Flowercrash

by Stephen Palmer

  In minutes she stood before the Shrine of Flower Sculpture. Apart from the foundations it was built entirely of hardpetal. In form it was an upturned bell, its sides shrouded in baroque scrolls and curls that often surrounded windows, or marked the doors to balconies. Manserphine looked up; it was a hundred feet high. Its colour changed from season to season. Presently it was pale green, here and there showing inner spirals of blue and brown. Where it joined the street there was a single door. Symbolically, this was transparent, indicating that the Shrine had no secrets; a grievous lie, as Manserphine knew. But it was a good way to entice converts.

  Manserphine entered a cool hall, where she asked to see Pollonzyn. In minutes her contact arrived, petite and suave in a crimson roquelaure, to lead her into a pine scented ante-room.

  “You acquired our gametes?” Pollonzyn asked. She spoke with the throaty burr characteristic of Novais, yet her speech was ornate. This was one of the dialects Manserphine had to translate in her capacity of Interpreter.

  Manserphine handed over the paintbrush. “This comes with the shadow of a price.”

  “But we’ve reimbursed you-”

  “Not that. I was uncovered.”

  Pollonzyn blanched. “You mean your-”

  “I cozened my way out of the fray, but granny gave me a three month dip. I’m having to lie up at a hostelry of eastern delights.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Manserphine sighed. “Of course, it’s the end of our dealings. After my dip I’m supposed to step again on virtual grass. I have to keep my fingers pink, else lose my privileges.”

  But Pollonzyn was shaking her head. “Absolutely never! I’ll immediately bring an interview with Cirishnyan. I’m sure she won’t want to lose you to the wind.”

  Manserphine shrugged. “I might come, but don’t dab the brush on my account. The way I feel at the moment, only granny crone can save me.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The next day, Manserphine was invited to join Cirishnyan for a brief meeting at the Shrine of Flower Sculpture. As befitted one of the two senior clerics of the Shrine, Cirishnyan’s chamber was magnificent, hexagonal in shape with each wall and the ceiling a different colour of the rainbow. The chamber had been cunningly constructed, so that when artists scraped away the outer surface of the hardpetal a darker colour of the same hue was revealed, creating, over the decades, a breathtaking mural of great intricacy. Lighting was provided by lamps shaped as tulips.

  They sat opposite one another in deep chairs, their feet resting on stools. Cirishnyan was a small woman of middle years, with a deeply lined face and a shock of pale hair. She wore spectacles.

  From a ewer, Cirishnyan offered Manserphine wine. “Pollonzyn knowledged us of the unfortunate reservations you had,” she began.

  Manserphine sighed. What she had to say would be difficult. She hated disappointing people, and she felt unhappy about leaving the path suggested by her flower sculpting vision, but the banishment had shocked her into confronting the actions she had taken. “I do not wish to garden for you any longer,” she confessed. “I dare not cut off my rootball.”

  Cirishnyan nodded in the sympathetic manner she had. “There are nuances we can make. We want to keep you gardening for us because we must challenge the immorality of the Garden hierarchy as it stands today.”

  “It’s too perilous,” Manserphine said, shaking her head.

  Cirishnyan drank deeply from her goblet, then leaned forward to say with a grin, “But we have this nice petal for you. Suppose, just suppose, you grew upon your body a species of scentlessness that would make gardening for me much easier?”

  Manserphine had heard of invisibility technology, but she had been able to garner nothing other than tale and rumour. Intrigued, she asked, “How?”

  “Did you know that there is a flexible species of hardpetal known as softpetal? It is difficult to grow, and rare. We have noticed your flowing garments. We could sew thin strips of softpetal into them, thereby to give you scentlessness with respect to the whole bed of flower networks and their insects. For example, you would be able to manipulate networks, change the memories of individual flowers, have control over the vectors of swarms of insects, and even of individual insects. The only drawback is that on hot bloomtime days softpetal melts. However if you planned your gardening well, keeping your garments in ice when they did not surround your body, all would be fine.”

  Manserphine grinned. “Flowered up!” This would make her work with the networks easier.

  “But you will require affirming by our spirit of floral sculpture.”

  “Who is that?” Manserphine asked.

  “You shall meet her soon enough.”

  Manserphine sensed a trick. This was a Shrine, after all, and she was known to be an important person. Was there a hint of a plot here? “I trust you are not attempting to graft me into you floral home bed. I’ll never leave the crones.”

  Cirishnyan gestured impatiently with her hands, spilling wine upon the floor. “Absolutely never. You only become available to the blooms of Zaïdmouth as Interpreter, and we want you to stay that way. But the hierarchy of the Garden must be changed, and that is why we want dealings with you.”

  So many people after so few positions of power. Manserphine reflected on the history of political change in Zaïdmouth. It was slow, often ugly. She wondered if Ashnaram, the other leading cleric of this Shrine, was listening in to the conversation—Ashnaram, who was the most vocal member of the Outer Garden, and the best debater.

  “We shall arrange all,” Cirishnyan concluded. “Now then, in whose bed have you planted yourself?”

  “At the Determinate Inn, crone meadow.”

  Cirishnyan wrote something on a hardpetal tablet. “We shall scatter some seeds at your innkeeper until bloomexplode, when we understand you return to the Garden.”

  Manserphine shook her head. “Scentless—the transactions could be pulled. The crones may be observing me.”

  “We enjoy good garden design here,” Cirishnyan laughed. “We can reformulate the fragrance of the transactions. Or use hardseeds.”

  “Flowered up.”

  “Of course, we expect you to observe your own paths for signs of crone coverts, but we shall do the rest. Trust our fragrance. We don’t want to lose you, Interpreter.” She hesitated, as if thinking. “Are there any other petals we can offer you?”

  Manserphine considered, animating her face into smiles to preserve etiquette. Floral sculpture was an emotional creed. “I am low on hardseeds until bloomexplode.”

  Cirishnyan cracked off a corner of her writing tablet and inscribed it with signs. “Take this chit to Pollonzyn, and she shall provide you with a case of hardseeds.”

  “I’m obliged.”

  “Now, walk carefully. See us here if any more reservations are thrown up.”

  Manserphine stood and they embraced, hugging each other for a full minute as custom dictated. “Farewell.”

  “Farewell!”

  Cirishnyan led her to the door of her chamber, then Pollonzyn arrived to guide her to the front door. Manserphine handed over the chit, then departed.

  Back at the Determinate Inn all was silent. Omdaton sat before the fire with her head on her chest, snoring lightly. Nobody appeared when Manserphine entered, which she thought odd, so she helped herself to a glass of whiskey and retired to her room. The effort of translating Novais speech had exhausted her. Already it was afternoon and the sun was low, so that the kitchen garden visible from her window was thrown into shadow. Lying on her bed she listened to the sounds of the inn—creaking, an occasional scuffle from mice, now and then a shudder as the wind gusted. But no sound of people. This was a remarkably quiet inn. In fact, she had yet to meet another guest. Nor had she met Jezelva, the cook’s colleague.

  She jumped up when a slamming door made the floor vibrate. Hearing Vishilkaïr’s voice she hurried downstairs, impelled more by loneliness than by curiosity, a feeling that enshrouded her now she was separated f
rom her Shrine friends. He smiled at her and offered her a free whiskey, which she guiltily accepted.

  Conspiratorially, he gestured her away from Omdaton. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he said, “but we’ve worked out who you are. It was all quite accidental. Kirifaïfra is the man to blame if you want to hit out a bit.”

  “How do you mean?” Manserphine replied, trying to retain a semblance of composure.

  “We know what your job was… is.”

  Manserphine frowned. “Yes, is. They have not banished me forever. How did you find out?”

  Vishilkaïr refilled her glass. Manserphine was already feeling tipsy, but she did not stop him. He whispered, “The most peculiar thing. We were walking back to the inn when Kirifaïfra tripped on a root in the street and fell over, knocking as he did a gigantic red gentian. When I knelt down to help him to his feet, he was spitting out petals. The flower screen was exposed and active. I’ve never seen such a thing in winter.”

  Manserphine recalled her vision. “There are a couple of winter flowering species,” she remarked. “Carry on.”

  “On the screen lay the faces of the Garden, and of course we recognised you, sister Interpreter.”

  Manserphine slapped him on the shoulder, without force, but with a frown on her face. She looked him in the eyes to say, “I told you before, don’t call me that. People will hear. I have a name.”

  His face showed that he knew he had made a mistake. “Of course. You are just Manserphine, our charming guest.”

  “Now you can fetch me the supper menu. I’m hungry.”

  She dined that night on devilled parsnips and strips of kelp, with deep fried crispy grubs. She drank gin. By the time she was carried to bed even her insomnia stood no chance, and she slept until dawn.

  At noon she heard knocking at her door, so she crawled out of bed, put on her woolly coat—it was the only garment to hand—and went to see who it was. An apologetic Kirifaïfra stood outside, wringing his hands.

  “Sorry to bother you, but there is a small lady with dark hair that smells of coal-roses awaiting your company.”

  That would be Pollonzyn. Manserphine felt a hot sensation in the pit of her belly. “I must go to the privy. Tell her I’ll be down soon.”

  “Very good.”

  “And take all the spicy food off your menu.”

  Kirifaïfra considered. “That would leave us with kale and beansprouts.”

  Manserphine waved him away.

  When she was ready she went down to meet Pollonzyn, who sat reading scrolls in the bay window seat, a tankard of beer standing beside her. “I’m here to collect a pair of garments for the softpetal,” Pollonzyn explained.

  Manserphine led her upstairs, eyeing the heavy bag that Pollonzyn carried. When a pair of suitable dresses had been chosen Pollonzyn opened the bag to produce two chests, one large, one small.

  “The large one is hardseeds for your innkeeper, the small one is for you.”

  Manserphine nodded. “I’m obliged to Cirishnyan.”

  “I am requested to invite you to our floral home bed just after flowerclose, to meet our spirit of floral sculpture.”

  “Tonight?” She shrugged. “Flowered up.”

  Pollonzyn departed. Downstairs, Manserphine put the large chest on the bar and invited Vishilkaïr to open it, which he did as if it might contain an explosive.

  Kirifaïfra ambled into the room, and Vishilkaïr said to him, “See here nephew, a chest of fine brass cowries.”

  Kirifaïfra sniffed the air. “They have a superb aroma, don’t they?”

  Vishilkaïr agreed. “I wonder why that would be?”

  “A very sensual bouquet,” Kirifaïfra concluded.

  Manserphine was not to be outdone. She said, “You might think you know what you are talking about, but you do not. And I have noticed a few things about you two, such as the fact that your inn has so few guests, and you are frequently out, and you, Vishilkaïr, wear rather splendid clothes.”

  “We go out to buy food and drink,” Vishilkaïr objected.

  Manserphine’s face hardened. “I’m not joking. You know who I am. I’m one of the most important people in Zaïdmouth. If you are sensible and not the chuckling rakes you sometimes appear to be, you will keep your mouths shut and let me get on with my life.”

  “I quite understand,” Vishilkaïr said. He put a hand into the box and pulled out a fist of cowries, which he let trickle back. “I suspect this will more than settle your bill until spring.”

  “Good. Then it’s agreed. I like this inn, and I hope to find respect here. Let’s make the next season a good one for all five of us.”

  “All five?” Kirifaïfra queried.

  “All five,” Vishilkaïr said firmly.

  ~

  Manserphine departed as the sun set, making east for Novais along the route she had previously walked. It was a cold, clear night, and the fug in her head had been replaced with clarity. After a while she saw ahead the lamps of the urb, laid in serpentine forms across the hills.

  At the Shrine of Flower Sculpture she presented herself to Cirishnyan, who led her up a spiral staircase to the top of the bell, where they paused at a blue door guarded by an armoured woman. When the door was opened and they walked through, Manserphine found herself inside a vast chamber, perhaps a quarter of the volume of the Shrine; and yet it was empty. A single window of orange let in evening light, which gleamed through clouds of dust to make an oval upon the floor. She noticed that girls on the far side of the chamber were beating the floor with cloths, so as to raise more dust. They wore wetted masks across their mouths. The walls of the chamber were contorted into shapes that reminded her of relief maps, and these were damaged by scorch marks.

  “This is the bed of our spirit,” Cirishnyan said.

  “Is she here now?”

  “She always grows here. Wait awhile, and she will come to meet you.”

  Manserphine sat down to await events. After a few minutes she noticed that the dust motes illuminated by the window were circling in a pattern, and, defocussing her eyes, it seemed as if they were making a face. There was the faintest odour of burning above the melange of flower fragrances that permeated the Shrine. Manserphine considered what she saw, and wondered if electrostatic charges created by controlled currents in the hardpetal walls were making the dust move in patterns, thick here, thinner there, to manifest the illusion. It really was a face. The face of a woman, perhaps, with pointed ears and large eyes.

  “There she is,” Cirishnyan whispered.

  “Is this the spirit of floral sculpture that you worship?”

  Cirsihnyan nodded. An intense joy permeated her features, and she seemed too awestruck to speak.

  “How will I be affirmed?” Manserphine asked.

  “Her appearance has affirmed you. Dustspirit has accepted you into our beds.”

  Manserphine returned her gaze to the illusion. She had never seen anything like it. Certainly the Shrine of Our Sister Crone, who used clay figurines and crumbling scrolls, had nothing to compare. After ten minutes they departed, but Manserphine felt the aura of the dust chamber tugging at her mind, and, suddenly vibrant as if from a premonition, she asked if they could return.

  “You go on,” Cirishnyan replied. “The guardian bloom will let you in when you ask.”

  Manserphine climbed the stairs once more. Inside the chamber all was quiet, except for the faint flapping of cloths far away, and she sat where she had before, trying to feel why this place spoke so clearly to her of peace. Perhaps it was the rhythmic flapping of the girls’ cloths; or maybe the otherworldly aura.

  She watched the face emerge again from the clouds of dust, but now it seemed closer, moving in a definite way, its mouth working, its eyes closing, opening, then closing again. Manserphine felt for a moment that she was entering another of her visions. But this was different. She knew it. This was real.

  A hissing voice, just audible, said, “Manserphine, Manserphine, so you have co
me to find me at last. So many years have I waited for one such as yourself. Open your mind to me.”

  Manserphine looked across to the girls to see if they had noticed the voice, but it seemed they had not. The face was staring at her and it seemed very close, with hairs of dust that shot out like rocket trails. The burning smell was stronger, and she knew now that it came from the electrically manipulated dust.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “Dustspirit, Dustspirit. That is who I am. But you, Manserphine, you have the ability to help me manifest. I must become embodied. There is much yet to do. I must walk the Earth once again.”

  Manserphine realised that the entity was speaking to her in Venerisian dialect. That was a curious fact. “Shall I fetch Cirishnyan?” she asked.

  “No. I want you.”

  “But I’m not from here. I’m faithful to the Shrine of Our Sister Crone.”

  “An irrelevance. It is you who speaks to me.”

  Suddenly frightened, Manserphine leaped to her feet and fled the chamber, ignoring the calls of the guard as she clattered down the steps. She burst into Cirishnyan’s chamber without knocking.

  “I saw Dustspirit in the dusty bed, and she knowledged me!”

  Cirishnyan was on her feet and hurrying to the door. “How?”

  They began to climb the staircase. Manserphine continued, “She softly knowledged into my ear as I sat in the bed. Come quickly before she departs again.”

  “Flowered up!”

  Outside the chamber Cirishnyan listened at the door, before opening it and entering, Manserphine following. The face was gone. Random clouds filled the air.

  “Dustspirit has departed,” she told Manserphine.

  Cirishnyan did not look happy. Manserphine put all her emotions into her voice to reply, “She was here, and she may return.”

  A pause. “We shall wait.”

  So they waited, and after a few minutes the visage of Dustspirit began to reform in the air, shifting as the dust motes billowed. Unable to wait, Manserphine called out, “Knowledge to me once more!” and then, using in her own dialect, “Speak to me! I’m back.”