« You’re doing what? » Cord screamed.
The truth is, I expected him to have that reaction to the prospect of novelizing his masterwork, A Gathering of Leaves. Because he is, after all, an award-winning auteur.
« My audience is perfectly capable of experiencing it for themselves, » he continues. « That’s the whole point. And translations into another medium rarely work well – unless there are radical changes in order to adapt the original material. You aren’t intending to make changes, are you? »
« Of course not. I intend to stay as true to your genius as possible. »
« But I don’t even see a reason to do it. After all these years? Is this some kind of merchandising scheme Ross devised? It looks a little desperate. »
« Not at all – it’s actually for a new market – the 21st century market. »
Cord looks perplexed for a moment, and then says, quite predictably, « Why can’t we just distribute the wholos? »
« If we introduced a physical artifact into the past, it would corrupt it, perhaps enough to create an alternative timeline. »
« But if I understand this plan correctly, you’ve already introduced seven artifacts – our prior novels – into the past. »
« Just texts. Our representative there is creating the physical artifacts. Her audience thinks the books are works of fiction. »
« Oh, come on. They include all kinds of information about our technology. That must be having an influence. »
« It’s described vaguely, to be suggestive at best. It’s over the heads of the people at the point of injection, and if it gives them ideas, it will only encourage them to work towards our current reality. Look, there’s a precedent. Datapalm, the great tech conglomerate, used the same sort of time projection technique to send an agent to Hollywood in 1963. A cup of coffee in a diner with Gene Roddenberry, a quick sketch on a napkin, and the evolution of personal handheld devices was set in motion. »
« Well, why do you get to write it? As the original creator, don’t I get a say in that? »
Ah, now he’s sulking because he knows he’s not going to win. « I’m our designated novelist. That’s how it works. »
« Ailann wrote a book. Rand wrote a book. Tommy… »
« Tommy wrote short, gossipy chapters. He’s incapable of sustaining a long performance – but surely you know that. »
He knows that. Everybody’s done Tommy.
« Ailann is the type of writer who can get one great book out of his personal struggle, » I continue. « And Rand says he’ll be happy to never have to write anything again. »
« We have others with literary talent… »
« Evan writes ballads. Dermot would kill the action with his long-winded philosophizing. »
« What about Cillian? »
« Like many critics, he can only analyze, not create. And surely, you don’t mean Lorcan. »
A look of horror crosses his face, then resignation.
« Now that it’s settled, I want to add a little introductory material. Can you tell us how you got the idea for the original work? »
« I explain that! I explain that perfectly well in the iconic introduction scene. You’re not going to change that? Look, why don’t you just publish the screenplay? Here. »
Cord hands me the following transcript:
[A few moments before sunset, in a clearing between a forest and a vineyard. There’s a fire burning in a fire pit which seems to flicker in time to a very peculiar music. This music is coming from two men: one, a blocky, roughly carved man with jet black hair, is using a dual-vocalization technique to produce a rhythmic chant, which resonates, pulsing from his chest, rattling the ground. The other is a humanoid who has a bird’s head and wings. He is whistling, a shrill noise which should have been ear-splitting, but is somehow tempered by the low humming of the other man. The melody and the beat wrap around each other, creating something unearthly and beautiful.
The scene switches to a man who looks to be in his early thirties. His ginger hair is cropped unevenly, and he wears a rough wool scarf and a worn leather jacket, like he’s perpetually on adventure He is sitting in a leather camp chair in his studio apartment in the Yggdrasil tower. The wall behind him is covered with old movie posters; next to him is a holographic display projecting the teaser reels from the greatest h-vids of all time.]
Cord: I drank that incredible green wine. Here, you can taste it, if you like.
[Scene shifts back to the vineyard. The sharer can feel the worn fencepost against Cord’s hand, the smooth shape of the glass goblet in the other. The wine glows a pale yellow-green in the last light of the autumn sun. It smells like butter, like citron, like nau’gsh blossoms. There’s a slight tang of acid, then fullness of fruit, sweet without being cloying. It’s fresh, like capturing the first crisp moment of Novemberoon in a glass.]
[V.O.[1]]: Sir Cord del N’stl’d, Knight Rose-Cross of the Most Illustrious Order of the Skarsian Matriarchy (KRCSM). 78th to emanate, 25 in the color scale, resonates to 97. 1.802 meters tall, cock size 16.04 cm when erect, apparent age 32. Wholographer. Totem is Laburnum anagyroides, the golden chain tree, fixed star is Al Rescha, rope. Esoteric symbol is the geomantic glyph Carcer, the prison. Dessert is ginger-nau’gsh sherbet floats with nau’gsh honey lebkuchen. Function is adjusting empowerment, proto-conscious tendency is binding, designated Cord. Blazon is cannari yellow, within a circlet of rope proper, within an orle sable, a forest, sable.
Cord [V.O.]: Tommy looked over at me and smiled, and Jonah placed his hand on my arm. For a moment I was stunned by the inrush of feelings, of memories. It was then I understood what it meant to be accepted into the grove. Tara had explained it, Beat had explained it, but they couldn’t explain it at all. My fellow branches could share everything with me, and I could share everything with them. And I wanted to share it, this moment, the autumn light making the grapes shimmer with green-gold, the music, so spontaneous and beautiful, the feeling of utter connection. I wanted to capture it and hold it forever.
But Nightingale’s gang danced on, ignorant of what had happened. Tara, the source of all light and meaning, sat ignorant of the rich tapestry of our experiences. And I thought also of the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of the Ashtara Grove, how ineffectually it was being leveraged for the development of the Nau’gsh peoples. The Cantor had always taught with human methods, but why try to explain alchemy with words if the experience could be transmitted more directly? If a sapling could feel with her own hands the complex rearrangement of molecules? This entity of which I was a fraction – Self, the Mover, Ashtara, the Grove – whatever it was called, had become the Living God of the Domha’vei because our ability to perform alchemy, to predict the future, to direct unimaginable amounts of energy from the nul-universe, was unprecedented. But in theory, all the other Cu’enashti had the potential. They just didn’t know how…it had to be communicated!
« You see? » Cord says. « It works perfectly well. »
I hand Cord the following transcript:
[The location is now an apartment decorated in the Siderian style, comfortable, classy and understated. It’s here that one of the most notorious PPP (pre-pollen-play) scenes chooses to gather for their wild orgies. Beat is standing over by the bar, looking dejected, so Cord approaches him.]
Cord: You’re thinking about Harsh.
Beat: I know he’s root over leaves for Ailann. I don’t mind, really. But lately, Ailann seems to be harvesting the sweetest young buds for his entourage. If Ailann is going to mess around with Harsh, he should pay attention to him. I suppose it was too good to be true that Harsh would end up with someone like me.
Cord: I don’t know why you’d even think that.
Beat: It’s obvious, isn’t it? I’m not pretty, and I don’t have a Gold Card.
Cord: You’re talented and kind and well-respected. Don’t sell yourself short.
Beat: [raising an eyebrow] I guess I’m not really into this scene today. Maybe you’d like to get some dessert?
[Location switches to a café in the Yggdrasil tower, the inner manifestation of the nau’gsh tree growing at Nightside Station in the Tucana dwarf cluster. Each dessert here is made from nau’gsh apples taken from a particular branch. Taking someone out for dessert is a clear form of seduction.]
Beat: [scans the menu, smiling.] I want to taste them all. That’s why I can’t fault Harsh for going after Ailann. Jealousy is stupid inside of the pleroma.
Cord: I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure he’ll come back.
Beat: Let’s eat. I’m afraid mine isn’t fancy – just a warm nau’gsh pandowdy.
Cord: It smells fabulous. I…no one has ever tasted my dessert before.
Beat: A ginger nau’gsh sherbet float with a side of nau’gsh honey lebkuchen – what a great combination. That drink will go well with the pandowdy, too.
[Cord sits across the table from Beat. He takes a forkful of the dessert. It’s warm and spicy, and the combination of apples and batter are soft and sweet in his mouth, but there’s still a firmness to the crust. He stares into Beat’s eyes, and he is completely infatuated.]
Beat: [slurping the float] This is tasty. Very refreshing. [He smiles.] You know, you have a little advantage over Harsh. We’re on the same tree.
Cord: That’s right. My apartment is here, in this tower. [Awkwardly] I’ve never even been to my apartment before.
[Cut to Cord’s studio. Cord is swiftly removing his clothing.]
Beat: [smiling] We could go into the bedroom, but I bet you want to do it here. I bet you’ve got an exhibitionist streak a parsec wide.
[Beat pulls Cord onto the floor. Enhanced resolution – Cord realizes that Beat can be a hard man as well as a gentle one.]
Beat: Someday soon, you’ll emanate, and Tara will fuck you for real. And then I’m going to ram my pollen down your style so hard…
[Enhanced resolution is available but recommended for mature audiences only.]
[Cut to a clinical office. The surroundings are spotless, thrice-heavy steel and white synthetics. A handsome man wearing a tweed jacket is sitting behind an impressive desk. He strokes his well-groomed, light brown beard. It is likely that anyone from the Domha’vei will immediately recognize talk show psychologist Tarlach Tadgh.]
Tarlach: I’ve proselytized about this for years. They’re on the same tree – how much more natural could it be? And how horrible, how impersonal, to share pollen without pleasure and joy! The irony is that humans will find that scene more arousing than the Cu’enashti viewership. Cu’enashti are only aroused by their Chosen and by their fellow branches. Humans respond to anything – photographs, shoes, cartoon animals.
Tommy [V.O. (chatburl)]: Speak for yourself. I like porn!
Tarlach: I’ve seen the magazines in your bathroom. You alter the images so that all the women look like Tara and all the men look like branches in the grove. There’s a whole article in an issue of Woody! entitled “Confidential Couch” where you’ve replaced the psychiatrist with me.
Davy Gannon [V.O. (chatburl)]: I like hand-puppets.
Tarlach: I’m not even going to respond to that.
« It lost…all the good parts, » Cord sighs.
« You said it yourself. In order to translate it effectively into a new medium, alterations will have to be made. Only the novel allows the necessary omniscience and the ability to rapidly change pints of view needed to capture the essence of the wholograph. And it’s all about the point-of-view. »
Cord nods. « That’s what fascinated me when I experienced branch memory for the first time. We were of one purpose, but so many perspectives! Yet how to convey this to an audience so different from ourselves? I realized that the amount of material available in our branches was overwhelming. I needed to research the theory of editing. »
« But there were precedents, » I encourage. If I can just get him talking about his art, I’m sure he’ll give me plenty of useful material.
« Darius was trying to archive the important memories, and Tommy had already experimented with curating them – at least the sexual experiences – for his media push channel. But it was my inspiration to take it further, assemble them like a film, like a holo. »
Most likely, a little flattery won’t come amiss. « It was destined. The announcement of your induction into the Knights of the Chevalier’s Arbor gave your profession as wholographer and predicts the bestowing of the prestigious KRCSM. »
« People claimed that was nepotism – just because I’m the Matriarch’s husband. »
« But where did you get the idea to physically make a wholograph? »
« Instinct. The moment I had the idea, I could feel the wood taking shape in my hands, smooth, carved and heavy. Anyone within the pleroma could touch that wood. But outside? The object could be reproduced perfectly using alchemy. I understood intuitively how to make it work. Limited by human senses, it wouldn’t be quite the same, but it could still be an intense experience. »
« But why even try to make media for humans? Your original concept was to use it as a vehicle for Cu’enashti education. »
« As I surveyed the history of human literature, one thing became obvious: humanity’s deepest, most desperate fantasy is that the events in life make sense. Despite the contradictory evidence of their own senses, which tells them that Universe Prime contains unspeakably detailed, seemingly random, even chaotic amounts of information, they apply their pathetically inadequate memories to retcon an overarching narrative for their lives. Cu’enashti do not suffer from this limitation of memory, and we have a different way of creating meaning – by orienting everything we feel, think and do towards our Chosen, Tara. Then how would it be possible to convey the truth of Cu’enashti experience to a species constitutionally unable to comprehend it? Intuitively, I grasped the deep significance of this question. Tara was human. Tara had to understand. »
« Great. I think I’ve got what I need. »
« That meant I had to choose a central theme around which to organize my story, » Cord continues. « I selected the events which surrounded the circumstances of my birth, a monumental event in the history of the Domha’vei: the abolishment of the heresy laws. »
Now that he’s started, he won’t stop. Surely, he should know that the perfect place to end is always with Tara?
« The truth is, I was forced to edit out a lot of significant material to achieve what Cillian “unity of narrative.” My first cut – or burl, if you will – delivered a story which was reasonably coherent. But I felt unsatisfied. That’s when I realized that I could fall back on human custom by creating a “Director’s Burl.” »
« That’s wonderful. Ah look, there’s Suibhne. I need to interview him… » In fact, Suibhne had been sitting on the floor the whole time, playing with Davy’s fleshiwood soldiers.
« Wait, you’re going to interview Suibhne? What are you doing to my masterpiece? »
« You’re going to interview Suibhne? » interrupts Cillian. « I’m telling you, Pat, there’s no way it’s gonna work. Suibhne is what we in lit-crit call an unreliable narrator. But the key to that technique is that the reader’s gotta be able to use their own experience as a baseline to see that the narrator’s out of his tree. Our existence is so fucking anomalous that no one will be able to tell the difference. »
« A narrator should be objective, » Suibhne replies. « To be capable of objectivity, the narrator needs distance on himself, perhaps by thinking of himself exclusively in the third person. Also, Cillian can go fuck a squirrel-puppet. »
« Not my squirrel-puppet, » Davy rebuts. « Cillian and I don’t have that kind of relationship. You and me, that’s different. »
« No, thank you. Suibhne isn’t interested in Tervok the Squirrel. That’s a special thing Davy shares with Axel. Also, Suibhne is not unreliable; Suibhne is broken. Suibhne is broken, so he is exactly the Archon to rely upon when other things are broken. Suibhne kind of sees Cillian’s point, but Patrick is writing a story about Ashtara, which means that it is about pieces and how they fit together. There are two kinds of pieces: pieces which are new and have never been put together, and pieces which are broken and need to be put together again. In this story, everyone has a chance to be both kinds of piece, so the story is fair. »
It’s probably best just to ignore all this and continue. « I was hoping that we could put the events of the Great Hatch in context, perhaps by telling our prospective readership about how emanations were created before that event. »
Suibhne removes his naval bicorne, scratching his forehead with the tip. « Put things in perspective for the readers? Let us start with asking them a few simple questions: who are you, really? Why do you love the things that you love? Do you have a soul? Is it made of a) nul-energy; b) rubber; c) something else? Where were you before you were born? Where were you on the night of August 14, 1987? Now maybe you’re starting to understand. If you don’t know the answers to these questions, you’ll never have an alibi. And if you don’t have an alibi, you’ll always get blamed for everything. Suibhne knows. »
Cillian shakes his head. Cord goes over to Daniel’s bar, where Tommy helpfully hands him a shot of rhybaa.
« Does everybody have an alibi ready? » Suibhne continues. « Good. Then we can begin. This is how it used to happen before Cord was hatched. It happened that way 40 times between Suibhne and Hollis. Suibhne doesn’t know what happened before Suibhne. Maybe Darius knows. Anyway, at some point within 24-48 hours before it happens, Suibhne can feel it. He can’t tell exactly when because Suibhne cannot keep time. Also, sometimes Suibhne gets distracted and forgets, but that’s his own fault. It’s not like it’s a big problem because Suibhne does not do any of the real work, but he promised Tara he’d make the cards. So he goes to Cüinn, who is very surprised to see a new entry added to his spreadsheet. The same thing happens with Seth’s correspondence chart, but Seth doesn’t have the information Suibhne needs to make the trading cards, so Suibhne does not ask him. Suibhne does not really understand why Seth thinks esoteric symbols are more important than cock size. »
« It’s because Seth is a few bushes short of a hedgerow. Also, Cillian would like to ask Suibhne to stop speaking in the fucking third person. »
« According to Suibhne’s research, it is a customary trope to indicate insanity, in particular, a type of megalomaniacal paranoia. It will add authenticity to the narrative. »
« Compost. It’s a fucking affectation, and as our literary critic, it’s my duty to say that the last thing we need is more artistic pretense around here. »
« Suibhne can’t hear you, lalala. »
Cord holds out his glass for a refill.
« Suibhne, please continue, » I urge. « What did you do after you saw Cüinn? »
« Suibhne goes next to see Driscoll. Driscoll is already finished. Driscoll worked on the new branch some time ago, maybe a long time ago, but he can’t keep time either. Suibhne goes to the door of Driscoll’s studio and says a name. Like when he said, « Hollis. » And Driscoll goes to his storage racks and pulls out a painting. Driscoll doesn’t know the name of the painting until that minute. Driscoll just paints the faces that haunt him. There’s a certain relief in his eyes when he hears the name for the first time. There’s also an unspoken promise between Driscoll and Suibhne not to tell anyone else unless Tara picks up the card and looks at it. Then the shrub is out of the potter. Davy knows the name before either of us because Davy has to do what he has to do. He kept what he did a big secret for all those years until the Great Hatch. Then the whole production model changed. Suibhne was not surprised when it changed, not really. »
Now it’s getting interesting. Suibhne often seems to have information unavailable to the rest of us. « And why was that? »
Suibhne smiles and rises. « Suibhne is going to play backgammon with Wynne, and Suibhne is going to lose. »
« I think what we lost is the plot, » says Cillian.
But Suibhne has that weird look on his face, the one where he’s about to say something important.
« Do you know what the key to playing a losing game is? It is to bet something you don’t mind losing. Better still, to bet something you want to lose. »
Wynne spreads out the backgammon set. « Isn’t it easier to always win? »
But I get it. « Not when you’re playing against Tara. »
[1] Voice-over, for those of you not conversant with the jargon – trans.