Ross is holding the legalpad in his hand. It contains reams of financial records, one for each of I and I’s emanations. It’s the writ of disclosure, the law Tara made to end the lies. Or at least some of them – disclosure is voluntary. She figures the trees have suffered enough without being forced to tell the truth.
There’s an air of proud misery about Ross. He had experienced what he thought was the worst thing he could imagine. But after seeing what Suibhne had to cope with, he’s changed his mind. As long as Tara is safe, he can bear anything.
The disclosure holds no surprises for Tara, but Ross is a little worried about the media. A lot worried. How will the public react when they find out that their Living God is also a nightclub owner in Dalgherdia? A professional gambler? A sex slave? Worse, when they find out their Living God is also talk show host Tarlach Tadgh? When the press makes the connection to Tarlach’s heartrending confession, it could make life very difficult for Ailann. And it would really be Ross’ fault.
“Ash,” she says, taking the device from his hands. He notes that it’s a circumstance in which he is called Ash. He takes that as a good sign.
The document reads:
I, Patrick Fitzroy, Prince Consort of Sideria, husband of Tara del D’myn, Ph.D., Marquesa of Dolparessa, Empress of Sideria and Matriarch of Skarsia, do hereby disclose that I am of the Cu’enashti, the seventh branch of the nau’gsh called popularly the Atlas Tree, known properly by His name Ashtara. The Atlas Tree is composed of twenty-two branches, emanating into twenty-two human personae as follows:
- Daniel McDarragh, migrant agricultural worker (declared deceased)
- Sloane Lord Redmond of Skalisia, Master of Horse of Cetin Urhu, Regent of Sideria (declared deceased; Lordship awarded posthumously in recompense for duty)
- Evan Finlay-Cole, Esq., Bard of Court Emmere
- Whirljack Riordan, folk singer and political activist
- Michael “Mickey” Riley, personal trainer
- Thomas “Tommy” Duffy, nightclub proprietor and entertainer
- His Royal Highness Patrick Fitzroy, Prince Consort of Sideria
- Cuinn Cleary, Director of Research, RR-2 Labs
- Sir James “Jamey” Maonach, imperial gardener
- His Most Sublime and Eminent Radiance, Ailann Tiarnan, Archon of Skarsia
- Fleet Admiral Cillian Whelan
- David “Davy” Gannon, toymaker and biodesign consultant
- Wynne Rafferty, professional gambler
- Owen Carrick, mining engineer (missing, presumed dead)
- Driscoll Garrett, artist and gallery owner
- Ross Adare, J.D., LL.CD, CEO Big Tree Enterprises
- Callum O’Shea, lifestyle submissive
- Suibhne Ennis
- Tarlach Tadgh, talk-show psychologist
- Lugh Carrick, mining engineer
- Blackjack Riordan, musician
- Donovan Chase, distribution manager
The complete financial history of the aforesaid parties is hereafter attached. Ashtara furthermore requests that the declarations of decease be rescinded for Daniel McDarragh and Sloane Redmond, and that Redmond be allowed to claim the estates currently held in escrow for next-of-kin.
Ashtara understands that in the case of the emanation of a new branch, that persona will register within 14 days, appending his name to this list, and providing a retinal scan and financial statement.
The document is accompanied by holograms depicting very different men, signatures – all in different handwritings – and retinal scans – all identical. But to Ross, the really important part is on the second page, the marriage renewal contract.
I, Tara del D’myn, Ph.D., Marquesa of Dolparessa, Empress of Sideria and Matriarch of Skarsia, in light of the disclosure made by my husband, Patrick Fitzroy, Prince Consort of Sideria, do elect (choose one)
__ To dissolve our marriage without prejudice.
__ To continue my marriage to Patrick Fitzroy under the terms upon which it was entered. I understand that the laws and regulations of the Skarsian Matriarchy are fully applicable, and that the marriage may be dissolved through due process by either party. I understand that I and any children produced by the union have claim only to the material support of my legal spouse.
__To extend my marriage to the nau’gsh Ashtara, the Atlas Tree. I understand that I will be considered legally married to all 22 branches and any branches to emanate in the future. I understand I have full claim to and control over all material assets of all branches. I understand that the laws and regulations of the Council of Cu’enashti are fully applicable, and I will have no further recourse under Skarsian law. I understand that the marriage may not be dissolved, no matter the circumstances, even should they extend to the physical demise of one of the parties.
Tara looks up, snorts. “Disclosure my sweet buttocks,” she says. “Mickey lied, and Chase was, shall we say, euphemistic.”
“Mickey didn’t lie. He is your personal trainer. If we disclosed that he’s the chief of Skarsian Secret Ops, it wouldn’t be very secret. And I don’t really imagine that you want Chase to elaborate that he’s running the Domha’vei’s underworld so that you can keep control of the trade in Gyre. As Ailann might say, it would tarnish your image.”
“I note that Suibhne left his space blank.”
“There’s no job classification code for mad dictator. Besides, everyone knows who he is. Also, Blackjack wanted to be listed as “rock star,” but I didn’t think it looked professional.” Ross rests his hand gently on her arm. “Are you sure you want Patrick to do this? This isn’t going to release a can of worms. It’s going to release a class one supernova of worms. Everyone in the known universe will be talking about it.”
“Everyone in the known universe can go fuck a small but hostile furry animal,” she says, ticking the third box.
It is the happiest moment of I and I’s existence.
How’s that for exposition? I ask. I’m kind of proud that I managed to get in a cast of characters without being obvious.
But you can’t please everyone. I’m not in the disclosure, Lorcan says sulkily. Neither is Hurley or Dermot. And Owen is still listed as dead.
It’s before your time. I suppose I could have just used the most updated version of the document, but this moment was so fraught with dramatic significance.
Evan is also unhappy. You’re violating the conventions of fiction, he says. In a romance such as this, the story is supposed to end with the union of hero and heroine, but you’ve put it at the start. Why will anyone read a novel if they already know the denouement?
A lot happens after the disclosure, though, says Dermot. And the point I was trying to make before…
I get it, says Driscoll. We can’t just keep imitating human art. Our writing has to arise from our unique experience.
Evan remains unconvinced. You just don’t make up new art forms for the sake of it. You’ll just recreate the whole pointless sludge of 20th Century modernism and postmodernism.
Yeats was 20th Century, says Sloane.
Yeats is the only thing you ever read, and that’s cuz Tara gave you the fucking book, says Cillian. Hey, Driscoll, you could make a crucifixion scene out of fertilizer, and then we could grow grass on it.
There’s actually a conceptual point to that, says Driscoll. It echoes the rituals of Adonis. I’ll bet I could get a grant for it. I’d call it “Easter Garden.”
I’d call it pretentious horseshit, says Cillian.
That would be a literal interpretation, says Driscoll.
What kind of grass? says Chase. Lammian highweed, maybe, or good old fashioned cannabis? He passes a bowl to Driscoll.
Chase samples all his wares, says Wynne. Gotta love a man with that dedication to his work. Do you have any sparkle?
It is a very effective means of quality control, says Ross. I’ll take cocaine.
If this is turning into a drug party, I say, then I will have a drink. Scotch and RootRiot, on the rocks.
That’s it, says Patrick. If you’re drinking, I’m driving.
I give. Everyone likes Patrick. Maybe they’ll let him get something done. It’s not like I understand what I’m doing. It’s not like I understand why I’m doing it.
After all, I’m only God.
I stand, raising my arms.
And then I’m standing next to the desk, head bowed, arms folded, the memory of a brilliant blue light burned on the backs of my eyelids. I don’t remember how I do that, the unfolding of self into energy and then the folding back again, but I manage. Or rather I and I manages. It’s like a human can stare at her arm and think “arm, move,” and nothing happens. And then the arm just moves and picks up her drink from the table. The will to accomplish these things comes from someplace deeper than the rustling leaves of the mind.
I wonder if the transition is smooth enough. Should I try to imitate Ailann’s literary style?
Good enough, says Hurley. You could probably imitate anyone here. Sex sex sex. That’s Tommy. Drugs drugs drugs. That’s Chase. Fucking excrement fucking blow something up. That’s Cillian.
That’s Jamey. The white space.
Hurley’s funny. He’s always making Tara laugh. So is Cuinn, but I don’t think Cuinn tries to be funny. He just is.
Don’t worry about imitating Ailann, says Dermot. Write from the heart.
I understand. I can be honest in a way that Ailann can’t. Nobody wants God to seem vulnerable. And I think we need to be honest. Otherwise, I don’t see the point in doing this.
But there’s got to be room for embellishment, says Driscoll. That’s the artistry.
Fair enough, I say. Honesty and factual accuracy aren’t exactly the same thing.
Ailann’s drunk already. Poor Ailann; the pressure gets to him more than he’d like to admit. It isn’t easy being God. It isn’t easy running the power grid and the defense grid and maintaining the weather on Dolparessa, and basically being responsible for 24 billion lives.
Actually, it is, says Ailann. It’s worrying about Tara that makes my leaves fall prematurely.
Ailann’s drunk; Driscoll and Chase are high, Wynne and Ross are speeding, and they’re all more lucid than mad Suibhne. It’s just a state of consciousness. Once we’ve tried a drug, we can remember it well enough. Of course, if I wanted to, I could change this glass of water to wine. That’s easy. And I don’t mean the scene going on in my head – I mean this glass of water sitting on the table. Or better still, I could change it to nau’gsh wine. My body could be physically inebriated while I was tripping on DMB-40 in my head, and I could snap out of it with a moment’s notice and never a hangover. It would be so easy to spend our life blissed out and doing nothing.
But why would we need drugs for that? If that’s what we truly wanted, I and I never would have bothered to take the grand jeté. I and I could’ve spent life in contemplation, the sun warming His leaves. Like the Buddha. Like the Arya nau’gsh. I and I could’ve reached enlightenment, perfect peace.
Not with that fucking squirrel crapping on us, says Cillian. Disgusting piece of shit. I thought you were gonna write something?
But before I can continue, we get that sensation, similar to the way the Atlas Tree feels when the sun is about to come out. But better. It’s warmth, it’s nourishment, it’s light, but it’s also purpose. It’s also love.
Tara opens the door.
“Patrick,” she says. “You’re back. Ailann decided to leave?” The days when she would show surprise at our transitions are long gone. Now she does everything possible to conceal her responses, to avoid the appearance of playing favorites.
This is a subject of much frustration to I and I. Tara must have favorites, and I and I wants to maximize their use. But painful experience has told us that it’s the one thing she gets truly upset about. She insists that she loves every part of I and I.
She can’t seem to understand that favoritism won’t hurt our feelings. When I’m emanated, it’s enormously important that she love me. But when someone else is in the driver’s seat, I’m rooting (pun intended) for him. We’re team players, sharing a mutual set of priorities:
- Tara’s safety.
- Tara’s destiny.
- Tara’s pleasure.
- Being in Tara’s presence as much as permissible.
Very recently, we inserted another: self-preservation. That was Tara’s request. It’s 1a.
The priorities are carefully ordered, so that if Tara’s safety is endangered, we’ll carry her off kicking and screaming, no matter how furious she gets. And her pleasure has to supersede our desire to be with her every moment of every day. It’s the second lesson the Cantor teaches the young Cu’enashti after the grand jeté: animals have territories. Humans are used to being alone in their heads, which means that they need to set up boundaries and keep some illusion of privacy. The biggest mistake a Cu’enashti can make is to act like some clinging vine. Nothing in your life will hurt more than that first rejection, she said. It’s the number one reason for the growth of a second branch. Don’t make that mistake – watch carefully for the least indication your Chosen wants to be alone, and absent yourself. Humans have a term for it: “Playing hard to get.” The concept is almost incomprehensible to a tree. When the sun comes out, leaves turn towards it.
The first thing the Cantor taught us was to hide the truth of our nature no matter the circumstance. The third was not to draw attention to ourselves by coming into a bank with a fistful of diamonds.
“What are you doing?” Tara asks.
“We decided to write this…I guess it’s supposed to be a novel, but it’s turning out to be more of an autobiography. I don’t think anyone will want to read it – the more I think about it, the more I think that the public should never see it. It’s kind of personal.”
“I’ll read it,” she says.
“I’m not sure you’ll want to. There are some painful things…”
“I’ll read it,” she affirms. “Don’t spare me, Ash. Put in the difficult bits. I want your version. I have my own opinions on what we’ve been through, but some of your emanations don’t say much.”
She’s serious, or she wouldn’t have called me Ash. “Jamey doesn’t say anything.”
“Driscoll can chatter all day and not say as much as Jamey says with his eyes.”
She has a point. She moves towards me and
We’re gonna get laid tonight, I know it, says Cillian. Fucking Prince Charming. This is why it’s better to be Patrick than Ailann.
I couldn’t agree more, says Ailann, taking a gulp of his drink. Unfortunately, my branch grew because she needed me to become Archon. She needs that power to fulfill her destiny.
It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it, says Lugh, slapping him on the back. Better you than me.
I’m finally recovered enough to start thinking again. Here’s what happened: she came over and sat on my lap. Forget drugs, forget alcohol. There’s nothing like that, nothing. To have her touch me is perfect peace, perfect fulfillment. If I had my choice, I would just hold her forever. If I and I had His choice, he would pull her into his eternal dream.
Jaysus H. Juniper, you’d rather fuck her and you know it, says Cillian.
Why do you have to be so crude? asks Evan.
Why do you always beat around the bush when you’d rather stick your cock in it? Cillian retorts.
Tommy grins. You all know he’s right.
Human life is filled with so many distractions, says Tarlach. For trees it’s easy – flower and fruit.
Humans think flowers are so pure, says Lorcan. The rose of love.
Hey babe, says Cillian, have this bunch of genitals I cut off a bush.
The Atlas Tree’s dreams are full of flowers, of which Daniel was the first, Dermot says.
I suppose I should write about Daniel. But how? I understand now why it was easier for Ailann to talk about Clive, and CenGov and the explosion in the lab. I don’t think I’m ready to write about Daniel directly yet. It hurts too much. But I have to find a place to start, a place for the story to take root. Or maybe I can just let Tara tell the story. That day Sloane heard her talking to Johannon.
It’s a hot day, and Tara is drinking juleps on the verandah. Of course, it’s always a hot day on Sideria. Sloane is in the air-conditioned comfort of the stables. He’s minding the horses; the sun is too brutal to ride at mid-day. Sloane is in the stables, but he hears her. Our ears are better than the average human, but not that much better. But it’s Tara that is speaking, and we can hear her for miles. He listens to everything she says. It’s what he lives for. He doesn’t dare to hope for anything else.
Tara is speaking to Johannon Deverre, he of the impossibly dark, sympathetic eyes and impossibly dark, unsympathetic heart. “I’m cursed,” she says. “According to prophecy, I’m destined to be Matriarch. But the men who love me will die in the process. It isn’t just talk.”
She flips open a locket; a hologram shimmers into existence. She’s posing with a youth, sweet-faced, doe-eyed, adorably awkward, perhaps he’s twenty to her seventeen. His unruly hair falls into his eyes. They are both bedecked in flowers, and radiate the supernal happiness of the foolishly in love. “Daniel,” she said flatly. “My first love. My secret love, until my uncle saw us together at the Nau’gsh Festival. Festival lovers are supposed to be sacred, but my uncle didn’t care. He was afraid I’d get pregnant and ruin my betrothal to Tenzain Merkht. A few weeks later, his men ambushed us on Starbright Mountain, beat Daniel to a pulp, weighted him down and threw what was left of him off the cliffside. Then they dragged me onto a shuttle and took me to Volparnu.”
Johannon feigns horror. “I can’t imagine. How terrible.”
“I wept for ten days straight, until my wedding day. I haven’t cried a tear since then. Over a dozen years and I haven’t cried a tear. I won’t give those pigs the satisfaction.” She leans in. “There are supposed to be three men who die for me, although the prophecy makes it sound like the same man will die three times. Are you afraid?” she asks.
“No,” he says truthfully. It’s not that he doesn’t believe. He knows that predictions made under the influence of Gyre are always right, no matter how absurd or contradictory they sound. But he doesn’t love her. What does he have to fear?
Meanwhile, Sloane is in hell. He has served a dozen empty years as her uncle’s Master of Horse, waiting for her to return from Volparnu, return to him. But he’s nothing more than a servant, a glorified stable-boy. She pays him no attention, and he can’t tell her the truth. He can’t tell her that he is Daniel.
I was watching over his shoulder, says Daniel. I heard everything. It was so quiet back then, when there were only two of us.
It makes my heart constrict. Daniel says so little, but if it wasn’t for him, none of us would exist. Daniel was the first, the flower face. His nature is so sweet, and yet he suffered so much. And he was all alone at the beginning. How did he manage without the experience and support of other selves? There was a time that my world fell apart, and Whirljack put it together again.
And I can feel Owen, the memory of his experience still too fresh and raw. At least when Daniel was alone, he had never known any other way. Owen got a bad deal from the start, but he had thirteen of us to back him. And then he was alone, cut off, with no reason to believe he would ever be reunited with himself.
Lugh puts his arm around Owen, comforts him. Lugh will never let Owen be alone again.
Owen’s story is terrible, but not nearly as terrible as Daniel’s. Owen’s story is about something terrible that happened to us. Daniel’s story is about something terrible that happened to Tara.
Daniel’s pain is not about being maimed and drowned. Daniel’s pain is about Tara being taken away, and being helpless to stop it. Daniel’s pain is about our utter failure to fulfill our first priority.