Flowercrash

by Stephen Palmer

  He dozed. Though in an unfamiliar place, the day had fatigued him.

  He awoke to the sound of splashing water and clanking metal. Dawn had arrived and passed. He sniffed the air. There was a strong smell of manure. He got up, to find that during the night his robe had been smeared with dung. The quiet trio glanced at him, and smiled. Nuïy looked at Eletela, who shrugged and turned away.

  Nuïy asked Drowaïtash, “How long until Raïtasha arrives?”

  “Maybe fifteen minutes.”

  Nuïy took his robe and dunked it in a bucket of water, squeezing and kneading until the dung was washed out. Drowaïtash said, “You’ll never dry that in time. You can’t wear it, you’ll freeze in this weather. Look, there’s ice on the windows.”

  Nuïy began to squeeze out the freezing water. “No matter,” he replied. “I do not feel the cold like normal people.”

  The big youth in the other group laughed to himself, but apart from that there was no comment. Nuïy finished squeezing the robe and put it on, before checking his hair in the mirror and pulling on the socks and leather ankle boots that had been supplied for him.

  Raïtasha arrived, carrying a pail of hot water, soap and razors. He clicked his fingers at Drowaïtash and when the boy sat on a stool began to soap him ready for shaving. Nuïy frowned. This could not happen to him. Without a word he took a razor and some soap, and in front of the mirror fragment began to shave himself.

  Raïtasha glanced at him, but said nothing. The youths of the quiet trio stared at him, anger in their eyes.

  At last all were ready. They stood in a line by the door while Raïtasha inspected them. Stopping at Nuïy he said, “Yer robe is wet, twig. Why?”

  Nuïy replied, “I wanted it to be spotless before the gaze of the Green Man.”

  Raïtasha nodded, struggling to keep a grin from his face. “All right. Follow me. And no noise.”

  Raïtasha led them into the western sector and through a maze of buildings, until they struck a paved path leading between two sprawling complexes of stone. Nuïy heard drumming to his left, and his hyper-sensitive ears picked up complex rhythms that he was able to store into his memory as a sequence of facts. The drums were tri-tonal. He knew already what they would look like. He grinned, knowing his skill at counting and memorising would be useful here.

  They approached the central tower, crossing into it by way of an arched stone bridge that spanned a deep chasm. Raïtasha stopped them just as they were about to enter, saying, “This is the Inner Sanctum. Do not enter without permission. Even with permission, you won’t be allowed to enter without a cleric at yer side. When you’re a branch of the Green Man, like the clerics, you may come here. Is that clear?”

  They nodded. Raïtasha led them past two guards and along a corridor, before turning left into a chamber.

  Nuïy appraised the room before him. It was large, granite pillars against the walls like butresses in the form of trees. The outer wall was pierced with holes through which birds hopped. Nuïy saw nests. In the rafters, he spotted a barn owl. At the far end of the chamber sat a single man on a throne of oak decorated with garlands of twigs and leaves. He was small, of middle years, with a lined face and hair close cropped like Eletela’s. He wore wire-framed spectacles with thick lenses, so that his pale eyes seemed to stare like that of a lunatic. But his clothes were as rich as any Nuïy had seen, particularly a green and gold cloak lined with white fur and set with golden leaves. He wore gloves of brown leather over which gold rings had been placed.

  Raïtasha led them towards him, lining them up, with Nuïy placed last. He went to stand beside the throne and picked up a pot and a wide brush.

  The sitting man glanced to his side. “Tell them who I am, Leafmaster.”

  “Twigs, you stand before the Third Cleric of the Green Man. This is Zehosaïtra. He will initiate you into the ways of the Green Man.”

  Zehosaïtra looked at them, one by one. From the corner of his eye Nuïy saw the other five drop their gaze, but when Zehosaïtra looked at him he met the cleric’s gaze until, after some seconds, he saw Raïtasha move, which made him glance away. Had that movement been deliberate?

  Zehosaïtra said, “Well, twigs, this is yer last chance to turn aside. Are there any here who would not become leaves of the Green Man?”

  Silence.

  “Very well.” Zehosaïtra stood up and plucked a handful of twigs from the throne. He walked up to the first of the line, the tall youth, and asked him his name, which was Mehmatha. From the twigs he pulled four leaves. Raïtasha moved to his side and dipped the brush into the pot, to fill it with a sticky black fluid, against which Zehosaïtra dabbed the leaves. He stuck one each on Mehmatha’s hands and bare shins. This he did to the remaining five, during which Nuïy learned the missing names of the youths, which were Baïcoora and Awanshyva. Then Zehosaïtra returned to sit at his throne.

  “Repeat after me,” he said, looking at all of them. “Green is great, green is great.”

  Hesitantly they intoned, “Green is great, green is great,” in a poor semblance of order that frustrated Nuïy. Almost he asked Zehosaïtra if they could speak it again, all in time, but he held himself in check.

  Zehosaïtra continued, “Twig to leaf, leaf to branch, branch to humus.”

  “Twig to leaf, leaf to branch, branch to humus.”

  Zehosaïtra turned to the north, then said, “Stamp out the flowers, stamp on the flowers.”

  “Stamp out the flowers, stamp on the flowers.”

  And finally, “The Green Man is the tree, and we will turn to humus at his roots.”

  “The Green Man is the tree, and we will turn to humus at his roots.”

  Zehosaïtra nodded. “Good. Now there are two more things to complete the ceremony.” From his pockets he pulled six yellow hats in the shape of a cake tin, which he gave to them. “These hats symbolise the sun on yer heads. The sun shines upon the Green Man and makes him strong. You may personalise these. Do not lose them. They are to be worn on special occasions.”

  “Thank the Third Cleric,” Raïtasha said.

  They mumbled their thanks.

  Zehosaïtra said, “The sun is good, but the moon is evil. Scorn the moon.”

  Raïtasha again filled his brush with black fluid, while Zehosaïtra said, “You must be bearded in the sight of the Green Man. Until you grow proper beards, we will help you. Raïtasha?”

  Raïtasha stood before Mehmatha and painted a beard and moustache on his face, which dripped upon his robe. “Yer robe is soiled,” Raïtasha remarked. “Wash it later.”

  Eventually Raïtasha painted a beard and moustache on Nuïy’s face, slopping the sticky fluid about. Nuïy suppressed a sneeze. The stuff was like runny creosote.

  Zehosaïtra sat on his throne as Raïtasha led them out. Nuïy glanced back. Those round eyes stared at him.

  He skipped to the front of the group as they returned to the dormitory, to walk at Raïtasha’s side. “But that was only the Third Cleric,” he said. “Where were the superior two?”

  “You’re only little green leaves just out of the bud. The top two have more important things to do than initiate the likes of you.”

  “What are their names?”

  Raïtasha frowned up at Nuïy. “Why do you want to know, eh?”

  “I must have all the facts.”

  Raïtasha clicked his tongue in annoyance. “The Second Cleric is Gaddaqueva. The First Cleric is Sargyshyva.”

  Nuïy was about to ask what they looked like, when he tripped and almost fell flat on his face. He looked back to see the leering face of Mehmatha. A boot had connected with his ankle.

  “No more questions,” Raïtasha said. “Just watch where you are going.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Nuïy spent the next week assimilating and categorising his surroundings. Alone, he explored all the sectors that he was allowed to enter, including the Orchards to the east and north, and the open yards and autodog kennels of the south east. The western quarter was barred
to initiates.

  He slept in the dormitory with the other five. The group was split precisely in two, the quiet trio practising the occasional prank but on the whole keeping themselves to themselves, although they clearly disliked Nuïy. A tenuous alliance emerged between the sly and furtive Drowaïtash and Nuïy. Eletela tagged along; he ate like a horse and was rather stupid.

  During the day the Leafmaster would see to their education, which he took in groups of ten, encompassing writing and learning, strenuous work with the shillelah that was the preferred weapon of the Green Man, and lessons in the dialect of Emeralddis. Nuïy came to realise that there were about fifty other initiates, some novices like himself, others a decade older and soon to be inducted into the tree itself, so to become a branch. These almost-clerics set themselves apart and lived ascetic lives. Nuïy admired them and tried to copy them.

  He resisted all attempts to drag him into dormitory games and intrigues. The evening was free time, and he would either memorise clerical texts that he stole from the bedside tables of older initiates, returning them when finished, or he would sit by the south wall of the Drum Houses and listen to the echoes of drumbeats. Once he had identified a particular rhythm he was able to spot every mistake of the drummer, and many an evening he would grind his teeth or beat the ground in frustration at the sloppy work he heard. Precision was his fantasy. He lived in exact sequences of time. But as the week ended he realised that one drummer approached the same rhythmic perfection that he found so natural. He wondered who this man might be, and vowed to meet him.

  One day, he and nine others were performing push-ups in snow covered yards by the autodog kennels when an old man appeared from between two initiate dormitories and approached the Leafmaster. Nuïy eyed the man as he pushed up and down. He was old, with a balding pate and a grizzled, unkempt beard, wearing a simple sea-green cloak and boots. He had a bit of a belly, but he looked fit. He spoke to Raïtasha, who in turn glanced at Nuïy. Then he nodded and gestured to Nuïy with one crooked finger.

  Nuïy approached. Raïtasha indicated the old man and said, “Do you know who this is?”

  “No.”

  “This is Deomouvadaïn, the Recorder-Shaman of our Shrine. He wants to speak with you. Go with him. Then return here to yer class.”

  Nuïy looked at Deomouvadaïn and said, “I trust I have done nothing ill in the eyes of the Green Man?”

  The old man shook his head and began to walk back to the dormitory buildings. Nuïy followed. He led the way through the Drum and Tech Houses, past the west gate and into clerical accomodation, where the houses were tall and stern, with iron clad doors and shuttered windows. The grounds they were set in had been cleared of snow.

  Deomouvadaïn stopped at a house, but then shook his head and led Nuïy around the back, where a garden of considerable extent lay. Nuïy noticed that all the snow had melted.

  Clearing his throat, Deomouvadaïn said in a guttural voice, “What d’you make of this?”

  “It is a large garden, very wet. It is filled to choking with herbs.”

  “Yes. It’s mine. I work here. This is my house.”

  Nuïy nodded.

  Again Deomouvadaïn cleared his throat of phlegm, spitting it out to the ground. “I want you to answer some questions. Be truthful. Don’t exaggerate. Am I clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Leafmaster’s mentioned yer virtues. He says you’ve pure heartwood. You’re intense. You scribe clearly, with fervent precision. You like the Green Man.”

  “I love the Green Man,” Nuïy said, in an effort to endear himself to Deomouvadaïn.

  But the old man slapped him across the cheek and said, “Men don’t love. We like. Loving is for un-men and shrivelled leaves.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, then. Is this description of you accurate?”

  “Yes.”

  Deomouvadaïn indicated that Nuïy should follow him around the herb garden. After a minute, he said, “The Leafmaster said you come from up north. Where?”

  “From the very southernmost belt of the crone urb.”

  “Hmph. Yer family’s there?”

  Nuïy had all but forgotten his family over the previous week; now the mention of what he had escaped stirred up his guts. He replied in a soft voice, “I suppose so.”

  “Why d’you leave?”

  Nuïy writhed in indecision, unable to guess what the old man wanted to know. At length he said, “They forced a guardian on me.”

  “You didn’t want that?”

  “No.”

  “Good. The crones force their filthy flowers on us. In Emeralddis we reject them. You did wisely.”

  Nuïy smiled, and stood straighter. “Thank you.”

  Deomouvadaïn slapped him across the cheek, this time harder. “Never puff yerself up with pride, leaf.”

  Nuïy looked to the ground. “Yes.”

  “Now, then. D’you hate un-men?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmph. And d’you hate the crones?”

  “Yes.”

  Deomouvadaïn thought a moment, then said, “Which un-men did you grow up with?”

  “My sis… my sibling un-man, and my parent un-man.”

  “D’you hate them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Nuïy took some time to compose his reply. “I hate them because they forced me to be like them, and I’m not like them, I’ll never be like them. They made me do things that were wrong. They were wrong because they were un-men things, and I knew I had to escape to Emeralddis to find a proper home for myself, among men.”

  Deomouvadaïn raised one hand and glared at Nuïy. “Don’t speak flowery to me, leaf.”

  Nuïy froze.

  Deomouvadaïn relaxed, then continued to walk around the garden. “What about yer father?”

  “Nothing but a grey-skinned cripple, a dribbling child. I hate him almost as much as them.”

  “But he’s a man.”

  Nuïy thought again. “The Green Man is the epitome of what a man should be. He is tall, strong, with noble heartwood and thick sap. My father is none of those things. He doesn’t deserve to be a man. He’s just pink.”

  “Hmph. Pink. That’s bile indeed.”

  Nuïy said nothing. Old emotions roiled within him, but he repressed them. Being with Deomouvadaïn and getting things right was all that mattered at the moment. Forget the past.

  “Why have you picked me out?” he asked.

  Deomouvadaïn coughed. “In classes yer the top leaf of the pile. Yer intellect is worthy. The Shrine of the Green Man is pleased to have yer heartwood.”

  “I’m pleased to serve here.”

  “That being so, I’ll be giving you extra lessons. I’ll arrange times with the Leafmaster.”

  Nuïy controlled his joy. He managed to say, “Thank you. I will live up to your every expectation.”

  “You don’t know my expectations,” Deomouvadaïn warned. “But I expect you to do yer best.”

  “I will.”

  “Now, then. Return to the Leafmaster. You can tell yer dorm mates about this. But once we start learning, you’ll have to keep secrets. Betray me and you kiss humus. Is that clear?”

  “Completely clear.”

  “All right. Off you go. No dawdling.”

  Nuïy ran all the way back to the yards, where he found that the physical training had ended. It was late afternoon and classes were over.

  That evening Drowaïtash and Eletela wanted to know what had happened, but Nuïy refused to tell them anything of the conversation. “He took me aside and led me to his house,” he said. “I don’t know what happens next. I expect I will see him more in the future.”

  “But why?”

  Nuïy shrugged and turned to his books. “I don’t know yet.”

  The quiet trio stared at him. “Perhaps he wants to stick his cock up yer chuff,” Mehmatha suggested.

  Nuïy glanced across, then replied, “All the superior clerics are celibate.
Didn’t you know that?”

  There was quiet muttering, then nothing.

  Deomouvadaïn appeared at the end of classes next day, taking Nuïy to his garden, where he proceeded to describe the various herbs and aromatic plants that grew amidst underground heating lines. The garden was so big it had been divided by bay hedges into oblongs, each devoted to a particular family of species—the depressants, the stimulants, the augmenters, the psychedelics, the focussers, the poisons, and so on. Nuïy asked for genus and species names, which he stored in his memory.

  Then Deomouvadaïn said, “I grow and use these plants for a reason. Doubtless you’ve wondered at my title. Recorder-Shaman. I work in the Tech Houses. I record information off the networks.”

  “You work with flowers?”

  “You’ll soon see that I don’t. The shamanic half of my title refers to the state of mind necessary for accurate work. The networks are a deafening mass of darting facts. It’s necessary to achieve trance to capture information. Drugs synthesized from these herbs facilitate that state.”

  “Is this work that I could do?”

  “Possibly. That’s not all there is to it. Yer attitude of mind must be correct. You’ll undergo various tests, all of which you must pass. You must obey the wishes of the Green Man, for instance.”

  Nuïy tried to appear detached as he replied, “Oh, I will.”

  But Deomouvadaïn grimaced. “You’re naive, Nuïy. Suppose these tests militate against yer inner nature? You’ll fail. You don’t yet know what you are, and neither do we. Don’t presuppose the future.”

  Nuïy nodded. “I wanted you to know my loyalty to the Green Man.”

  “That’s not in doubt. Yer single-mindedness and ability to concentrate have been noticed.” They had returned to the side of Deomouvadaïn’s house. The old man said, “Before we visit the Tech House, tell me whether you’ve had congress with any un-men.”