Tara leads me back to the lower levels. I’m shaking like a storm-blown branch, and my stomach is churning as well. I wonder if I am going to be ill.
It is some time before I am composed enough to speak, and even then, I doubt my words. Obviously I was chosen to emanate as I am usually the one best able to articulate the Mover’s motivations. And yet, the Mover’s current motivations are completely oblique to me. I cannot explain why Lorcan wanted to sacrifice himself to the Denolin Turym except perhaps to say that he wanted the process to be finished.
“Don’t worry,” I finally say. “He won’t do it again.” Which is perhaps the only reason not to worry. He won’t stop screaming.
“What was up with that?” Tara mutters. “Fuck, I don’t think I was ever so scared in my life, not even when I fought the Cybrids. Well, maybe when the Atlas Tree fell, I was that scared.”
I take her hand. It’s shaking. “Did you notice what happened? The way those dragonflies appeared?”
“Yeah. It looked like they and the Denolin were sizing each other up.”
“Come on,” I say, pulling her out of her seat. “Let’s look at the seedlings.” I need to distract her. Soon, she’ll ask about Lorcan, and I have no answers.
We inspect the seed beds. The seeds where the mothmen vanished have withered. The four seeds which emanated have grown into saplings – twisted trees with a blackened bark and flame red foliage, trees that could not properly be called Cu’endhari.
“They chose, all right,” says Tara. “Some of them chose to die. We did this to them.”
I touch her lightly on the shoulder. “That’s not what happened. The Denolin Turym called, and the Cu’enashti came. Then most of them left. It’s possible that Cu’endhari pre-exist the trees, Tara. Maybe there’s nothing special about the trees. They’re just, what is it that Claris says? Nectarines on steroids.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“All right, let’s say that the special thing about Pseudonau’gshtium species is that they are capable of housing a Cu’endhari, be it a Cu’ensali, Cu’enmerengi or Cu’enashti. The mystery of the Cu’ensali is possibly explained by the fact that they don’t find it necessary to modify the trees enough to make alchemy possible – or that they don’t have the power to do it.”
“It’s also possible that the call of the Denolin was so strong, it forced the nau’gsh into super-rapid growth. It’s happened before.”
“True enough, although I and I grew Atlas in three days, and this was closer to three minutes.”
“And then the grand jeté just happened – the spirits of the trees were pulled out, but maybe before some of them were ready. Before they had adapted like those dragonflies.”
“I suppose we’re just speculating.” I believe my theory is more plausible than Tara’s. The problem is that there’s so much we don’t know about ourselves. But then again, why should we? Humans don’t understand their origin or their purpose. Perhaps what’s strange about Cu’endhari is that we never thought to question it. Or perhaps what’s aberrant about the Mover is that He does.
Then I notice her, standing at the edge of the dome. She’s standing with her legs crossed, a little girl with pigtails and a plaid skirt, rocking back and forth awkwardly in her enormous Oxfords. There’s something disconcerting about her; she reminds me of the stereotypical child in a horror-vid.
“Hello,” I say. Tara turns suddenly, startled. She’s still very jumpy. Far be it from me to blame her.
“I’m Bel-Nefren-Hagol-Isvi-Teggri-Taval-Ashra. Me’eevl-Trask-Bmmmmphrgh-Simleah-Vadarrr-Lorcan told us that there would be lessons on how to become other types of sentient.”
“I’m Malachi, another emanation of Ashtara, and this is Tara del D’Myn, Matriarch of Skarsia.”
The little girl with the ridiculously overlong name curtseyed.
“The Quicknodes,” said Tara. “The one called Taxonomist can help you. In the central complex, three floors down.”
The girl nodded. “The non-biological sentients. The Denolin Turym cannot love them. So sad.”
“Are you…all right?” Tara asked.
She grinned. “Bet you wouldn’t ask Spidey. Human eyes can only see outside. So sad.”
“We’re both concerned for you,” I add.
“I chose it. I chose it! We can be everything! We can be everything to each other.” She leaned close to me, whispering conspiratorially. “It can see what I am. This body is a game I play so that I can touch it. But she,” the girl pointed at Tara, “can’t see what you are.” She looked towards me. “You don’t even know what you are! Pink will never turn red!” The child giggled, running to the exit. She paused at the highlift and waved, then descended.
I turn to Tara. “Maybe that explains what Lorcan did. Maybe he had to be fully absorbed before the Denolin Turym could understand what we were trying to do.”
“Well, it seems to have worked.” Tara’s response is curt, bitter. She’s upset about the dead trees, upset about Lorcan. I’d like to comfort her, but right now, she won’t accept it.
When the hilift ascended, Johannon and Neliit were on it. “That went about as well as could be hoped,” says Neliit. “All the concerned parties seem quite happy with the arrangement. The Denolin Turym are overjoyed – they can evolve much more rapidly with a partner capable of metamorphosis than by having to hunt down new life forms.”
“Those aren’t Cu’enashti anymore,” says Tara. “I don’t know what you want to call them, but it’s a completely different tree.”
“Taxonomist is calling them Prunus turym,” says Neliit. “They’re calling themselves the Bhavashti.”
“Bhavashti?” asked Tara. “I don’t know what that means. Bhav isn’t a Skarsian root. But their transformation isn’t the important part. I just can’t see the loss of that many saplings as acceptable.”
I nod in agreement. “But Davy thinks if we use seeds taken from these trees, it might go better the next time. If you’re right, and there is something special about the tree itself, it stands a high probability of success.”
“I suppose that sounds reasonable,” said Tara, “if the Denolin will wait.” She looks like she is going to say something, but then she shakes her head and gets on the hilift.