6: Tara

Matriarch’s Journal: 1st Firstday of the Month of Beginnings, 3618

It doesn’t matter which apples I use for the amrita because the process of synthesizing the drug strips away the individual characteristics of the branches.  What we have discovered, however, is that the vision is greatly influenced by the nature of the branch currently emanated.  I’ve never taken amrita before with Wynne, so I’m not sure what to expect.

Wynne’s trading card is pitifully undecorated, despite the enormous contributions he’s made in several crucial situations, despite that he’s single-handedly revolutionized life for the Twist.  I stare at that card, and the cruelty of it makes me furious.  You don’t play fair with your emanations, Ash.  Why rub it in?

Wynne has changed out of his flashy red tux into a smoke-blue smoking jacket.  He sits on the couch, and I join him, laying my head in his lap.  I hand him a small bottle.  He places a drop upon my tongue.

I close my eyes.  Wynne is breathing.  All the rhythms of the universe, the pulsing of the stars, the tides, the humming of crickicadas fall into step with his heartbeat.  But his breathing matches mine.  He follows; I’m in control.  A Cu’enashti is passive, a servant.

You passive?  The Living God who is leading humanity to establish a paradise of immortals in another galaxy?  I start to giggle helplessly.  Give me another decade, and I’ll be just like Elma, laughing inappropriately at everything.

I’m not in the driver’s seat, am I?  You’re the one with all the ideas.  What, exactly are you responding to?

My destiny.  I can see it now, a star on a far horizon.  I see you, radiant, enormous, magnificent, rising above Atlas.  And then I see the others, all the Cu’enashti floating over the nau’gsh forest.  They hang there, suspended, like angels poised upon a Solstice tree.  They’re waiting, watching and waiting.

Years pass.  Bud and flower open and close.  Cu’enashti produce fruit and seed.  Their human bodies mate; some have human children.  But the moth-angels remain in suspension.  Their bodies, if their fleshless forms can be called such, are impenetrable.  They have no mouths; they cannot kiss.  I have a momentary vision of wings pinned to a mounting board.  My eyes are drawn to the scales, each of which seems to flutter helplessly in place.  Something is inside of them, straining to get out, a trapped spiral of energy. It’s yearning, wanting to touch something, to merge and become something more.

I think of the mothmen who came to Nightside.  Were they alone in the nul-universe?  If such a being came through the rip and saw what life is like here, it might become aware of its own aloneness.  Anything would be better than that, even choosing the Great Dread.

Your eyeless eyes see me.  I can feel the depth of your longing.  I can’t feel anything else.  You’re so alone; you want so badly to mate with me, but you can’t.  You have made this journey guided by the star of my destiny so that you can evolve beyond your isolation.

The star is obscured now, muted by fog.    What comes next?  We can’t see where we’re going.  Is the next step forward, or is it into an abyss?

“Wynne!”  I sit up abruptly, grasping for him.

“Hey, Sweetness, it’s okay,” he says, stroking my hair.  He looks at me curiously, wondering if I’m coming out of it.  But the vision isn’t over, not yet.

“Wynne, what comes next?”

He looks confused.

“What do you want to come next?”

He answers without hesitation.  “Something we can’t control.  Something random.”

“Why?”

“The more planning is involved, the less luck is a factor.”

“All right.  Then think of a number between two and twenty-one.”

“Ten.”

“Name ten spiritual virtues.”

“Huh?  Virtues?  What do I know about virtue?  Are you sure you want to ask me and not Dermot?”

“Yes, you.”

Um, Love.  Fidelity – that is, n’aashet n’aaverti.  Strength – not physical strength, more like strength of character.  Fortune.”

“Fortune is a spiritual virtue?”

“What else could it be?  Um, let’s see…Growth.  Charm.  Inspiration.  Peace.  How many more do I need?  This is hard.  It’s lucky for me I didn’t pick twenty.”

“Two more.”

“Discipline.  And, hmmm, how about pleasure?”

“Pleasure?”

“Yeah, what good is any of it if it’s no fun?  Let’s call it ecstasy.  Spiritual ecstasy.  That sounds good.”

“One more question.  Have you ever fucked Ace?”

“No, but we’ve raced each other to pollination.  Is that relevant to spiritual virtues?”

“Not really.  I was just wondering if you would be into a threesome.”

“Are you sure you want to be alone with two desperate characters like us?”

“Now that you put it that way, yes.  Besides, Ace is a sweetheart.”

“Not like me, hmmm?”

The effect of the amrita is fading.  I rest my head upon Wynne’s shoulder.  “I’m too strung out to sleep yet.  I really wish I could.  Sleep is like a palate-cleanser.  Waking up brings a fresh perspective, a sense that things can be different.”

Wynne closes his eyes; I can tell he’s listening inward again.  “Tarlach says that’s a really interesting point.  He hadn’t considered how much the sleep cycle influences the human perception that time is linear, whereas the Cu’endhari lack of sleep feeds into our perception that time is a sphere that extends in all directions.”

“That’s kind of sad, isn’t it?”  I ask drowsily.  “You never really have a tomorrow.  Just one long today.”

Onward –>

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