As should be clear from the contents of this treatise, the definition of “weed” is purely cultural. In one set of circumstances, a plant might be considered economically valuable, in another worthless. Plants which are rare and exotic in certain climates are dangerously invasive in others. A plant respected, even considered sacred in one society might be detested in another. There is no more salient example than the Frasier fir. Once widely cultivated on Earth for display in holiday celebrations, the plant is now reviled in the Domha’vei for the disgusting ethnic slur it connotes. One is hard-pressed to find any Abies species on Skarsia; the specimens kept in the Matriarchal botanical gardens are under guard as they are objects of constant vandalism by devout Archonists. [In a side note, the practice of decorating trees for holidays is no longer practiced by the Christian minority of the Domha’vei, who claim that the tradition began with the pagan holiday of Yule and has been appropriated (along with the saint’s day) into the Archonist Valentine’s Festival. In the author’s humble opinion, the Valentine’s Festival was well on its way to being pagan before the Archonist Church officially adopted it into the festival calendar.]
Illustration from N.L. Britton and A. Brown: Illustrated Flora of the Northern States and Canada, 1913.
“I guess that I don’t get to stick around for long, huh?” said Manasseh.
Tara hugged him. “I’m afraid not. I wish it were different. It seems like I never get to spend much time with you.”
Manasseh shrugged. “It’s okay,” he said. “Compared to that first few months on Eden, everything is much better now. During all the good parts, I ride along with whoever’s emanated. Otherwise, I hang out with Davy and those guys. We have a good time.”
“I promise that I’ll make it up to you,” said Tara.
“And I promise that I’ll never buy another dobergator.”
« Idiot! » barked Cillian. « Don’t remind her of that. »
Manasseh went into the bathroom and waited while Tara lit the veladora. I wonder if I have time for a shower? he pondered.
He didn’t. The next thing we knew, the blue-white glow was fading, resolving into an image in the mirror, a man wearing a black silk overcoat. Strangely, he was barefoot. His eyes were wide and deep, and there was an odd expression on his face, a half-smile which looked alternately silly and sinister. He ran his hands quickly through his mop of thick, dark hair. “I’m Tannon Zilverspar,” he murmured, “and I need dessert.”
He grabbed a soap dish, tossing it into the air. By the time he caught it, the soap had transformed into a spaghetti-like mass of mousseline, bright blue and topped with whipped cream.
Tara went out on the verandah to inspect Canopus. As might be anticipated, there was a fourth branch next to the other three. But the others, while possessing markedly different sub-trunks, making them resemble an oak, an alder and a birch tree, and with leaves echoing the shapes of the leaves on those species, nevertheless bore flowers which were clearly recognizable as nau’gsh roses.
“These are cones,” Tara gasped. “This is a conifer.”
Tannon crept up behind her so stealthily that she didn’t notice his presence. “Tannon Zilverspar,” he said. “The first emanation with needles.”
Tara whirled around, grabbing a pair of garden shears and planting herself in a defensive posture. “You shouldn’t creep up on me like that,” she said. “The old battle reflexes kick in.”
He extended his arm, proffering a plate. “I come bearing dessert.”
Tara put down the shears. “It’s nice of you to remember. Darius, Briscoe and Rain never brought me any. What kind is this?”
“It’s called a Mont Bleu. It’s a nau’gsholi puree.”
Tara plunged her finger into the confection, then licked. “Delicious – so creamy and nutty. It doesn’t taste like nau’gsh, though.”
“It’s nau’gsholi,” Tannon repeated. “Nau’gsh nuts. Like pine nuts. These.” He pointed at the cones. “The seeds from inside – or at least they will be, once I’m pollinated.”
“Um, Tannon,” said Tara. “Do you produce fruit?”
“That’s a personal question.”
“I’m your wife, Tannon.”
“Conifers don’t fruit.”
“But the Arya nau’gsh are conifers, and they have fruit.”
“Arya apples are fake fruit, like big holly berries. I’m a fir. Well, a fir nau’gsh, actually.”
“But if you don’t fruit, how do you have any…”
The sky turned inside out, and showers of feathers swept upward. Tara broke into uproarious giggles.
“Nau’gsholi,” he said. “Enormously high concentration of nau’gshtamine amide-t. Better than fruit because there’s no need to process it into amrita.”
“Wait,” said Tara, clutching at the railing for stability. “How can there possibly be different reproductive mechanisms on the same tree?”
Tannon shrugged. “I just grew that way,” he said. “Let’s have sex now.” He took off his raincoat. There was nothing underneath.
“Um,” said Tara. “Dolparessa is pretty liberal, but I’m afraid that SSOps will take you for a flasher. The formal disclosure agreements haven’t caught up with this week’s emanations.” She moved like she wanted to go back inside of the ipsissimal suite. Unfortunately, her sense of direction was at right angles to her body’s apparent movement, and she almost fell over the side of the verandah.
“Whoops,” said Tannon, grabbing her. “It’s probably bad form to let wife hit pavement on the first date.”
Tara blinked a few times rapidly. “I should put that in book of etiquette,” she said. “Seeing the Wood for the Trees: a helpful guide to forest protocol.” Tannon put his arm around her and assisted her inside. “Rule number one: when a person in your social circle shows up with a new emanation on his/her arm, the proper response is ‘Charmed to meet you,’ and not, ‘Another one? Isn’t that four this week?’”
Tannon poured two glasses of wine, handing Tara one. She sipped it, and looked at him inquisitively – which meant almost cross-eyed by this point. “What?” she said, pointing at the glass.
“Retsina,” said Tannon. “Nau’gsh retsina.”
« No fair! » yelled Cillian. « He doesn’t get to make up his own drinks. »
« Seth did, » said Blackjack. « Give him credit for creativity. »
« What’s really unfair is that he has nuts, let alone dessert, » said Ethan. « He hasn’t been pollinated. »
« Um, » said Tommy. « Exactly how would that work? »
« I suppose we could alchemically synthesize them, » said Cüinn. « But with apples, it doesn’t happen. »
« Tannon is a little strange, don’t you think? » asked Ethan. « Being a conifer and all. »
« Don’t use language like that, » scolded Tarlach. « It’s pejorative. Refer to him as a person of coniferous tendencies. »
« I call an asshole an asshole, » said Cillian, « and I’m smelling some compost from your direction. »
« It’s not like Ethan called him a Christmas tree, » said Lorcan.
« Just ignore Lorcan, » said Tarlach. « He’s acting out again. »
« Although Tannon actually is a Christmas tree, » said Lorcan. « That’s what fir trees are. »
« Lalala I’m not listening, » said Evan, covering his ears.
« I think they’re gonna have sex, » said Tommy. « Fuck all, Canopus is on the verandah. Ailann, we need a good, strong wind. »
« A wind that strong will blow away half the coast. Send fokkerflies. »
« There are no cross-pollination requests, » said Tarlach. « We’re pitifully unprepared for this. »
« This is a windfall for the Canopus branches, » said Tommy. « For Quennel and for Briscoe and for…»
My eyes fixed suddenly on Ellery. He was trembling, terrified. He looked too unsteady to move. I lifted him into my arms. « I’m going up to my temple, » I said.
« Wait, » said Davy. « How is this fair? »
« He’s Archon, » giggled Daniel. « That’s how it’s fair. But Briscoe needs a pollen partner. »
All eyes turned to Briscoe.
« That’s right, » said Tommy. « Briscoe’s got a real shot at Tannon. »
« Why don’t you sit down next to me, » said Patrick, « and I’ll show you some of my techniques. »
« Wait, » said Davy. « How is that fair? »
« I’m back, » said Manasseh, crawling through the hole above Daniel’s bed. « Miss me? »
« See, Davy? There’s your little plate of strudel, » said Axel. « Happy now? »
« I’m not strudel, I’m a nau’gsh fool, » corrected Manasseh. « I feel pretty bad about not bringing Tara any dessert. »
“Rule number two,” said Tara. “Avoid ethnic slurs like ‘having a woody,’ or ‘morning wood.’”
“We don’t mind that,” said Tannon. “It’s pretty descriptive. Look.”
« No, the joke we really hate is That’s funny, you don’t look like a nectarine, » said Tommy.
“You do have enticing nuts,” said Tara. “I’d take my clothing off, but my corset seems to have become a herd of very tiny sucksows. If this is Davy’s idea, tell him that he should leave the fashion design to Quennel. It tickles.”
« Why do I get blamed for everything? » asked Davy.
“They’re not sucksows,” said Tannon. “They’re sheep. Every fiber in the fabric has decided to self-identify. It seems to be the trendy thing to do.”
« Is that the beginning of an existential crisis, or is it just fucked up? » asked Cillian.
« It’s fucked up, » said Tommy. « No way can we be compared to sheep. »
“Just listen,” said Tannon, holding up his glass of retsina.
“Grapes,” said Tara. “I can hear grapes. In fact, I can hear grapes from the Gininn’ver Peninsula of the Northern Skarsian continent.”
« Probably from the Dewmarine vineyards, » suggested Valentin. « Dry but fruity, with a hint of javamelon. It would go well with nau’gsh resin. »
« Don’t you know for sure? » asked Driscoll. « You’re slipping. »
« You try riding along with Tannon, » said Valentin. « It’s impossible to do a proper molecular analysis with all that singing going on. »
Wait. Tara is tripping. Tannon isn’t. Tannon should be in his natural state.
« Tannon is in his natural state, » said Davy. I tried to warn you, but nobody would listen. He’s a…»
« Person of coniferous tendencies, » said Tarlach. « But we’re not quite sure of the implications of that. »
« The implications seem to be that molecules serenade him, » said Dermot. « He seems to hear the sort of things that we smell. »
« It’s just a different adaptation of perception, » said Cüinn. « Lacking the appropriate sensory organs, our human bodies interpret the perception of the grove through the mask of human senses – just like they see the variations in nul-energy as colors. We perceive molecular composition by a refinement of the acuity of scent. Tannon perceives the vibrations of the molecules as a sort of music. »
« That’s incredibly cool, » said Whirljack. « It’s going to influence our next album. »
“What are the grapes saying?” asked Tannon.
“’Humans are crazy, but we don’t care as long as they till the soil.’ Then there’s a big chorus composed solely of lalala, like the sort you get in the halftime Maya Xtreme chants.”
“Yes, that kind of intellectual laziness is to be expected of seedless fruit,” said Tannon. “That’s why I hold the idea of a seedless nau’gsh in low regard. Nevertheless, my own seeds will compensate. Feel free to consume them.”
« He is a really twisted fuck, » said Cillian.
« It’s a dark rite, » said Seth. « Sex magick. »
« I can count on one fingernail the times that Seth has said something that made sense, » said Cillian.
« I like it, » said Lorcan. « It inspires me to poesy. »
Crunch my children
betwixt your exquisite molars
as they sing the song
of crushed hopes,
devoured ambitions…
« Just stop, » said Evan. « You’re making me ill. »
« It might sound kinda good set to a minor 7th with a throbbing baseline, » said Blackjack. « ‘Exquisite molars’ is a little twee, though. »
« I was thinking of an accordion accompanied by dissonant wailing, like a street singer drunk and fumbling through the dawn, » said Whirljack. « Either way, having Lorcan write our lyrics would be an entirely new direction. »
« Guys, could you shut up? » asked Tommy. « It looks like Tara figured out how to get rid of the sheep, and the main event is about to start. »
« But if he doesn’t have flowers, then how does he get pollinated? » asked Manasseh.
« FATHER MITHRAS BLESS MY STEAKHOUSE, » screamed Quennel. « THIS IS THE KINKIEST THING EVER. »
« Oh really? » asked Evan rather frostily.
« Cones, » gasped Briscoe. « They’re so…so firm…»
« Yes, they are, » said Patrick, reaching down Briscoe’s trousers.
Unfortunately, the rest of that conversation is lost to me, as Ellery flung himself on the ground and began to moan enticingly amongst the flowers.