We fly for hours; the landscape below us spilling out its stunning wonders. There’s a reason it’s called the pleroma, the fullness: Tara’s absurd dreams realized against a background of galactic wilderness, a reverie of the dreaming trees. Or maybe I’m too easily impressed. After all, we are in the State of Amazement.
There’s only one completely unexplored area on the map, northwest of our position. But we’re going to pass very close to Ophionia. I inform the others that Ophion emanations have homes here and ask if they want to make a stopover.
« Let’s, » says Lakeland. « I’d love to see Durant’s place. »
« Really? I’m curious about yours, » Durant replies.
Ishan and Varen don’t seem to mind. They’re amused, humoring Lakeland and Durant the way that humans usually humor the whims of lovers. It’s a relief – I don’t particularly want to discuss my personal reasons for stopping. Look at my broad hands, my thick eyebrows, sideburns, plaid scarf, aviation glasses. I’m a rough and tumble dirigible pilot, ready to explore.
I don’t want to disabuse them of that notion. I don’t want to admit that it feels so hollow.
Tara found my spark at the top branches of Ophion. Shouldn’t my heart be lighter than this?
Ophionia from above is an odd sight; located on a peninsula, the main portion of the city is covered in permafrost, but the dwellings of the emanations, on the eastern tip, are in a subtropical microclimate. It has changed since the last group of emanations – Patrick, Oliver, X’khaim and Hyde – were here. Now there are twenty-two residences, fully grown.
I know mine immediately: It’s the one with the dirigible landing platform. Once we dock, we cross a rope bridge leading to the main house. The house is stone and looks ancient; four wings extend off a large central rotunda. We enter through the back, a sleeping porch, into the main house, into a reading room full of empty bookshelves. One thing is certain – the owner loves plaid. There’s plaid everywhere, persimmon and brown and blue, plaid curtains, plaid wallpaper, plaid upholstery.
The owner would be me.
As we pass into the rotunda, I notice that there are birds in the house, huge black birds with abysmal eyes. My gaze tracks to the ceiling, a low glass dome with a steel frame which makes me think of bars. I realize that the house is, in fact, an enormous birdcage. That’s the number one decorator feature, other than the color scheme: birdcages everywhere, most especially in the rotunda, where a collection of every sort of birdcage imaginable lines the walls. But the doors are left open, and the cages are filled with objects – dried flowers, mostly.
« This is such a nice place, » says Ishan admiringly.
I find it disconcerting, especially those birds. They’re like something out of a horror vid.
« A real kitchen, » says Varen from the next room. I stand in the archway from the rotunda, but I’m strangely hesitant to enter. There’s a plaid stasisstorer, a counter with sink and stove set at right angles to a breakfast bar, ridiculously, a brick oven. On the counter is a wire bowl cheerily filled with persimmons.
« Do you like to cook? » asks Ishan.
Varen looks thoughtful. « I’m not an expert, but it could be fun to whip up something, now and then. »
I can barely operate a food synthesizer. And I’ve been recognized by the pleroma. If I had any talent in this area, surely, I’d know it by now?
Lakeland and Durant have already wandered outside. I know they’re eager to see their own residences, but I linger for a bit, disappointed. I was hoping that, like X’khaim, when I saw my house, I’d feel at home.
I extend my hand. A bird lands upon it, surprisingly heavy, a small raptor.
It changes color. From the point of contact at its feet, the change sweeps upward until the bird is entirely plaid. Its black eyes now swirl with opalescent blue. It flies off abruptly, and the other birds begin to circle the rotunda. Watching them makes me dizzy. I feel like that bird carried off a bit of my soul. Disconcerted, I hurry to follow Lakeland and Durant.
Durant’s house is in front of Lakeland’s, which is much larger and extends back to the northeastern seashore. It’s a modest home, much smaller than the others in this area of the city. It’s easy for me to find information – apparently, the library is very well-indexed – and I’m able to identify it as a Tasean-style homepod. Strange to find something like that here. Tasea is no paradise, its ecosystem wrecked by war and occupation, just like Earth. Skarsia has been forced to invest heavily in getting Tasea back on its feet.
Why do humans do things like that? It’s inexplicable.
For a moment, my stomach churns and the world flips. It’s something the dreaming trees don’t understand. It’s something the spinning sparks don’t understand. No matter how many emanations we produce, we can’t understand human violence, human destruction.
Feeling numb, I follow my companions into the house. There are only two rooms attached to a pocket garden. We enter through the public room, which has a food preparation station built into a corner and a recessed table in the center, used for both entertaining and eating. This efficient arrangement makes it possible for the five of us to feel comfortable despite the limited area.
Durant points at a daybed with a thick, licorice-colored velour mattress, pushed against the back wall. « It can be used for a guest, but it’s also used when watching holos. » He gestures at the opposite wall. « The projector is there. That’s why the table is inset – you can watch from the table and from the bed, which is elevated in respect to the pit. You can also use that bench by the firejet if you had more company – it’s a storage bench, too. Everything is designed to make maximum use of the space. »
The firejet is set into a circular recess in the wall near the entrance. All the walls are covered in gray insulating pebbles, and the room is hung with unusual lamps – diamond-shaped containers of thick glass which seem to radiate light from a tiny forest held within them. Although there are no windows, light pours in from a skylight over the table – light which feels like mid-morning even though the sun outside has stalled perpetually at early afternoon. There’s a shelving unit on the far wall containing a handful of items – an old brass vase, a bowl full of porcelain walnuts, a few bottles impressed with a turquoise and licorice mandala pattern, a synthwood box with a laser-cut moth-wing mandala on the top. The space feels snug and comforting, not cramped, flickering with shadows of trees.
I peek through the door into the personal room. The same design techniques are present – the furnishings are compacted in the most efficient way possible, leaving a considerable amount of open space which makes the room seem larger than it is. The bed is raised, built into a corner with storage beneath it; the cabinets are built into the wall; the far side of the room contains a surprisingly spacious luxury-shower. The decorator touches are sparse but add hints of luxury – a rounded tile mosaic in the shower, plaster walls hung with ceramic eye plaques, thick blankets and piles of beaded, ornately printed pillows, a copper table-mirror in ancient Nepalese style, enameled and jeweled. This leaves the room’s center open, with a circular mandala rug, as is traditional in Tasean homes, for meditation.
« I love this place, » says Lakeland. « I could live here. »
So could Tara, at least for a while. It reminds me of the cabin on Eden she shares with Ari. But sooner or later, her restless heart would call for palaces or open plains. She’s eternally curious, only understands things by comparing and classifying, the hallmark of a botanist.
Everything here is supposed to please Tara. Will I?
« Look outside, » says Durant. « I love it! »
The pocket garden is a small, enclosed space with creeping foliage entirely carpeting the walls. A Tasean mosaic covers the ground; there is a curved bench in the corner. « So many things could happen in a little nook like this, » says Lakeland. « Private things. »
Their eyes meet; they smile. As if they might have something to hide, something hidden inside of them.
When we step outside, Lakeland’s dwelling is before us, a large structure shimmering in the sun. It isn’t nearly as big as some of the other buildings, the huge towers buildings belonging to Templeton and Vassali, but the tiny, quaint habitation of Durant makes Lakeland’s home seem that much larger. It’s built into the cliff wall of the shoreline and is made entirely of an unbreakable glass alloy. Nevertheless, it’s impossible to see inside. The windows are tinted with a turquoise haze.
The stone path to the dwelling sparkles with pebbles of blue glass inset between the stones. It ends in a glorious tile mosaic depicting a sunburst reflected in turquoise waters. The path continues off to the side through a magnificent water-garden filled with lilies, cannas and other aquatic plants. But Lakeland goes straight to the heavy double-door and pulls on the handle of dolphin-shaped bronze.
The main floor of the building is at sea level. The floor of the entry hall is glass, so the effect is of walking on water. The large space is sparsely filled, with a sculpture of stacked glass, a dangling chandelier of turquoise rods and pin lights, a few chairs of cyan velvet and silver quilted silk that shines like fish-scales. The right side is covered by a wall garden of tall grasses, tropical plants and ferns; the other walls are glass. The ceiling is also glass, allowing a view up into the dining area on the second floor. But the main attraction of the entry hall is the stair which spirals over a space open to the sea.
How different this incredible structure is from my rustic house, from Durant’s cozy dwelling. I feel alien here, out-of-place, but Lakeland is clearly in his element. « Yes, » murmurs Durant. « I thought it would be like this. »
Considering that the house is entirely glass, there is a surprising amount of privacy. The light is filtered so that everything appears to be in a warm bath of tropical water. There’s fire also, fire-pots in the corner of every room which cast an orange glow against the turquoise surfaces. Varen and Ishan are eager to explore the upstairs, but I follow Lakeland through a sliding glass door into a bathroom – if one could call such an impressive space by such a humble name. The large hot tub is inset into a swimming pool which lies half inside the house, half outside on a patio. Mounted across from it is an enormous rainfall shower. Lakeland seems to take this luxury for granted, pushing onward over the blue glass tiled floor, making a beeline for the bedroom.
But first we must pass through an elaborate wardrobe room complete with glass benches, turquoise-veneered armoires, floating silver shelves suspended from the glass walls. This isn’t as excessive as it sounds, for the bedroom has no furniture at all except for a glass bed, covered with pillows and rich ombre silks of black, turquoise and white, and a pair of night tables built into the bed. The bed is positioned on a circular tiled platform; it is surrounded by water and accessible by a narrow walkway extending from the wardrobe room.
At the back of the area, fire pots built above the water warm the glass walls with their flickering light. A decanter of wine and a pair of goblets sit invitingly on one of the tables. It’s all so, so very purposeful. Durant clearly gets the idea and gives Lakeland a sidelong smile. Lakeland looks at me, but I shrug. It’s erotic, elemental, but I feel nothing. I leave them to their dalliance; it’s not like we’re in a particular hurry.
Walking back through the house of glass, I catch reflections of myself everywhere. Yet I learn nothing more than the first time I saw myself, the first unsatisfactory time when I said my name and knew somehow that it was wrong.
In all the pleroma, the place of fullness, I’m the one who is left empty.
Onward to Emanation Egg Scene 36a –>
<– Back to the chronological narrative, Scene 35