I crouch near the penjing pot. “Quennel is really sexy, don’t you think?”
“You should’ve seen him in fruit. Fruit doesn’t miniaturize nearly as well as leaves and branches, though. I had to harvest it all before he broke some twigs.”
“They had a bet about who would pollinate him first. It was Evan. But Wynne was the one who made out on it – Evan doesn’t gamble.”
“Evan? No way! That little slut.”
“Quennel is completely infatuated with Evan. Evan was always a bit of a popinjay, and now Quennel is designing for him.”
“That figures.”
“Wait. How did I know that?”
The world seems to rock a little. I tip forward, steadying myself by gripping the rim of the enormous penjing pot.
Rand.
Rand!
Suddenly, there are dozens of voices shouting my name. One of them is Tara. “Rand? Did you have another branchback?”
“No. I can hear them. I can…”
Suddenly, my arms lift, and I dissolve into light.
*****
I’m alone. I’m standing in the center of a room of whitewashed clay, hung with silks and tapestries, a couch piled high with cushions and pillows, a bed that is the same. The fabrics are rich tones of yellow, orange, rose, gaily striped or embroidered. A lantern swings from the ceiling; there is a brass sink and washtub in the corner next to a vase full of sweetly scented flowers. It opens into a small courtyard of pleasantly breezy shade. It feels comfortable; it feels perfect.
There’s an open archway leading into a beautiful atrium with a central fountain. Encircling the fountain is a pit filled with pillows, and outside of that, short tables matched with squat upholstered stools. The central archway is surrounded by eleven arches, nine of which are sealed in stone. The largest arch, however, leads outside.
I venture out. The exterior looks like some grand Persian palace, circular in design. On all sides it is faced by gardens, except directly in front, where an enormous ship in the shape of a swan is moored on the ocean. Across the strait are two towers, one which seems to extend both above and below the water. The second, streamlined and metallic, is joined by a walkway to the first.
I board the ship. There’s a stateroom below deck, and a dining area which seems too large for the rest of the craft.
The stateroom door opens. It’s a very handsome man in an exquisitely tailored suit. He extends his hand. “Quennel,” he says. “We’ve been waiting for you.” His skin is warm against mine, and I realize that I am no longer alone. I blink back the tears as he leads me inside.
The passage across the strait is swift. “You’d never think we were galaxies away from the other trees,” says Quennel. “The Yggdrasil emanations can get there even faster. Oh, you don’t always have to wait for me to come with the ship. There’s a tunnel below the atrium of your palace that connects directly to the apartment complex.”
The stateroom is beautiful, furnished in an ancient nautical design. The woodwork is oak, of course. I sit in a large, leatherworked captain’s chair.
“Everything’s fine now,” Quennel says. “Lens reports that our course is clear, for a while, at least.” He rests his hand upon my shoulder. “You were amazing. You managed a really bad situation on your own.”
“What if I get cut off from the rest of you?” I’m frightened now. It’s so good to not be alone, but it seems so fragile.
“The Ashvattha Archon is coming soon. He’s supposed to reunite the colonists after all this trouble. Soon you’ll have a companion living in your palace. It’s much better than the apartments, even if it is a bit pretentious.”
There is a gentle thunk as the boat bumps against the dock. “Come on,” he says, taking my arm. “I’ll bet Tara is already there. We’re missing the party.”
*****
When we reach Daniel’s apartment, the literary circle is holding a meeting. They are discussing erotica.
The term ‘making love’ makes me want to vomit, says Lorcan. Greenish-yellow vomit with chunks.
If you mean ‘fuck,’ say ‘fuck,’ agrees Cillian.
My opinion differs, says Dermot. I admit that ‘making love’ is a trite expression, but ‘fuck’ is crude.
And it skews the demographic, says Patrick. Say ‘lovemaking’ and anyone can read it. The minute you say ‘fuck,’ you have to slap warning labels all over the work.
But it opens the door to better things, says Cillian. Like ‘she sucked his enormous cock.’
Crude, says Patrick.
Trite, says Dermot. Think of the descriptors for ‘cock.’ We have enormous, hot, wet, massive, stiff, hard and throbbing. That’s it – the literary idiom is exhausted.
You forgot humungous and aching, says Cillian.
We just need to develop new metaphors, says Lorcan.
He fired his torpedo into her hole, Cillian suggests.
No, says Patrick.
No, says Dermot.
I have to agree with them, says Lorcan. Absolutely not.
Cillian may be advocating nonviolence, but his choice of metaphors betrays him, says Dermot.
Don’t get started with that deconstruction shit, Cillian warns. I’ll kick your ass.
My point, Dermot ripostes.
I’m being massively misrepresented, says Cillian. I never said I was against violence. I said that war was obsolete. But there’s a big difference between a full-scale war and a good ass-kicking.
Speaking of terminology, I can’t object enough to the horrific term “budder,” says Driscoll. Might I suggest instead the term onii-chan? It’s a phrase used often in holome to denote “Dearest brother for whom I have an incestuous desire.”
That has possibilities, muses Cillian.
On that note, Rand is here, says Quennel.
Nice to meet you, onii-chan, says Lorcan. Did you say something earlier about wanting to pollinate me?
Tara says Rand should go straight to her room, says Whirljack.
Dude, have a beer first, says Blackjack, pressing a cup into my hand.
He’s the living embodiment of n’aashet n’aaverti, says Whirljack. I think he’ll want to go right to see Tara.
Tarlach puts his arm around me. Go on, he says. You’ll have plenty of time to hang out with us later.
I know he’s right, but at this moment, I just want to kiss them all. I’m so happy to see them.
Before you go, says Malachi, there’s something you need to know. The 45th emanation won’t do any better than you did in expressing the Mover’s will to Tara. He’d be lucky to do as well. But the Mover gave up on the idea of creating a perfect emanation a long time ago. Now that Tara can safely exist within the pleroma, the paradigm has shifted from exemplar to mosaic.
Oh? says Dermot. This is new.
Yes, says Malachi. His intent is that he can use multiple emanations to reveal a complete image of his being. Once there are enough of us, Tara should be able to see the pattern.
How the fuck many is enough? asks Cillian, but I never hear the answer. Whirljack is guiding me gently towards the door leading to Tara’s childhood chambers.
A little tentatively, I knock. She opens the door, beckoning me in.
I wanted some time with you alone, she says. Mickey is outside now, but the plan is for Cillian to emanate, and then the new Archon. So it may be a while before I see you again, at least in the flesh.
I sit next to her. I can feel the tears starting again, but I must not cry. It’s getting ridiculous. What I’ve experienced these past two days is nothing compared to the ordeals of some of the others.
It’s going to be all right now, I tell her.
She rests her head against my shoulder. Ash, she says. It will be all right as long as you don’t leave me again.
I can’t promise that absolutely, I reply. But I can tell you that it isn’t going to happen as far in the distance as Lens can see. And never forever. I’ll always find a way to get back to you.
She sighs. I suppose I should be grateful that you won’t make a promise you can’t keep.
I can’t lie to you. Remember that. If you ever need the truth, come find me.
I trust you, she says.