari knew Tara, he had a fine array of branches to service him. And when Axel consummates his wedding with Tara – which he most certainly will – he will have at least three strapping young branches at his disposal.
Ari and Axel. A part of me wants to say how lucky they were, but neither one considers himself such. They shouldered the enormous burden of forging themselves into existence without Tara. That is a pain I will never know. In truth, I am the lucky one.
Goliath and Yggdrasil were created with branches in place, freakishly abnormal for Cu’enashti. I’m more like Daniel, a natural birth. But unlike Daniel, I know what branches are supposed to feel like. And my situation is problematic. Given the imminence of Ashvattha and the recent interdiction against the production of unnecessary branches, I am quite likely to be alone for a while.
I can feel the branches on the other trees, but I can’t quite touch them, not yet. Memories of something, hazy in most, but clear, so clear in Patrick. Something that should be obvious: pollination.
*****
We go downstairs for breakfast. Every seat at the long table is taken; the reason soon becomes apparent. Lady Lorma has never been able to keep an interesting bit of gossip to herself for more than a minute. Everyone is here to meet me, the latest emanation. Apparently, a new prince consort is somewhat of an occasion.
“Is he from Yggdrasil?” Sir Kaman asks. “I must admit that I’m most curious about that tree. I’d go to the Nightside Outpost to study it, but being so far away would upset Raoul.”
“He’s…a surprise,” Tara says.
Lady Lorma glances at Tara and fidgets nervously with her napkin.
“From Ashvattha?” asks Lord Danak. “So we are moving forward again. That’s good to hear.”
Most of the meal is small talk. I don’t want to be rude, but I find myself a bit annoyed at the quality of the table linens. The china set is an antiquity brought from Earth – Franciscan Desert Rose – it really deserves better than this. Still, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the servants. For a moment I concentrate, shifting molecules until the weave is altered.
It’s easier than I expect. It’s what I was made to do.
After we eat, I intend to do something more challenging. When we return to our suite, the bolts of plain white kottawn I ordered await us. Tara’s favorite colors are nau’gsh blue, black and red. Well, strictly speaking, black isn’t a color, but to the designer’s eye it is. I’ll start with those.
I want silk, a delicate charmeuse. I stroke the fabric and the fibers transform beneath my fingers. I imagine it embroidered, with an elaborateness nearly impossible to achieve by hand or machinery, using fine threads of silver and gold. Of course such a thing could be synthesized, but a microscope would reveal a slight pixilation in the weave; an expert’s touch would sense the characteristic graininess of a printed textile. Too many of Tara’s designer clothes are printed and not woven. I prefer the irregularities of natural material to the tacky perfection of so-called synthesized organics.
I unroll a bit of the bolt of blue to display to Tara. “I was thinking that perhaps I could use these for a sari. I think also a new ceremonial robe is in order.” The next bolt I create is a cream colored brocade, dusted with tiny beads of red glass. “I could make these from ruby, but that would be a bit much. The point is to look opulent without garishly flaunting your wealth. Besides, I like the slight unevenness in the beads – the coloration varies slightly, and some have air-bubbles.”
“Those are lovely,” says Tara. She bends to take the edge of the fabric in her hand. “As lovely to touch as to see.”
“Of course.”
“That’s not necessarily expected. I’ve worn plenty of uncomfortable pieces of couture in my lifetime.”
I take her hand, bringing it to my lips. “I would never allow a course fabric to touch the softness of your skin.”
“I was mistaken about you, Quennel. You are useful. Quite useful.”
“You’ll see how useful I am once your wardrobe is free of media interests. The Matriarch should not be prostituting herself to merchandisers.”
She lounges on the couch. “I see your point. But to a certain extent, we have to rely on media push. Two of Jacks…”
“If Whirljack wants to make music, he doesn’t have to hawk casualwear to have it heard. He’s an emanation of the Living God of Skarsia. The church can push media for him. It will improve your credibility enormously to not depend on the yammering of the hoi-polloi publicity machine.”
“My, you’re an elitist.”
“Historically, it’s an excellent time to be one. We’re in the process of opening a window for the elite to self-select. If someone wants a title, land, potential immortality, they have to be strong, smart and courageous enough to go to the colony. It’s that simple. Common people can stay commonly at home.”
“I suspect it’s not going to be that easy. People with strong family loyalties won’t go. Or people who are suspicious of our motives. Or people who have just been raised to have low horizons. The last is probably the worst. It was so much harder to get any sort of education system going on Volparnu than I ever imagined.”
“Well, if you’re going to be that way, take down the tapestries.”
“The tapestries?”
“Yes. It’s fashionable for the aristos to display Tasean tapestries in their homes. It’s also about at the level of hanging up an Oliphant head. It’s like saying, ‘Look what I’ve bagged from the ignorant natives.’ Cultural appropriation at its worst.”
“Taseans make a lot of money from selling tapestries.”
“I suppose they do, but for a conquering ruler to display them is tacky. Take them down.”
“I’m surprised at your political sensitivity.”
“Without a deep understanding of the socio-political landscape, it’s impossible to produce fashions suitable for the zeitgeist.” I pull out another bolt, transforming it into a fine, almost transparent chiffon laced with what appears at first to be thick threads, but is actually fine tubing which carries a phosphorescent gas. “This is inspired by the Ateher *hissclick* Masock, although it’s a bit more subtle than what they wear. When you have enormous mandibles, you have to wear something of a proper weight to balance, but on humans their fabrics are overwhelming.”
“Suzanna wore a miniskirt made from Masock fabric once. It was…”
“Please. Thinking of Suzanna while designing is like trying to eat stew while imagining baby selkies being clubbed and skinned.”
She laughs. There is no sound lovelier. “Want something to drink?” she offers.
As I’m already quite intoxicated by her, it seems a bit redundant, but far be it from me to turn down something from her hand. “I don’t care for liquor. Could we open a bottle of wine instead?”
“Let’s go down into the gardens to drink it. It’s a lovely day. We might as well enjoy it – tomorrow, we leave for the colonies.”
We sit on the verandah. I wish I could make a weave that duplicates the wind and sunlight running through her hair.
She pours the wine. “Is it so insane to just want this?” she asks. “I know Lord Danak is having larvae because none of the business of government is getting done. He’s doing the best he can, but there are things which need the attention of the Archon and the Matriarch. The colony is the big project, of course, but there are a million little things. Public relations. Trade agreements. Keeping my eye on the Skarsian aristos.”
“You’re really not interested in power.”
“Not really, not in itself. It’s a useful thing to have when you want to get something done. I suppose it’s a price we pay for all this luxury. I have to do something to justify my worth.”
“I almost find that amusing. The 5th Matriarch would never have let such a thought enter her mind.”
“The 5th Matriarch is dead. Good government is a survival strategy. But I have to balance the interests of the aristos against the commoners, or we’ll have a huge upheaval. I suppose I should study government more. I never much bothered about it. It bores me. I’d rather just spend my days sitting in the garden, falling in love with a beautiful man.”
“I’d rather you did that as well, providing you’re talking about me. But then what would happen to the starving children of Tasea?”
Tara takes a large sip of wine. She looks both annoyed and dejected at once. “I don’t know what to do about them. I suppose I’ll help in any way which doesn’t drastically inconvenience me.”
I laugh. “You are refreshingly honest for a ruler.”
“I have no intention of giving up my palaces or going to work in a soup kitchen. There haven’t been starving children in the Domha’vei for centuries. The aristos can get away with lives of wanton excess because the common society is reasonably affluent. The problem is that the damn Taseans are disturbing the economic balance. I wish I could give them independence right now.”
“First, you’re exaggerating. The Domha’vei has a culture built around its class system. The common people love their aristos, even as much as they despise them. We’re like lions in a cage to them, both awe-inspiring and amusing. Tasea is different. It has an IndWorld culture, built around a democratic ideology. They’ll never see us as other than oppressors. But you can’t set them free right now. Even if you didn’t lose face with the aristos, you still can’t. Tasea is too economically damaged to make it on its own. You’re basically in the situation of every beneficent conqueror – feeding the dog that bites you.”
“Maybe I should create a Tasean aristocracy and invite some of them to sit on the High Council.”
“That will go over well with the Tasean Independence Party. The new aristocracy will be considered traitors and they’ll be burned out of their homes.”
Tara takes an even bigger sip of her wine. “Nobody knows what to do about it, but somehow, I’m supposed to. Let’s not talk about this anymore. Let’s just get drunk and fuck.”
It’s an awkward moment. “You know…I can’t be pollinated,” I confess, staring down at the incredibly inferior fabric draped over the wrought fabroiron table.
“Why not? Canopus is in a container. We could just move it under Atlas tonight when the park closes.”
My mouth goes dry. In desperation, I commit the sin of gulping down a very nice vintage.
Tara refills my glass. “What do the Atlas branches have to say about it?”
This is another problem. “They haven’t really spoken to me. Don’t worry,” I say, raising my hand at her concerned expression, “it isn’t either a matter of being snubbed, nor are they comatose, like the Goliath emanations at first. I can access the memories in their branches perfectly well, and I can sense them communicating with each other. They’re a presence in my mind, one that’s getting stronger, but it’s as though I haven’t quite learned to speak their language.”
“Just spread your petals wide,” she says. “They understand that well-enough.”
I nearly spit out my wine. Something that should be obvious. And it is – to Tara. “I believe that Ari called you bold. I think a better term would be a saucy wench.”
“Quennel, my love, I’d say you were born yesterday, but you were actually born this morning. As for me, I’ve known Ashtara in one form or another since I was seven years old. You won’t get anywhere unless first and foremost, you’re thinking about sex.”
She’s right. I reflect upon the pallid grey of my trading card. It is offensive to my aesthetic sensibilities.
*****
Shortly after dusk, Tara and I load Canopus into the hovercar. She’s dressed in black, with her scarlet hair tucked beneath a cap. “It’s ridiculous, sneaking out to see my husband like this. But then again, it’s exciting.”
We can see the Atlas Tree down the strand as we approach it. I know what Atlas is like, in my sap and my roots, I know it, but seeing it draw closer takes my breath away. “I hope this isn’t going to be the start of an inferiority complex,” I murmur, glancing at the penjing in the back.
The armed guards at the perimeter are surprised to see her. I’m surprised to see them, but I suppose it makes sense, an unwelcome necessity of our existence. They grin as they wave her past, like jailers granting a conjugal visit.
We land the hovercar in the grass past the picnic area. “No one is supposed to park here,” says Tara. “Tomorrow, there will be an imprint in the grass, and Sir Kaman will have a fit. But we’d have to haul that enormous pot up from the lower lot if we didn’t.”
“It wouldn’t have been a problem. I’m strong.” Still, I’m grateful for her thoughtfulness. It would have taken some time, and the climb is steep.
We approach Atlas. There’s a faint glow detectable to my eyes, probably invisible to humans. Tara nods. “A force wall.”
“This far back?”
“We’re already under the outer canopy. Atlas is enormous, and we can’t leave any part of it unprotected. Remember what happened to Owen?”
The thought makes me wince, and I close my eyes quickly to block the image. “It’s been a constant struggle,” she says wearily. “This used to be my beautiful tree. Now it’s a public monument, a Living God, a constant target.” We’re close enough now to touch it. “I miss you,” she whispers, embracing one of the enormous sub-trunks.
The air snaps with the sound of a thousand flags fluttering. I stumble back in amazement. Every flower has opened.
I try to maintain my composure, but I’m dizzy and can’t catch my breath. Tara is touching Atlas, pressing against the bark with her soft breasts, wide-open flowers drooping near her lovely hair, the air heavy with scent.
I glance at the contents of the heavy pot cradled in my arms. My branch has gone into bloom. My flowers, exactly like the others, except so very tiny. I think of the massive grains of pollen descending, ravishing my delicate pistils. It isn’t helping me to regain my composure. “I think I just hit puberty,” I murmur.
“This is Hurley,” says Tara. “His branch is closest to the palace. Bring that pot over here. Where do you think the best place to put it will be? There’s no room on the right – Atlas grows up the cliff wall.”
Somehow, I find my voice. “There’s a space between those two trunks. It should fit there.”
“Oh, that’s Evan, and the big one is Whirljack. Yes, this is a good spot. The sea breeze should give you some blowback from the overhanging branches, especially Patrick and Cillian.”
I can’t believe we’re discussing this. My sense of propriety is completely gone. “How can you talk about this so casually?”
“First and foremost, I’m a botanist. But being a pervert is my second nature.”
My desire is a nausea, a fever. I ache with longing for her, which is only to be expected. At first, I believed my desire for pollination to be solely for the production of apples, my ultimate gift to her. But here it is again, the obvious, the unspeakable, confronting me so directly because of the nature of Canopus. I am a lone branch, and as such, my tree identifies completely with me. And as much as Quennel wants Tara, Canopus wants Atlas.
Evan’s branch is so fucking beautiful.
Tara takes my hand. “I wish we could stay out here all night,” she says as she pulls me back to the hovercar. “Get a little more involved, if you know what I mean. But it’s kind of awkward to screw around when you know there are security cams all over the place. I’ve considered declaring the whole beach off limits, but Atlas is such a symbol for our people that I think it would be terribly demoralizing. It may get to that, though. This world is changing. The people don’t follow the old ways anymore.”
“Will it be all right to leave Canopus there overnight?”
“If Atlas can’t protect it, then Atlas is in trouble, and then we’re all in trouble.”
It’s strange, moving so far away from my branch. In reality, it’s not that far away at all – not considering that Patrick was able to travel all the way to Eirelantra. Even when we arrive at the palace, I can still feel Canopus in the back of my mind. I can feel the vital connection to what I am.
Tara gets ready for bed. I’m already in a hyper-excited state. As she undresses, I sit on the side of the bed in order to catch my breath. It’s then I hear them.
Quennel, a voice calls to me.
Who is it?
Tarlach. I wanted you to know that you were never alone. We’ve been able to feel you all along.
“Are you all right?” Tara says. “You look a little flushed.”
She’s wearing a thin silk shift. Her skin is so soft, so impossibly soft. The fabric is pathetically inferior. It offends me. In a fit of impatience, I rip it and throw it to the floor.
She giggles, falling back onto the bed. “I didn’t expect you to be that passionate,” she says. “But I do expect you’ll replace that.”
“I will systematically replace your entire wardrobe. But first, these sheets.” She can’t possibly expect to sleep – or to do anything else- on them. I change the linens quickly before undressing.
“I don’t know when to take you seriously,” she says.
“Now would be a good time.”
“I see that. I also see why you’re named after the oak tree. Come on then.” She leans back, resting her head atop her arm, spreading her legs slightly. For a moment, I’m lost in my animal senses. Then I can feel my tiny flowers brazenly exposing my stigmata.
When I close my eyes, I can feel all the stars, all the molecules swirling into a rain of light, pouring through my tree, my body, and back into the source which is Tara.