Matriarch’s Journal: 1st Beachday of the Month of Beginnings, 3618
“Three days,” I say to Davy. “You promised Lord Danak. Were you serious?”
“Canopus will be big enough in two,” he replies. “We’ll leave on the third.”
“I don’t like it,” I tell him. “I’ll miss you. It’s too soon after all that mess with the Denolin Turym. And the way you’ve been acting, I’ll worry about you.”
“It’s only gonna be a few days, Tara. You can take Canopus with you, and since it’s moving from one grid-connected area to another, it will only be deprived of nul-energy while you’re in the wormhole. On our side, it’s a matter of hours to travel to Shambhala and establish Ashvattha. Then we just wait for the roots to connect and the first emanation. Malachi says that it should be the least traumatic tree yet.”
I peek into the foyer. “Holy shit. Look at this thing.”
The penjing needs pruning. I am a little concerned about letting Davy at it again. Radical cutback like that can drain a tree of resources. Too much and it will die. However, this tree certainly doesn’t look at all sickly. It resembles a poodle in a wind-turbine.
I pick up the clippers. “I don’t have the faintest idea how to do this,” I say. “I mean, of course I can physically trim it. But I know nothing about the aesthetics of penjing, bonsai, or whatever.”
“Oh,” says Davy, his face registering surprise. “I guess we’re calling in an expert.” He ducks into the bathroom; Jamey emerges.
“It doesn’t bother me to have you change in front of me, you know,” I say, a little annoyed. Jamey grins and reaches for the pruning shears.
If there’s anyone who can do this, it’s Jamey. Nevertheless, I’m still uneasy. “I feel like it’s wrong,” I tell him. “I’ve never known how to react to these little trees. Some of them are beautiful, but they’re freakish. And I don’t think something as magnificent as Atlas should be condemned to such a constrained existence.”
He signs to me that I’m missing the point. The art of bonsai is a collaboration between man and tree to create something which impresses with its spiritual power, not with mere size.
“Atlas is the largest nau’gsh in existence. It’s even bigger now than any of the Arya. Are you going to recreate it in that pot?”
Jamey shakes his head. This tree will grow organically into something entirely different.
I watch him work. “It’s beautiful, but it looks wrong. Like a nau’gsh trying to be an oak.”
Jamey shrugs. He signs that it will look more Cu’enashti once it has a few more trunks.
There was a time that Atlas had only one trunk. Goliath and Yggdrasil were born fully-formed, but Atlas added those trunks one by one. “So you don’t know anything about this tree? How many emanations, or their names?” Jamey shakes his head.
The pack of trading cards is on the table. I spread them until I find Daniel’s card. “Do you think the first branch of this tree will resemble Daniel?” I ask.
Jamey smiles and shrugs. He puts down the clippers and joins me on the couch. I love Daniel, he signs. There’s no word for it.
“I know. It’s hard to put feelings into language sometimes.”
No. Literally no word. Brother is closest, but wrong. A better term is friend-with-benefits, but wrong also. Doesn’t convey the depth of the relationship. Lover is absolutely wrong. I’m your lover. I have no passion for Daniel because he’s myself.
“Interesting. It’s odd that a word hasn’t developed. You can’t say that he’s your branch or your emanation – he’s a branch of Atlas, an emanation of Ash.”
The Cantor never made a word because it was almost a thousand years before her tree had a second trunk.
Jamey leans back and closes his eyes. “Maybe you should come up with a word,” I suggest.
Jamey doesn’t move, but I can feel his amusement. Asking Jamey for a word is like asking the sun for a glass of water. This is perhaps the longest conversation I’ve ever had with him. “All right, maybe someone else should come up with a word.”
For a while he sits with his arm around me. He’s warm, earthy, and yet ethereal. He’s so thin, his features are so fine. He always looks haunted, but sometimes his expression is unmitigated joy, a light in his eyes that dances my heart.
He turns to me and signs that he wants to see the father tree.
Of course he would want to see it. It’s been almost five years since Cüinn and I discovered it; it’s amazing Jamey hasn’t asked before now. Of all the emanations, he’s the most concerned with family. Whenever he emanates, he makes a point of visiting Atlas’ saplings, Ashkaman and Philosophia. I’m quite close to Ashkaman’s emanations, Raoul and Charles. After all, Charles saved me from an assassination attempt by that K’ntasari renegade, Caliban. On the other hand, I’d much rather visit Philosophia than her emanation, Lilith. Philosophia doesn’t talk back to me.
“I’m supposed to have lunch with the Tourism Board and the heads of the business councils. This evening, we’ve been invited over to Sir Kaman’s for dinner. But I don’t think we have anything scheduled in-between, if you’d like to take an afternoon walk.”
*****
It’s much different since the last time I’d been in these woods. Cüinn chattered incessantly; Jamey, of course, says nothing. They’re so very different, and yet I love them both. And I can scarcely believe that they are both you, Ash, until I look in their eyes.
For all that we try to rationalize love, it isn’t about personality. When I was sixteen, I could’ve made a list of the characteristics I’d want in a man; it would have been nothing like Daniel, or, for that matter, any of the emanations. And yet, when Daniel handed me that flower, I could’ve lived in that moment forever.
For now, the smell of the forest, the afternoon light, holding Jamey’s hand, will do.
Since I know where we’re going this time, we get there faster. It’s a small tree, still mostly nectarine. One would be surprised to learn that it fathered the wild nau’gsh trees surrounding it, trees almost three times its size. That it also fathered the giant Atlas is almost past believing.
Jamey approaches slowly. When he’s within arm’s reach of the father tree, he drops to one knee, bending his head. After a moment, he places both hands, palms flattened, against the bark.
He stays like that for a few moments. Then he turns to face me. I needed his advice, he signs. I need to teach the Cu’enashti colonists to remake an entire world.
*****
When we return, I’m very glad for the invitation from Sir Kaman. Sitting down to dinner with my entire retinue at the palace is such a formalized production, and it always makes Jamey uncomfortable. The cheerful air at Kaman’s house is much more in keeping with his disposition.
“I heard from Lilith a few days ago,” says Raoul. “She hates her new job training the colonial recruits. Of course, she hates everything.”
“It’s a good thing she’s married to Thoughtful 45,” I reply. “I swear he’s the only being in the universe that could tolerate her.”
Dinner is light: seeded tomato and cheese sandwiches, a variety of tapas, and, of course, gourd salad. Afterwards, Raoul asks if Jamey will pose for a sketch. The two men retire to the garden, to catch the intense last light before sunset.
Kaman’s garden is one of the most beautiful on Dolparessa, rivaling the ones at Court Emmere. Perhaps in its way, it’s more beautiful, since it is a creation of love, a comfort-space not intended to impress. Raoul’s sketch of Jamey isn’t nearly as good as the paintings Driscoll has done: one with gilded pigments that looks like an Ancient Russian icon, another a pop-art production which strangely makes Jamey look only the more innocent and natural for all its glaring colors. Which isn’t to say Raoul’s sketch was poor. Raoul is an excellent artist, a realist who represents perfectly what everybody sees. He simply lacks Driscoll’s talent for seeing the truth beneath the surface and representing it in surprising ways.
“A remarkable likeness of Sir James,” Sir Kaman agrees.
“I’ve never understood why you prefer to be called Sir James instead of Prince James,” comments Lwrence, Sir Kaman’s husband, the famous gourd salad chef. “A prince outranks a knight.”
Jamey signs to him. Sir Kaman translates as Lwrence does not know GSSL. “He says that the title of prince consort is one he was given as a matter of course upon his marriage, but that he earned the title of knight. As such, he is prouder of the knighthood.”
“That’s interesting.” I turn to Jamey. “Does Lorcan feel the same way?”
Of course, he signs. I’m the white knight, and he’s the black.