“Here for the party-planning?” Tara asks.
I nod. “There’s so much to be done.” But really, that isn’t it at all.
My heart isn’t in it.
And now that I’ve emanated, everyone is going to know all about it. I can’t hide my thoughts.
I can’t stop thinking about Lorcan, reminded of the time that Tara took the blue amrita and shared Hurley’s dream. Jamey was hanging on a cross in Lorcan’s apartment. The strange thing was that Tara left with Hurley, but I decided to stay. I don’t understand why.
Nor do I understand why a ridiculous hallucination under the influence of the amrita continues to haunt me. I’ve kept these things to myself until now. Because I’m generally a pain in the ass, no one checks my branch much. Among Cu’enashti branches, being an asshole is the closest you can get to having privacy.
Amen to that, mutters Lorcan.
Lorcan’s eyes are swollen and red with weeping. He snuck away last night when Lens was with Tara; despite what he said when he was emanated, he still held himself back from pollination.
What happened to you? I ask him. What happened when the Denolin killed you?
I don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to talk about it either. You want to ask me what happened at the end of Tara’s dream with Hurley. But nothing happened. Nothing happened. We came out of the trance the instant Tara wasn’t observing us anymore.
That isn’t true. You know that isn’t true.
Lorcan is silent.
You do remember.
Why don’t you talk to Ace? he asks.
Ace has nothing to do with it, I say, somewhat irritated.
Ace has everything to do with it. He emanated because you wanted a brother.
He emanated because Tara chose him.
Tara chose him because you wanted a brother.
I can’t talk to him.
Then talk to Hurley.
I especially can’t talk to Hurley.
Lorcan laughs. You’re as fucked up as I am.
Normally, that would be a barb, but there’s no malice in Lorcan’s voice. In fact, there’s more than a little desperation.
We’re changing. Especially you and me.
And Cillian, Lorcan adds.
Fuck off, says Cillian.
We’re growing, says Barnabas. That’s a good thing. I wish I would grow a little more.
I’m annoyed with Barnabas for interrupting our conversation. We grow in reaction to stress, I tell him a bit testily. To trauma. The problem with you and Ethan is that you’ve never had any trauma.
Hontou ni? says Ethan. I was held at gunpoint, with a nullet aimed at my head.
Sorry, loser, says Lorcan, but that’s pretty much nothing. Tara punched Driscoll in the mouth. I’d rather be disemboweled than have Tara strike me.
Lorcan unexpectedly starts to cry. These days, he cries at seemingly random occurrences.
I want to comfort him, which is also unexpected. I can’t bring myself to do it. Jamey holds him as he sobs. Again, I remember that strange scene in Tara’s vision. It seems that Jamey has accepted Lorcan’s perverse courtship.
Jamey remembers; I know it. But he won’t say anything. Not that he ever says anything.
I’m going to get to the party-planning, I announce. I’m none too enthusiastic about planning a party with Wynne involved. I remember what happened the last time.
With Wynne involved, just expect everything to go right, says Dermot. Don’t rely on things like melting ice and spackle mimes which take advantage of the normal properties of entropy.
I should probably give in and go with the whole casino theme. Dress the Panic-droids as Vegas showgirls. The theme of the celebration, in keeping with its cause, could be unlimited opportunity.
That’s like asking for the excesses of the Roman Empire, says Ailann.
I turn to address him. You’ve been unusually quiet lately, I reply.
I’ve been thinking. There’s so much going on, and not all of it immediately apparent. Do you want me to look in Jamey’s branch?
What?
If he does remember anything from Tara’s dream, it will be in his branch.
Jamey shrugs.
It is a solution, but I’m a little reluctant to let Ailann poke his leaves into my sunlight.
I just don’t get it, says Ethan, poking his leaves into my sunlight. Why do you want privacy?
Spoken like a man who has had precious little experience, I retort.
Driscoll uses distancing as a coping mechanism, says Tarlach.
Oh, look who’s here.
Sorry for not responding sooner, but I was just writing up Beat’s unique method of pollen distribution for the next issue of Xenobotanical Notes.
Please, don’t let me disturb you.
You’re as resistant to therapy as Lorcan used to be, says Tarlach.
I’m still resistant to therapy, Lorcan sniffles. I think it’s a pile of compost. I only put up with it because I know you’re trying to help.
Everyone is floored by this statement, except perhaps the Yggdrasil emanations because they don’t know Lorcan very well. The rest of us aren’t quite sure what to make of this uncharacteristic admission.
Lorcan starts to cry again. Tarlach sits next to him, placing a reassuring hand upon Lorcan’s back, rubbing it gently. He’s really having a bad time of it, says Tarlach. As for you, how do you feel about the fact that Wynne is down in Ace’s apartment?
What? Why should I care what Wynne does?
Because Ace is your brother – and he’s Wynne’s brother, too.
Tarlach, why are you so obsessed with brotherly love? snaps Whirljack.
It’s a sore spot for Whirljack – but Blackjack only giggles. Then Seth says, absolutely straight-faced, Every Cu’enashti knows that eros is superior to agape. Blackjack rocks with laughter.
Seth thinks too fucking much, says Cillian. Seth is so dense because his mind is constipated with a sewage sluice of thought too thick to allow sense to seep through.
A pungent idiom, I remark.
He wasn’t talking about agape, says Blackjack. He was talking about bromance. Brancest.
So was I, says Seth. I was thinking of agape as a descriptor of the pleroma we experience. Except that it’s an erotic community as well, so perhaps the term erogape might be more appropriate.
Isn’t an erogape a kind of sexy hologame? says Tommy.
The problem with the term is that agape refers to a generalized love for others, whereas strictly speaking, the community we experience is all part of the same entity.
Autoerogape? Seth suggests.
This is as exciting as the time Driscoll told us how he named his gallery, says Cillian.
The conversation is making you uncomfortable, says Beat. I’m not sure I understand why.
It’s because we’re supposed to be focused on Tara, says Whirljack. Anything that distracts from that, brancest, pollination fetish, whatever, just isn’t right.
Dude, says Blackjack, a branch has gotta fruit. And Tara thinks it’s kinky, so what’s the big problem?
Well, it is diverting us from the topic, says Tarlach. Namely, that Driscoll has distanced himself from all of us to avoid dealing with Tara’s rejection.
Do you understand that people of sophistication and taste never watch talk-show psychologists? There’s a reason for that. Now if I can’t use spackle-mimes, I’m going to have to figure out another form of interactive entertainment. Spackle-mimes are pretty much over, anyway.
Lorcan took Jamey down from that cross, says Ailann. Then he climbed on it himself.
No wonder I blocked it out. It’s horrifically tacky.
You were on your knees praying to him.
What if we have a game of human blackjack in the courtyard? I suggested. The players could wear cloaks which they removed as their cards were revealed.
I failed, Lorcan says. He looks absolutely devastated. Jamey tries to hug him, but Lorcan pulls away.
Don’t touch me, he says. I don’t deserve to be touched. I’m excited by the thought of going back to Tucana. A part of me wants to be defiled by that sickening creature over and over again.
Lorcan laughs hysterically. We all watch, appalled, until he doubles over onto the floor and begins to retch.
I’m going to call Chef Yuric about the menu, I announce.