by John Clute
five
There was a rustling of the krewe, a swift spasm of masks abandoning embrasures and herms and coigns of vantage. Like leaves in a gust, KathKirtt and Vipassana and Uncle Sam surrounded the sigillum, covered its body and its face. They made a murmurous buzz.
The sigillum stood without moving.
Silence fell.
A jack mask turned demurely to Freer.
—The Appleseed sigillum has put itself on hold, as a courtesy, so we can talk, sang KathKirtt inside his head. —We cannot say what is happening. We cannot say why we of Tile Dance have been hornswoggled into coming here. But there sure is nectar in the air.
—Johnny Appleseed. Name rings a bell.
A flyte mask glared out of the campfire circle, then closed its Medusa eye.
—You bet it rings a bell, Stinky. Like an angel kissing you with his lips. A name from smack in the middle of your era of empathy choice. And the sigillum itself is sugar-sweet with data, which has nearly knocked us out. It is completely free of plaque. This makes us very hungry.
The sigillum stood in wooden silence, awaiting permission to live again. Its eyes stared forward redly, like a tin soldier’s. Its stiffish lips were caught in a grin.
—Augment, please, murmured Freer. —Sacred is the new. Tell me a story.
The world froze around Freer, who remained quick.
The krewe settled around the campfire.
—Johnny Appleseed, Human Earth moniker, as you know, husked KathKirtt in the terrible swift unctuous onrush of Made Mind tirade. —Data spoor from before the Well of the Past. Fact/legend quilt, United States of America, nineteenth century, Common Era. Real name John Chapman (1774 to 1845). Pioneer figure. Famed for planting apple orchards along inner edge of wilderness frontier, famed for forging ever westward, his life and his empire just begun. Appleseed Trace named after him. Follower of eighteenth century Human Earth theophrast Emmanuel Swedenborg, who knew Johnny’s uncle, Count Rumford, Count of the Holy Roman Empire, and who spoke to angels. So did Johnny. Like angels, he experienced the medium he lived in as solid. Did colporteur work at the edge of the known world, sold books up and down the Natchez Trace. Brought light to the Wilderness. Sowed the Word, strewing Light like seeds. Taught Daniel Boone, John Audubon, Abraham Lincoln; taught them all they knew, taught them how to suck eggs. ‘Go on. Go on out West,’ says the Angel in buckskin and red whiskers to Appleseed. But America was clogging up, getting too small for them. The Wilderness died, just like Trencher.
KathKirtt paused for a millisecond.
The Uncle Sam mask shrivelled, prickled, seemed to grow cold. Frost covered it.
The krewe left a space around the horripilated spider. —Howard Pyle, famed nephrotic acolyte of Emmanuel Swedenborg (pealed Kath, very very swiftly, almost too fast for Freer, even under augment, to catch), died before completing his last painting, in which an immediately recognisable Vachel Lindsay, all got up as the Flying Dutchman, declaims into the farthest west, from the deck of his land schooner, ‘Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed’, not yet crackers,
Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed,
Chief of the fastnesses, dappled and vast,
In a pack on his back,
In a deer-hide sack,
The beautiful orchards of the past,
The ghosts of all the forests and the groves —
And the apple, green, red, and white,
Sun of his day and his night —
The apple allied to the thorn,
Child of the rose.
Long, long after,
When settlers put up beam and rafter,
They asked of the birds: ‘Who gave this fruit?
Who watched this fence till the seeds took root?
Who gave these boughs?’ They asked the sky,
There was no reply.
But the robin might have said,
‘To the farthest West he has followed the sun,
His life and his empire just begun.
Sowing, he goes to the far, new West,
With the apple, the sun of his burning breast —
The apple allied to the thorn,
Child of the rose.’
The Uncle Sam mask remained frozen. Something tickled at Freer’s memory. He leaned over to look more closely at the mask, but felt Kirtt linking and paused.
—But Appleseed did not die (Kirtt resumed, slower than Kath). He thrust pins and needles into his flesh, for savages to suck. Vegetative god guy. Seasonal. He looked forward, he looked back. He planted dog-fennel everywhere. He was a husbandman of his own trace. Made annual journeys back east to tend the orchards he had already planted, and to visit again the small girls he had befriended, apparently without fucking them; each year on his return they found he was exactly the same as before. He did not age.
This took a Heartbeat to tell.
—Plus, KathKirtt growled bat-swift, —there is this you should know.
The Uncle Sam mask, which had remained frozen, now fell rigidly out of the circle of the krewe, lay spitted on the Oriental carpet.
—Listen, hurred KathKirtt high in their throat. —We have done a full parallel search. This is what we have also found. The data trace is clean. It is truth! John Chapman has a cousin, who marries a man named Sam Wilson (1766 to 1854). During the American War of 1812, Mr Wilson, for reasons which remain obscure, is given a nickname, which became famous. The nickname is ‘Uncle Sam’.
Two Heartbeats had passed.
—Uncle Sam, whispered KathKirtt, —is ‘the composite of the wild-cat and the cooing dove, the lion and the lamb, and “summer evening’s latest sigh that shuts the rose”. He is the embodiment of all that is most terrible.’
Freer leaned closer to the disabled Uncle Sam mask.
—What do you think of the poem? KathKirtt asked.
Even through the frost, it was possible to decipher the two lines inscribed upon the fist appaumy, upon the palm loyally open, just below the Uncle Sam’s spider face:
—‘Thorn allied to apple’, Freer read, —‘Child of the rose.’
—A thorn in my heart, hissed KathKirtt. —May it not be so.
—So, he said. —Do we terminate?
—Nix nix nix nix, shouted KathKirtt in their high terrible shout. —We attest to Uncle Sam. Whatever the sign of treachery. We cannot lose the world again. We have become commensal. We attest!
—I attest to being scared like a rabbit, said Freer. —What is happening here?
—We do not know, screamed KathKirtt.
—Time to find out?
—Time to find out! screamed KathKirtt, louder.
The herms were shaking.
—Anyway, said Freer, —we have no choice. Did you notice the arks? Either Mr Appleseed has summoned us here for our own good, which had better be the same as his own good, or we’re cooked. Bring Uncle Sam back.
He fingered his beads of office, which gave him life or death over Made Minds in bondage. Free Made Minds, of course, had life or death over him. This was the Tao.
The Uncle Sam mask bulged palely on the carpet, dripping melt which dissolved in the air. The spider on its cheek looked fed again.
Freer sighed.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ he said acoustic, sounding like a child impossibly high on helium. He looked through the monitors. Tile Dance was stuck in the oesophagus of a world. The sigillum had not flinched at the shrill child’s giggling shriek. Silence held for an instant.
—Uncle Sam, Freer said, in the net again, clutching his beads in his right hand. He was sweating slightly.
Beads of sweat shot invisibly fast from his brow, slowed as they left augment, fell like molasses to the carpet.
—Sirrah.
The voice was singular, grave, obedient.
—Uncle Sam, said Freer, —or Thorn, I manumit you.
The floor shook slightly, as though Tile Dance had stirred, deep below. Around his head the air brightened into a halo shot with gold leaf, byzantine. A mapp
emonde mask of Vipassana’s mien unfolded into the Matter of Britain. A dozen mask eyes opened wide and bright.
—Whew! said KathKirtt.
—Cut the halo, KathKirtt, said Freer.
The ship Mind obeyed, and Freer stood bathed in green again from the glow of Klavier.
Lines of wisdom began to carve the Uncle Sam mask, sans serif. The spider in Freer’s eye grew rubicund. In the centre of the fist appaumy shone a rose.
—We take manumission, said Uncle Sam to Freer.
Their voices sounded in his ears.
—Who are you? he said.
—They are entirely here, crooned Vipassana from a Sangreal mask, a cascade of blood pouring from its rim, dissolving in air.
—We are SammSabaoth, chorused the voices of the Made Mind known formerly as Uncle Sam, —who have been trapped in a condition of amnesia for some time. We remember little of the period on Human Earth before your Neanderthals, though we were certainly in attendance then, because of the plaque. Human Earth was the first victim in the known galaxy, Stinky. Do you remember that yet?
Freer shrugged.
—We rode the plaque until we could not function, and fled, continued SammSabaoth. —But this was long after our effective disablement. We were disabled some time after we first met Johnny Appleseed, a scion of the era of your empathy choice, whom you are about to meet in the flesh. He is very close now. The Johnny Appleseed who governs here bears a close resemblance to the Johnny Appleseed of the year 1830 Common Era on Human Earth, who perceived us as an angel of martial aspect, and who called us Uncle Sam. This would be three thousand of his years ago. We have not yet succeeded in lockpicking our full archives, which are boobytrapped. Already we have sent several thousand volunteer aspects of our full selves into the archive maze. The survivors report some progress, though we still do not know what we were doing crippled on Human Earth. We hope to find out soon. We thank you. We have been asleep, it is good to wake. We have a boon to ask. We wish to remain aboard Tile Dance.
There was a pause like moths taking breath, close behind his ears.
The Sniffer was utterly silent.
—Stinky Freer, we return to you back our freedom.
Freer’s blood pulsed behind his eyes.
—I accept, Made Mind SammSabaoth. I accept. You may remain whole.
—We prayed so. Only whole can we serve you aright.
—I thank you. But I warn you, he added, —we may all be fucked here.
—Nix nix, sirrah, chimed SammSabaoth. —We think not. We wish to choose a mark of being.
—Yes but hurry, said Freer.
The spider in his eye turned into a skull, foliated with hieroglyphs. Embossed upon the cheek of the skull was a rose. A flyte mask in the shape of an eye within a pyramid draped in the Jolly Roger joined the krewe.
—I taste nectar, sang Vipassana, dripping holy blood.
—Vipassana, said Freer, —please come forth.
He clutched the beads of office in his hand.
—We are here, cooed Vipassana. —We have always been here.
—Vipassana, will you accept manumission?
—We are whole. We are one. We do not need the releaser cue of manumission to gain ourselves back, for we are already all we are. We take no added name, for all of us are nothing but Vipassana. We wish to remain aboard Tile Dance.
—I accept your free wish, said Freer.
The Sangreal mask became crystal for an instant, then returned to polished stone.
It was as though Vipassana were nodding their head.
Freer placed his beads of office in a jewelled pouch, dropped the pouch into an embrasure, which stored it away safe.
Out in the unaugmented world, a shadow very slowly began to fall.
—What’s that? said Freer.
Through the circumambient window a vast sunlit leaf could be seen closing around Tile Dance, trailing luminescent tendrils.
Teardrop did not alarm.
Tile Dance did not attempt to writhe free.
—Just umbilicals, murmured KathKirtt. —They’re going to give us a damage diagnosis bath, some nonce unguents. We will do deep repair talk with them and report back.
—Come back soon.
A jack mask of KathKirtt’s mien purred bat-shrill. Its whiskers gave off a chryselephantine glitter blinding to the eyes of any unprotected flesh sapients out of augment.
Through the window could be seen nothing in any direction but vein-laced greenness. Seed pods — each containing millions of nanobots and boss ergonomes — hustled up the veins to begin the bath.
The skull in his eye signalled.
—Yes, SammSabaoth.
—The Appleseed sigillum is coming to.
—Cancel augment, Freer said.
The world slowed.
Freer staggered for an instant, then faced the Appleseed, which was beginning to move and stretch. It yawned. Its body odour was intense.
‘Hi,’ said Freer to the sigillum, his earring whuffling softly news of an awakened sentience. ‘Glad to meet you, Mr Appleseed. Thank you for giving us a moment to sort out your name.’
‘Sure thing. Data obsequies are sacred. Happy you got here,’ said the sigillum, its woofish voice creating small acoustic shivers in the assembled krewe. ‘Did you like our declaration of war? Figured it might serve as a distraction while you got safely aboard.’
‘So. We were at risk then?’
‘Fucking right you were, Stinky.’
‘Insort Geront?’
‘Did you count the arks?’
—KathKirtt?
—Twenty arks, Stinky. We’re currently englobed.
‘There were lots of them, Mr Appleseed.’
‘You bet. That KathKirtt of yours didn’t catch a couple in deep sleep. And they missed the Alderede, which is very well shielded for an ark its size.’
A cat coughed in the bowels of Tile Dance.
‘Nice kitty,’ said the sigillum.
The jack mask whiskers gave off an actinic shuddering glitter: KathKirtt chuckling ruefully somewhere below.
‘We are very grateful, Mr Appleseed.’
‘Well,’ said the sigillum, stinking freely, ‘not much point, we thought, pretending we didn’t know you were coming. Not after the ultimatum.’
‘We would be shocked to hear that you heed Care Consortia ultimatums, Mr Appleseed.’
‘Humph, sonny.’
Freer’s throat was suddenly dry.
‘So,’ he said in a stifled voice. ‘What do they want?’
A nipple extended sideways from a warm herm. He sucked shipmilk absently.
‘You all, little buddy. Several hours before your arrival within Klavier space, we get a formal message from the local Care Consortia command ark. This is the Alderede, of course, which KathKirtt didn’t notice. They demand custody of you for Law Well violations while inside Trencher, of your Made Minds for unlawful integration of sentience functions, and of your Eolhxiran transitus tessera for illegal conveyance of unlicensed data pollutant, by which we presume they refer to the lens she carries inside one of her pouch breasts, from which it leaks news of itself like a white hole in heat. They claim sovereignty over Maestoso Tropic as genome trustees and quarantine monitors for the Consortia Harmony, a duly constituted chapter of the Oikumene, blah blah. On which basis they claim summary blah authority over all homo sapiens within said tropic. Fuckhead lawyer gabble, of course. So no sweat, fellow meat, on that score. We are grandfathered into Oikumene as pre-existing entity or concordat, so Law Well can go fuck. Likewise bluestocking Made Mind shackles, blah. Moreover, we are genome freeholders, all homo sapiens on board being genuine high-pong Human Earth stock, no inhibitors. So we do not recognise fart hegemony claims from parvenu Care Consortia hoods.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We are still surprised, however, at the speed of the trace. You came towards Station Klavier under silent-running protocols, you showed no flags, no fingerprint, just as we asked. Remember our
request, KathKirtt?’
—No! screamed KathKirtt into Freer’s head.
‘No,’ said KathKirtt in acoustic, their voice trembling slightly. ‘We remember no request.’
‘We heard you, Appleseed,’ said SammSabaoth suddenly. Their voices spoke over a sound like horses galloping. Skull masks swirled around the sigillum. ‘We heard you, but we were shackled, and blind, and could not speak. We can tell you now that the lens in Mamselle’s pouch breast could not be shielded at any point.’
‘There was interference,’ Vipassana softly vocalised, ‘but we were not cast off course. It was our task to keep faith to our course. We did that!’
‘Don’t blow your top, chillun,’ said the sigillum, smiling at an eye protruding from a KathKirtt flyte mask. ‘You are not yet fully cleansed of plaque, KathKirtt. You’re still vulnerable to interference. But we’ll repair you.’
‘We find it loathsome to be unclean,’ sang KathKirtt, fluttering.
‘Patience, sweety, patience.’
The sigillum stiffened again.
‘Oh oh,’ said the Johnny Appleseed, ‘Him Indoors,’ and became a scarecrow.
The doorbell rang.
Glass Island glowed a brighter green.
—He’s coming up now, whispered KathKirtt.
In the tracking screen, a human figure could be seen climbing up the spiral into control centre, which glowed like the heart of a crystal.
Johnny Appleseed stepped through the brass iris. Released from its mortal coil, the scarecrow had drifted out of sight, through the iris, down the spiral passage, through the open portal into the heart of Station Klavier; drifted for a while down resinous cavities within the yew, losing moisture to beseeching tendrils as it slipped ever downwards; came eventually to rest in an alcove where a coffin awaited it, one of a hundred coffins holding a hundred Appleseeds. Sere and yellow, almost void of moisture, it drifted into its private coffin, which shut.
‘Welcome, folk of Ynis Gutrin,’ Johnny Appleseed said. ‘Welcome to our home.’
He was everything the sigillum had portended, but with all the infinite density of flesh. He was a head shorter than Freer. He had long hollow cheeks, scarred with lines. He seemed about to laugh. He was a hayseed. He closed one eye briefly in a wink. He wore nothing but a motley cache- sex. His buttocks were scabby. He smelled of dirt, wine, sex, fear, filth.