The Verse:
Rainbow dust and poetry
Mushrooms and a fairy tree.
The Vision:
A K’ntasari is standing over me. Gravely, he asks, “Why?”
I can’t stop laughing.
Commentary by Archbishop Co’oal Venesti:
If I did have anything to say about this, I don’t believe I’d better say it.
Commentary by Elma, High Prophetess of Skarsia:
Oh you guys.
Commentary by Archbishop Seth:
I happened to be emanated when Malachi made the request that Tara accompany him in a return to Eden. “Malachi?” she said. “That guy is smooth. I’ve never had someone use the Socratic method to get me into bed before.” The incident is instructive, and since it is not otherwise touched-upon in the prophecies, I’ll report it here.
It was Malachi’s first time on Dolparessa. He and Tara were on the verandah, under the stars. For a while, they were silent, appreciating the cool breeze coming up from the churning sea on an otherwise hot night. Then he turned to her, taking her hand, and said, “Tara, is your hand capable of feeling?”
She was mildly surprised at the question. “Of course it is. That’s what hands are for.”
“But you are so much more than your hand.”
“That’s certainly true, but it doesn’t negate my earlier statement.”
“But right now, your ears don’t feel the sensation of the warmth of my hand in yours.”
“You’re not touching my ear.”
“Yet it still hears my voice.”
“Ears are designed to pick up sound waves. They’re for remote sensing. They couldn’t function nearly as well if they had to be in physical contact with the object making the sound. But surely you know all this? It has to be in somebody’s branch.” She was getting a little exasperated at the puzzlingly obvious line of questioning.
But he pressed on. “If your ears function so well, why do you need your hands?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! My hands are necessary for interacting with the world. I suppose I could survive without them, but I wouldn’t want to. Besides, touch and hearing are two entirely different senses that both provide a wealth of different data.” She had that tone in her voice which said that the conversation was finished.
Malachi took her hand and brought it up to his lips. He gazed directly into her eyes. “Then you yourself have answered the question that has plagued you all these years.”
“What?”
“The emanations are the Mover’s way of interacting with the world. He is so much more than any one of us, and he has other means of gathering data, ways as inexplicable and foreign to us as invisible, intangible sound waves are to my fingers.” He kissed her hand. “Nevertheless, I love you, Tara, with all my heart and soul. The Mover feels that, as surely as your hand feels the touch of my lips.”
Commentary by Her Eminence Tara del D’myn, 6th Matriarch of Skarsia:
I hadn’t been back to Eden since Malachi emanated and created the mushrooms. He had told Seth that he needed to return here to help with Cüinn’s work: despite the fact that every nau’gsh taproot reaches towards the hidden energy source of the nul-universe, the tree’s sensorium isn’t equipped to perceive the bizarre chemistry of its origin. Malachi believed that it would be possible to make some alterations to the mushrooms and extend their mycorrhizal symbiosis to include the exchange of data.
However, it hadn’t escaped my notice that Atlas has mushrooms too, and it would have been just as easy to do this on Dolparessa. Maybe Malachi felt more at home working with his own tree. I believed that he had an ulterior motive.
I had become quite close to some of Goliath’s emanations, but my relations with Goliath itself were strained. My initial reaction was to be horrified and confused at its very existence. My second return was practical: to retrieve an apple as I had promised Ari. The emanation of Malachi and the creation of the mushrooms had soon consumed my attention.
In addition, I had insulted Goliath upon Dalgherdia, an insult which had pushed Ari to the edge of immolation. At the time, I had my personal reasons to blindly insist that Ashtara was the mothman, his nau’gsh mere vessels for his life-force.
I would hardly consider the emanations to be mere vessels for his life-force. I would hardly consider Atlas that way. Before I loved Daniel, I loved Atlas. Then surely Goliath was also an entity unto itself.
As before, we landed in a field near the tree. Except for the small grove of K’ntasari, Goliath dominated a flat, blue plain. The tree was as tall and wide as a mountain. I knew from Clive’s measurements that it was exactly the same volume and mass as Atlas. Otherwise, it couldn’t have been more different. Atlas was monstrous; Goliath was perfectly symmetrical: one central trunk ringed with six sub-trunks and then eighteen sub-trunks in an outer ring. Its bark and leaves looked painted by an artist’s hand. Its silvery roots were adorned with dozens of button-cute blue-green mushrooms. It was a tree from a fairy tale.
I approached it slowly; Malachi hung behind me, as if waiting to see what I would do. “Hello,” I said, placing my hand against the warm bark.
Every flower on the tree opened. Only eleven branches had flowers; eight of those eleven had fruit. The Cu’enashti nau’gsh is unusual among trees in that it is possible for it to bear flowers and fruit at the same time.
“I can’t tell who is who,” I said, a little disconcerted. “I remember that eastern branch in the middle ring is Manasseh – but these all look alike to me. The Atlas branches all resemble their emanations. Cillian’s is dark and gnarled; Evan’s is thin and elegant; Ailann’s is enormous, towering into the sky.”
“Davy did it systematically. Ari is in the center. Then starting from Manasseh, it goes Aran, Valentin, Thomas, myself, and Constantine. Lucius is in front of Manasseh, and then Seth, Ethan, Barnabas and Marius follow. I’m afraid it isn’t very imaginative.”
“Wait, but the emanations all seemed absolutely suitable to the circumstances – they came when they were needed. How could Davy have known what order to put them in?”
Malachi shrugged. “How does Davy do anything he does? I wish I had half his skill.” Malachi bent down to touch one of the mushrooms. “I can only create to specifics. Fortunately, Cüinn has a very good idea exactly what sort of data will be needed.”
I touch Malachi on the shoulder. “You have other strengths.” I gazed again at Goliath. “You know, I can see it now. It’s subtle, but your branch arches with a sort of lush foliage, whereas Ari is very straight, almost geometrical.”
“It wasn’t like that before,” he said. “We’re growing.”
“Then in time, Goliath won’t be so perfect,” I said. “Good.”
Malachi stood and began to recite:
A sweet disorder in the branch
Kindles in trees a wantonness:
A lawn about the rootlets thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring twig, which here and there
Enthrals the silver bark to wear:
A bough neglectful, and thereby
Flora to flow confusedly:
A winning flutter of the leaves,
In the tempestuous foliage:
A careless flower, in whose bee
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch thee than when art
Is too precise in every part.
“That was amazing,” I said. “Davy could never parody Robert Herrick. Davy could never parody Dr. Seuss.” I bent down to pick a mushroom. “Are these poisonous?”
“No, but you wouldn’t exactly want to eat them. They’re strong psychedelics.”
“Your point?” I said, popping one into my mouth. “What’s the dosage for these?”
“I have no idea. They weren’t designed for that purpose.” Malachi stooped in resignation. “I suppose we might as well find out,” he said, picking a mushroom of his own.
“Not too bad,” I said. “A bit like shitakiminis or thumper mushrooms. Psilocybin mushrooms taste like mold.”
“Have you ever eaten mold?”
I sat down beneath the enormous tree, resting my back against the warm bark. It was a flowerless sub-trunk, meaning I hadn’t yet met the man it would become. “Actually, yes. There’s a psychotropic mold from Frangfrang. Frangfrang is an interesting place – it was colonized by ecologists who were adamant about not terraforming. So some pretty unique things come from Frangfrang. I was growing chobeh-mold on Volparnu, but it’s illegal to grow on Dolparessa. Nobody worries much about invasive species on Volparnu – anything that can survive there is welcome to it.”
“You don’t have to worry about that on Dolparessa, either,” said Malachi. “Or here. If we don’t like it, it won’t grow. Animals are different. We don’t mess with animals.”
He came to sit next to me. His jacket was a rough wool on a warm day, rubbing against my skin. “Aren’t you hot?” I asked.
“Shirtsleeves seem a bit informal.”
“Is this a formal occasion?”
“I suppose it is. We’ve never met this branch. It wouldn’t do to be too familiar.”
“You don’t know anything about him?”
“He’s a mash-up of Ross and Sloane. Davy says his name is Alexander.”
“Ross and Sloane,” I murmured. “That’s a powerful combination. He’s a vibrant kyanophyll blue.”
“The same blue as the rest of the tree, I think.”
“No, no, the tree is all different colors. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. Look, see how Seth’s branch is purple?”
Malachi stood, planting his hands on his hips. “I don’t see it.”
“Well, it’s not quite, it’s not exactly…in this universe, is it? I’m not sure it’s the nul-universe either. If I had some paint, I could show you.”
“I don’t think paint is a good idea,” said Malachi slowly. “Here, try this.” He extended cupped hands filled with brilliant purple powder. “Vegetable dyes. They’ll wash off with the rain.”
“It’s too dark. It should be a bit more plummy. Well, it will have to do.” I scooped up a bit and smeared it on Seth’s branch. “This is a big tree. It will take too long this way. I know.” I scooped up more and then blew on it, so that the dye scattered in the leaves. “Help me.”
“What color is Ethan?”
“Deep blue, like a bloobird. And Barnabas is a paler blue.”
But Barnabas was hard to reach. I climbed into the tree.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s ok,” I said, swinging from Barnabas. “He can hold my weight. He picked me up in front of the whole damn High Council.” At the base of the tree, Malachi blew mightily into a handful of scarlet dust, which immediately filled the air. I coughed. “Take it easy,” I said. Scarlet granules settled on my skin. I straddled Barnabas, clinging with my thighs while I examined my blue and purple palms. “Huh. This is going to be messy. No way around that.”
“Lucius?”
“Lucius is a very pale yellow.”
“Oh, that’s easy. We can just use chalk.”
I climbed down from Barnabas. The ground seemed to bounce a little under my feet as I landed. “Are there earthquakes here?”
“I should hope not,” said Malachi, from inside his cloud of chalk dust. “I think I need some fresh air.”
“I need magenta.”
“Who is magenta?”
“Aran.”
“He’ll never live that down, you know.”
“The SongLuminants think that magenta is a color of evil and danger.”
“What color is Manasseh?”
“Ugh, it’s a dusty purple color, maybe lavender. No, thistle.”
After what seemed like an hour of decorating the tree – of course, there was no real way to know how much time had elapsed – it was covered with every color of the rainbow – and so were we. The drug was in full effect; it seemed to be causing the brain to perceive multiple universes simultaneously. The universes glimpsed were more-or-less random. It was a unique perspective, but made linear thinking difficult.
Here’s what I remember:
Malachi is on the ground. He’s discarded his Technicolor wool jacket. “Bunnies,” he says.
“La la la,” I reply. “Stew.”
“Quiet,” says Malachi. “They’re listening.”
“Who? The K’ntasari?”
“The corn. Cornfields are nosy.”
“You know, in all the horror vids, there’s something really evil hiding in the corn. Zombies. Demon children.”
“Tara, we’re hiding in the corn.”
“You’re freaking me out.”
Somehow, we are naked. Our skins are smeared with pigments, like we are participating in some ancient tribal initiation. And a K’ntasari is standing next to us, tall and golden. “Why?” he says, pointing at Goliath.
“It’s the Minutum Mundum sive Fundamental Coloris,” says Malachi.
“Don’t mind him, he’s weird,” I say. “It was just something to do.”
“The sun is the wrong size,” I say.
“You’re just used to the sun on Dolparessa. It’s bigger there.”
“Well, I want to make the sun bigger. Or maybe make two of them.”
“There are already two of them, counting you.”
“Tara,” says Malachi, very quietly. “There’s something the Mover needs you to know.”
I roll onto my stomach so that I can look him directly in the eyes. “Tell me,” I say.
“It’s really personal.”
“Tell me,” I urge.
“Well, all those times that you thought that the Mover was manipulating you, playing with your heart and mind? When he’s let a relationship with one of us build to an incredible intensity, and the next day, another emanation is in your bed?”
“Yes?”
“A branch can carry only so much fruit, Tara.”
“You mean that the relationship got too intense.”
“No. I mean exactly what I said. There’s such a thing as too much pollination.”
“Oh.”
“That’s why you won’t see Patrick for a while. His branch is on the verge of breaking.”
I have to think about that for a while. After all, as a xenobotanist, I should have realized. It’s hard to think, though, with the leaves leaping like shards in a kaleidoscope.
A thought drifts past me, like a moth. It takes my hand several swipes through the air before I can grasp it. It’s a tanzaku. Ash has written a letter to me. Well, not quite a letter. A word.
It’s all clear now.
The word is harvest.
I’m at Aran’s branch, which is the most heavily laden with fruit. I pick an apple. “Will it synergize?” I ask.
Malachi falls to his knees. Tears are streaming out of his eyes. “Please,” he says.
I take a bite.
There are some men, like Tommy, for whom heart and groin operate on completely separate circuits. He’s a romantic, and there’s no doubt in my mind that he pines over me. But sex with him is a romp: it’s dirty, it’s playful, it’s a panoply of toys and positions.
Malachi is not like that. He’s serious. Sex is sacred and profound, and he approaches it with gravity. But I know naughty Davy is in there somewhere; I just have to find the right combination of buttons to push.
It’s difficult to find the right buttons when you’re not sure which universe you’re in, though. I can see straight through him, see how he’s connected to the tree, root and branch and emanation, all one system of pulsing, illuminated non-light.
Now Malachi is blue, opalescent blue. Made of fire. He’s kissing me, and sparks leap from his lips. His eyes are swirling with energy. My fingers brush against the soft petals of his wings.
He’s trying to say something to me. His voice is distant and strange. “Become beautiful with me.” He’s urgent. “I want every sky to be ours.”
“Ash?”
“Desire,” he says. “Bump energy.”
I straddle him. I can feel the taproot extending down into the nul-universe. I can feel his cock extending up into me. It’s the same thing.
My own energy. Animal energy. Prana, chi, the chakras, whatever you call it. It’s hot. Nul-energy is cold. Where they meet, new forms of being arise.
Malachi is moaning and clutching at the stalks of corn. I knew I could open him up.
“It’s not bad,” I said. “I wish I could market something like that. I’ve never made a psychedelic, though. Quality control issues. The results are always too unpredictable. It would be nice if there were some way to prevent the occasional bad trip.”
“I could design something like that,” said Malachi quietly. “Perhaps a drug that ceases to work if the neurochemistry associated with negative emotions is present.”
“Or flip it. The drug needs to be catalyzed by positive emotions. If you’re not having fun, it won’t work. But the happier you are, the harder you trip.”
“That would actually be easier. There are a wide variety of negative emotions. But a generalized state of well-being would require only one or two triggers.”
“It will make a fortune. I’ll call it Happy Trails.”