Toxicodendron radicans is toxic to humans, and as such the original colonists of the Domha’vei did not include it in the genetic banks used to terraform Skarsia. While the properties of poison ivy as a skin irritant are well-known, a more obscure fact is that when burned, inhaling its smoke can be fatal to humans. It is an invasive plant, spreading by creeping rootstock. T. radicans was completely eliminated from Terra, but because of the vast number of cultural references to the plant, an example was kept in the Extinction Wing of the Matriarchal Botanical Garden. There it stayed until the current Matriarch’s direct ancestor, Wild Phil von H’sslr, ran afoul of Battlequeen Tova’ar when she found him on her four-poster with the Mistress of the Bedchamber, who seems to have taken her title a bit too literally. The battlequeen, who had ties to the curator of the garden, managed to get a sample of the weed, planting it in a clearing which von H’sslr was known to use for his trysts. Since that day, poison ivy has spread rapidly and is considered the third most invasive plant on Skarsia.
Illustration from Chandler B. Beach, The New Student’s Reference Work, 1914.
When we first decided to record our experiences, I began to write a novel. I quickly abandoned responsibility for the project to Patrick. This time, I’m going to finish.
I’m on the couch between Ellery and Cillian. Ellery’s head is resting upon my shoulder. Long ago, I used to sit in an enormous chair in the corner. It’s big enough, actually, to fit both Mickey and Lucius comfortably. Tommy took Mickey’s old chair at the card table after we kicked him off the couch.
Long ago, I used to sit in an enormous chair in the corner, but when Daniel’s room suddenly opened out into the rest of the pleroma, I found my own dwelling and locked myself away. Theologians refer to the phenomenon as deus absconditus. Most of humanity’s major religions grapple with the topic. Why does this hidden god abandon the world? What is He doing when He withdraws His divine presence?
Based upon my own experience, I can answer those questions:
- He is under an unimaginable amount of stress.
- He is drinking. A lot.
Well, that’s all over. I haven’t had a drink in more than a week.
« Don’t set yourself up for failure, » says Chase. « You have to grow one leaf at a time. »
You quit cold turkey.
« That’s different. After what happened, I just didn’t need Black Opium-27 anymore. In your case, you still feel like you need a drink, don’t you? »
Ellery squeezes my hand. « If you numb the pain, you numb the love, too, » he says quietly. « For all of us. For Tara. »
« You’re our heart. I’ll never betray you. I’ve changed. »
« Ailann, remember that we’re all here for you, » says Tarlach.
« Thank you. »
Tarlach means well. Why is he so annoying?
Lorcan grins. « Because to offer help, however sincere, is to assert a position of superiority. »
Ouch. Now I really need a drink.
« Is that anything to say to God? » asks Tarlach.
« He needs to look at himself objectively, » Lorcan shoots back. « And your roots are planted in the same soil. »
Tarlach shrugs. « One of the great difficulties in accepting help is admitting a position of helplessness. »
« Ailann is much more disturbed by Lorcan’s comment than Tarlach, » Ross observes.
« That’s because Tarlach knows what he is, and he’s comfortable with it, » says Lorcan. He puts his arm around the psychologist and gives him a quick kiss on the side of the forehead. « Ailann, on the other hand…»
Cillian puts his hand on my shoulder, but he says nothing. I understand that he doesn’t have to offer his help – I can just take whatever I need. I let it rest there. What I need now is his surprising, unspoken warmth.
« I think what Chase is trying to say is that you should just go ahead and write, » says Patrick. « You can deal with problems as they arise. If you get yourself into a bad spot, you can always edit. It’s too bad life isn’t like that. »
« I tried retconning life, » says Sloane. « It doesn’t work. It spoils the authenticity of the narrative. »
« Listen to Patrick, » says Cillian. « He used to be a great writer, until he started reading fanfic. That stuff will rot your roots. »
Patrick looks embarrassed. Everyone knows he subscribes to Jack-Off, a media push site for Two of Jacks fandom, but he doesn’t like to talk about it, especially in front of Whirljack. Of course, Whirljack knows and doesn’t mind. In fact, Whirljack knows what Tara doesn’t – Patrick is posting there under the pseudonym AppleJack. In the pleroma, privacy consists of pretending that we have secrets.
I glance around the room. When I was first emanated, there was mutual sympathy and furtive longing. Now everything is more overt, more intense, relationships grown into passionate attachments. Some are open about their loves; Quennel and Evan are curled up together on Daniel’s bed. On the floor, Davy and Axel are playing backgammon while Manasseh and Suibhne watch. Axel and Suibhne are openly lovers, as are Davy and Manasseh. What goes unspoken is the much older, probably deeper, attachment between Suibhne and Davy. To say that Davy wanted Suibhne the moment he saw him is wrong; Davy wanted Suibhne before he had eyes to see.
« Ailann, » says Mickey gently, « you’re getting ahead of yourself. »
All right, then let me begin in a sensible place. It’s easier this time. This story has a very definite beginning, or at least, it seems to; in the end it reaches back farther than we ever thought we could remember. I’ll start with Tara and Patrick on their way home to Dolparessa after the close of the Skarsian Court on Eirelantra. They were eager to return as Tara had experienced an upsetting vision while under the influence of the blue amrita, a vision of a war between the different sub-species of Cu’endhari. Their uneasiness proved to be most justified.
*****
Tara was asleep in Patrick’s arms. His first awareness that something was wrong was the spike in her heartbeat. It was caused by the sound of screaming, a woman’s voice, shrill with grief and panic, calling, “Ashtara! Help us!”
If a human had been observing, it would’ve seemed that Patrick responded immediately. In actuality, his first priority was in assuring himself that the danger was not to Tara. It was only then he identified the voice as belonging to the High Prophetess Wyrd Elma. She was upset. This was unusual. Elma was generally so buffered she could regard a nearby supernova with amused detachment.
This reasoning took place in microseconds. Patrick was out of bed and across the room before Tara could kick back the comforter. She stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the foyer, where the Mistress of the Bedchamber, Lady Magdelaine Lorma, was already trying to restrain a hysterically sobbing Elma. Elma’s hair was wild and her pupils wide, which meant that she was almost certainly on Gyre. Whatever she had seen, it must’ve been horrifying in order to puncture the misty bubble of well-being characteristic of the visionary drug.
Tara gathered the weeping woman in her arms, shooting a confused glance at Patrick. In all their years of knowing the prophetess, they had never seen her in such a state. “The Cantor Tree…” Elma gasped.
Before Patrick could respond to her, his body stepped forward, raising its arms. Lord Danak arrived at the door with a security contingent, just in time to see the figure of the Prince Consort burst into blue light, revealing an alien being that humans called the mothman, a composite form which we of the pleroma called alternately I and I, the Mover, Self, or by our true name, Ashtara.
The soldiers froze, stunned at the display of raw power hovering in air. In this form, non-living matter was a permeable membrane; I and I flew through the bulkhead and out into space. It would take Him only a minute to arrive at the nearest crystal in the power grid, less than a minute to ride that grid back to our point of origin, the Atlas Tree on Dolparessa.
“He looks…different…” gasped Lord Danak. “He has legs.”
It was a long story,* and not one that Tara wanted to tell at this moment – or any moment, really, but the crisis provided a convenient excuse to ignore the question. “Never mind that now,” she replied. “Elma, what’s going on?”
Before the prophetess could answer, Lord Danak said, “Your Eminence, I came to get you for an emergency briefing. You need to see what’s on the live news push. We can monitor the images from the reception room.”
By the time they reached that destination, Lady Lorma had enabled a holoprojector and opened the push portal. At first, the scenes were confused, microcameras struggling to capture the most vivid images of what seemed to be a midnight riot, shouting, fighting, struggling shadows falling in and out of their 3-d view. Gradually, the viewers recognized Turquoise Head, the central site of Cu’endhari government. In the background, a brilliant flame burned against the night sky.
The Cantor Tree was on fire.
Elma screamed. Tara jumped to her feet and yelled, “Where’s the army? Where are the police?”
“Whatever troops we can spare are on their way,” said Danak.
“What do you mean ‘That we can spare’?”
Danak averted his eyes. “The instant we heard about the trouble, our first priority was, of course, to redouble the fortifications surrounding the Atlas Tree.” He looked ruefully at Elma. “You must understand, the entire power grid depends on the safety of the Archon.”
“Get the fucking troops up there, Danak!” Tara commanded.
“Look!” exclaimed Lady Lorma, pointing at the holographic image. The cameras had swooped back, pointing their lenses towards the sky, which was now filled with a blueblack radiance: the arrival of I and I.
From my own perspective, I could feel the mothman reaching back into the Atlas Tree, causing the roots to draw energy from the power grid. It was an easy augmentation of a natural process, since the Archon routinely controlled of the weather on Dolparessa. Back on the flagship, Tara could hear the distant, ominous rumble, see the sky split with lightning, rain coming down in torrents. If the flames were the natural burning of wood, they should soon be quenched.
But as I and I drew closer, He perceived that his response was incorrect. The flames persisted, fueled by the presence of a multitude of chemicals. Of course – a natural fire would have been easily stopped by the Cantor herself. The scent was complex, confused by the compounds recombining as they volatized. It took a moment for the mothman to understand their composition, a necessary step before performing the alchemy to neutralize them.
This was no accident. It was an assassination, and a very carefully planned one.
The bark sparkled with a seething blue radiance as the molecules popped and spun themselves into simple water. But it was too late. There was a horrible creaking as the secondary trunk gave way, crumbling to the ground in a crunch of charcoal. The Cantor’s massive trunk was blackened with soot, but otherwise undamaged. The attack had specifically been targeted at the emanation named Heavensent. The chemicals had been applied only on her branch.
I and I spun in the direction of the rioters. They noticed, much to their amazement, that unlike any other mothman, Ashtara now had a face.
It was an angry face.
The night was filled with screams and yelling as both factions panicked, fleeing the scene. Many dropped their human appearances entirely; the abundance of flickering green forms made it apparent how many of the people involved on both sides were Cu’enmerengi – dryads. A keen eye could make out the presence of tiny pinpoint lights, like pinkish fireflies. These were the Cu’ensali, known to humans as sprites.
Then the police arrived. A number of the people did not flee, nor did they resist. All of them had blue eyes. They were Cu’enashti who had been defending the tree.
It was dawn before the police could eject the media and fully establish a security perimeter. As they did, the Convocation of the Forest gathered at the site for an emergency meeting. Many of them had witnessed the tragedy of the night before, but Cu’endhari did not need sleep.
The Convocation was called by the Cantor, the traditional leader of the unified Cu’endhari species. In the Convocation, she also represented the Cu’enashti subspecies – the mothmen; Lady Claris del D’myn, Tara’s adopted cousin, was the elected leader of the Cu’enmerengi. The third subspecies, the Cu’ensali, had never bothered to send a leader to represent them at the Convocation. The other important leader was Lady Miranda, appointed by Ari the Wise to represent the K’ntasari. The K’ntasari weren’t true Cu’endhari; they had been created by Davy when the Eden asteroid had formed. But like the Cu’endhari, part of their life-cycle was bound to a treelike lifeform known as a nau’gsh.
They were joined by other important Cu’endhari including Ashpremma, Ashkaman, and Philosophia: or as they were known in their current human emanations, Malik, Raoul and Lilith. By this time, the mothman had assumed one of our emanations – actually, two of them, the brothers Lugh and Owen Carrick. Owen inspected the damage on the ruined tree; Lugh went immediately to the Cantor.
The air was redolent with scents: charred wood, petrochemicals, blood, wet grass. To Lugh, it was all too familiar – the smell of burning memories, the part of himself that was vaporized that time when Owen’s branch had been blown off of Atlas. The heat from the explosion had been so intense it caused Whirljack’s nearby branch to split down the middle. Lugh’s eyes, meeting Owen’s, said everything: the half of my soul that was almost lost to me. Owen touched Lugh’s arm briefly as if to say: we’re all right – we’re both still here.
The same could not be said of the Cantor Tree.
The Cantor was bent over the blackened branch; its bark was charred and frosted with ash. She said what Owen knew to be true, but he would never have dared to say it: “There’s nothing left worth saving.” She raised her gaze to meet his. He understood; it made him feel vaguely accused, as though his own survival had been a criminal act.
She rose to address the assembly. “We have existed over a millennium,” she began, “and never has such an abomination occurred. I had thought our people to be incapable of murder.”
“No Cu’enashti could!” a woman screamed. “The Cu’enmerengi did this!”
They were both conveniently forgetting that I and I had killed on several occasions. He had killed humans, He had killed non-human sentients, but He had never even imagined killing His own kind. Lugh wondered whether correcting her would make the situation better or worse. Owen understood the truth behind the glaring omission. I and I didn’t count. Ashtara, the Living God of the Domha’vei, was an exception to everything. He wasn’t thought of as a Cu’enashti anymore.
As might be imagined, the remark infuriated Lady Claris. “You can’t blame all of us for the radical actions of a few. And you’re exaggerating in order to stir up more trouble. The Cantor Tree isn’t dead, so no murder was committed.”
Owen could not find words for his outrage. Others were more vocal. Lady Merhna pushed her way to the front. She was one of the more important voices in the forest, well-respected, even idolized by the Cu’enashti because she had been the first to marry under Cu’endhari Law. Even I and I was a little in awe of her. “How dare you say that? You can’t know – how could you know what it’s like to share your existence with another branch? Now the Cantor is alone, and Elma’ashra has lost a part of herself that she can never regain!”
The crowd murmured in angry assent.
“How can we trust the dryads?” Merhna continued. “They don’t know what it’s like to love. They don’t have a Chosen, they don’t have multiple emanations, they’re really little better than fungus!”
The angry murmur grew louder. “Wait a minute,” said Lugh, raising his arms. “Claris was right about one thing. Only a small group of Cu’enmerengi were involved in the atrocity. There were Cu’enmerengi here who fought to protect the Cantor Tree.”
“The Cu’enmerengi saboteurs had help,” said Lady Miranda. “Cu’ensali.”
“What?” Claris turned to her, startled.
“I saw them when I inspected the holographic push.”
“I and I sensed them,” Owen agreed. “But by the time He’d extinguished the fire, they’d gone.”
“Cu’ensali,” murmured the Cantor. “Then the Matriarch’s vision was correct.”
Merhna and Claris looked to her expectantly. “Her Eminence had a vision – some kind of trouble caused by the Cu’ensali,” she explained. “That’s why Heavensent returned here while the High Council was still is session on Eirelantra.”
“But you didn’t think to share that information,” Claris accused.
“There was no point in causing a panic over something…”
“Everybody knows that the Matriarch’s visionary power is second only to the High Prophetess,” said Merhna. “It was important, and the Convocation should’ve been warned.”
“Instigators,” said Claris. “That explains it. My people aren’t violent. They would have never done this on their own. But think about it – what do we really know about the Cu’ensali?”
“They don’t stay around long after the grand jeté,” said the Cantor. “I had assumed it was because their intelligence was too low to appreciate the teachings, but maybe…”
“We assumed that they were like us, but who knows?” pressed Claris. “You can’t really communicate with them.”
“They do understand language,” said the Cantor.
“Enough to insult you,” said Malik. There was a murmur of assent.
“That’s true,” said Raoul. “If you encounter them in the forest, if they say anything before flying away, it’s something mean-spirited or rude.”
“They don’t like us,” said Lugh. “That doesn’t mean they want to kill us. They’ve done a pretty good job of avoiding us so far. And just because they were on the scene doesn’t mean that they caused the fire. Maybe they were drawn by the excitement. There were humans here, too, all kinds of journalists, and they had nothing to do with it.”
“Sophistry,” said Claris. “Everybody knows what a journalist is, what they do. They prey on disasters, but they don’t cause them. They’re like vultures.”
“The same logic you used about your people is true here. Even if Cu’ensali were involved, a few sprites gone bad doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re all dangerous.”
“Why are you defending them?” asked Lilith.
“He isn’t defending the guilty,” said Owen. “He’s saying that we shouldn’t take our anger out on the innocent.”
“Cu’ensali and Cu’enmerengi are totally different,” said Claris. “The Cu’enmerengi have been a part of the forest from the beginning. We fought for our freedom; we contribute to Cu’endhari culture. The Cu’ensali have never done anything worthwhile.”
“Claris has a point,” said Miranda. “Cu’enashti, Cu’enmerengi and K’ntasari cooperate in mutual civilization. Cu’ensali reject the unity of the forest. They cannot be trusted.”
“I don’t believe this,” muttered Lady Merhna. “This is such an obvious attempt to shift the blame away from the real traitors amongst the Cu’enmerengi. We don’t know anything about the Cu’ensali except that they were there. Well, I was there, defending the Cantor Tree! The one certain thing we know is that the attackers were Cu’enmerengi. Personally, I don’t feel comfortable speaking in front of them. Who knows if there are infiltrators among them?”
“There could be infiltrators anywhere,” Claris protested. “Among humans. Among the K’ntasari.”
“Claris, you aren’t making this better,” said Lugh, helplessly.
“Of course,” screamed Merhna. “Blame humans! You don’t know what it’s like to have a family! Any Cu’enashti knows in root and sap that our fate is bound to humans. They would never hurt us.”
“Yeah, right,” said Claris. “Remember Guinnebar the Pretender?”
“There is no evidence of human involvement,” said Owen firmly. “Let’s just stop with the paranoid accusations and wait for some real facts. The police are combing the villages, and Mickey will put SSOps on the case. The Matriarch has already ordered protection for our leaders in case of further attacks. We’re going to fortify Turquoise Head the way we did Starbright Point. So let’s go home and not do anything rash.”
“There must be justice,” said the Cantor.
“You’ll have it. I give my word.” But in reality, Owen was worrying much less about justice, and much more about the almost certain possibility of another attack.
*It’s a sex kink. If you really want to know, the entire story is contained in The Portable Grove, but you’ll regret your curiosity. It’s a work of dubious scientific merit disguising a propensity for the most perverse sort of smut – trans.