The Disestablishment of Paradise

by Phillip Mann

  Now, after half an hour playing with the kelp, Hera finally detached the small lips. She closed the cabin door and gave instructions for the autopilot to take off gently while she got dried.

  When she again entered the control room they were hovering at 300 metres, and the kelp beds below looked like many small yellow nebulae with hundreds of swirling arms.

  She flew on. Beyond the kelp the sea became choppy and blue, sure signs that they were above deep water. Blue sea, blue sky, clear horizon – Hera was suddenly filled with a tremendous optimism and a surging love for where she was and what she was doing. It felt right, and any residue of discomfort over what had happened the previous night had vanished.

  Hera adjusted course slightly and steadily increased her speed until she reached the limit of the gyro blades. To go faster, the SAS needed to change its mode of flight, which it did. For a few seconds they glided and then, with a surge that pressed her back into her seat, the SAS leaped forwards, climbing as the jet unit took over. The course she had chosen would take her directly over Dead Tree Spit, a famous landmark she had not seen for many years.

  Hera loved speed. Free, she thought. And abandoned too. She stretched her arms above her head.

  Some time later, the autopilot sounded a cheerful bell and Hera came awake to find that she was now cruising slowly and approaching the dark rocky shore of Anvil. This was a harsh coast of hidden reefs and surging waves. It took the brunt of any storms that struck from the north-west. Since there were few safe anchorages, many ships had foundered here during MINADEC times.

  Hera took over the controls and steered along the coast until she came to an inlet. This gave access to one of the few places where a ship could anchor. But you had to know the complicated tides. As so often on Paradise, when both moons pulled together the passage was closed by massive waves, which came thundering through, driving all before them, only to waste their energy on the quieter water within. The place was a graveyard.

  Looking ahead, Hera could just see the first faint outlines of the Staniforths. These were the highest mountains on Paradise and permanently covered in snow. The peaks, floating serenely above the clouds, always reminded her of the mountains on a Chinese silk fan that her mother had owned, which decorated the wall of their small apartment on Io.

  Beyond the cliffs a bay opened and at its centre was an island. This was what Hera had come to see. Standing on the highest point of the island were the ruined remains of a giant Dendron, a mighty Rex peripatetica, famous and unique, the so-called ‘walking tree’ of Paradise, now extinct. Its tall twin branches and broken stump still faced the passage to the sea defiantly. Hera flew around it slowly and then brought the SAS down to land on the shingle shore.

  As part of her introduction to Paradise, Hera had been sent on an orientation visit to Pietr Z’s famous umbrella tree plantation at Redman Lake. This was located just a short distance inland from the bay.

  One morning, just before dawn, Pietr Z had come tapping at her window to tell her he was going to hike over the Scorpion Pass and down to the sea. Would she like to join him?

  This was an unexpected honour. Pietr Z’s knowledge of this part of Paradise was unrivalled. But he was also a man who loved his solitude and who would on occasions (and much to the exasperation of his wife) disappear into the wild hills and not emerge for a week, regardless of who was coming to see him. So Hera had caught him on a good day.

  It was mid-morning when they finally reached the top of Scorpion Pass. For the last fifteen minutes they had been climbing through mist and the only way they knew that they had crossed the pass was when the path levelled and then began to slope downwards. They could neither see nor hear the sea, but they could smell it.

  ‘Bad water here,’ said Pietr. ‘Very bloody dangerous. Great slab waves, lift from nowhere. Come swilling at you with the speed of a running horse. You heed my words, young Hera, if ever you have to sail here, don’t trust it. And don’t bloody swim!’

  He led the way down the steep winding path to the shore, where tiny waves lapped the sand peacefully. Pietr grunted. Then, almost as though he had willed it, one of the waves reared up and came tumbling up the shore and washed round Hera’s ankles. Pietr spat into the sea. ‘Don’t trust it,’ he said.

  Part-way up the hillside, and well above the high-water mark, was a boathouse with a long slipway that led down to the water. Pietr led the way up through the brevet, and Hera admired the wiry strength of the old man as he climbed with a springy step. When they reached the boathouse, the mist was lifting and the sky was clearer, but little could be seen of the bay.

  Inside the shed was one of the all-purpose ORBE cutters. Pietr waved for Hera to climb into the front and put on a life jacket. Pietr meanwhile, stood at the stern and prepared to winch the boat down into the water. ‘Why so high?’ asked Hera.

  Pietr winked at her. ‘When the bastard waves come in, the whole shore goes underwater. That’s why I built it like this, and that’s why I come out here once a month to make sure it is OK. There’s twenty people still breathing thanks to this little boat.’ He banged its side with his fist. Pietr was obviously proud of the winch mechanism. He had both designed and made it himself. ‘Watch this, Hera.’ Pietr eased the winch and allowed the cutter to slip slowly down towards the sea and then stop. ‘Now imagine this. Bastard sea running. Waves coming up at you like mad dogs. Wind in your face. You have to judge your moment to enter, or they’ll have you. You’ll be upended and down under before you can piss yourself. So you watch. And when a wave is just passing, you let her go. And get your bloody revs up! Now hold on.’

  So saying he released the dog shackle and let the boat accelerate down the last few metres into the sea. He laughed when he saw Hera’s expression as the boat hit the water, and the screws, already whirling, drove it forward. ‘You understand, young Hera? You have to be self-reliant to live out here. If there’s only me to launch the boat and there’s a real bastard sea running, and some poor bugger is out there clinging to driftwood, well the only way to get out through the surf is to hit it running. Today it’s calm. Tomorrow we might have two-metre waves to deal with. The day after that, who knows? Mad bloody planet!’

  He guided the boat out into the fog. Pietr was steering by compass, but he slowed every so often and stood up to peer at the sea in front of the cutter. Once he swung hard to starboard and the boat bumped against a huge submerged trunk that ran along its side with a harsh scraping sound. ‘Bloody things move, you see. Currents always changing.’ Pietr swore for a few moments in whatever language it was that he called native. Moments later they were free and again in open water. ‘That was part of an old Dendron,’ he said. ‘When they get waterlogged, they only show about 5 per cent above water. So if you hit one, you know about it. There are a lot of them round here – a regular graveyard. Lots of other rubbish too, but they are the worst.’

  Hera peered into the greyness, looking for any telltale ripples or small waves suddenly appearing on the flat surface. ‘What do you mean a graveyard? Do you mean like people used to say with elephants? That they went to a special place to die?’

  ‘Naw. Perhaps some of them got a bit adventurous and tried to walk over to Hammer and then got into trouble when the water got deep. Dendron couldn’t turn quick. They weren’t bloody goats. And if they lost their footing or got swept away there’s nothing they could do. Just here the current runs up pretty fierce. Yes. And if the wind is from the north-west, it blows them in here. Once anything gets washed in here there’s no way out. It’s a bloody trap. Has been for millions of years. They’re here till they rot. Tell you, Hera m’girl, if you want to make your fortune, just excavate down here. There’ll be wishbones by the ton.’ Wishbone was the fanciful name given to the girdle of tough flexible fibre which gave the Dendron its shape and allowed it to walk.

  The cutter entered deeper water and Pietr increased speed. The boat began to pitch in the swell coming from the deep ocean. Hera was aware of a change in the light
– the mist was blowing away – and then, for the first time, Hera saw the island towering in front of them, and there, at its top, just emerging from the mist, a pair of giant curved horns rearing up to the clouds. Absurdly, she was reminded of the twin towers of Chartres cathedral, until, when the mist lifted completely, she saw the monument for what it was: an old dead Dendron, twin trunks and a broken body.

  ‘There he is,’ called Pietr, ‘The old man of the sea. Still on guard.’ He steered the boat through the shallows around the island. When they were close, Hera slipped over the side and, holding the painter, guided the boat until it ground up onto the shingle shore. They pulled it up high and Pietr tied it to an iron post concreted between a pair of rocks. Then he led the way up a rocky path, which had been marked with splotches of white paint. As they climbed, the massive remains of the Dendron seemed to peer at them over the crest of the hill. However, it was only when they got to the top and were climbing the last few metres that its true size became apparent. The two front legs joined to form a giant arch which at its apex was some ten metres high. Hera stood under this, looking up. She could see the gentle curve of the twin trunks soaring up to where they were broken.

  Pietr, out of breath, sat on a flat rock and watched. ‘You wouldn’t have stood there if it was alive,’ he called. Hera grinned. She’d seen pictures of a Dendron when she was a little girl on Io, seen it running with its strange three-legged gait, stamping its back foot deep into the ground and rocking forward while the tall trunks flexed and the Venus tears rang like bells. Dendron could move fast when they had to.

  Hera squeezed out between one of the front legs and the place where the Dendron had slumped as it died. She touched its side and was surprised at how prickly it was. Pietr saw her pull her hand back. ‘Dendron aren’t like most of the plants here,’ he said. ‘When the fibres dry out, they don’t rot; they get sharp and brittle and then they flake. They must have carried a lot of minerals, eh?’

  Hera nodded and walked round the Dendron, looking up to where its twin trunks ended bluntly. ‘How tall was it when it was alive?’

  ‘More than a hundred metres from pad to flag, I guess.’

  ‘Quite a big one.’

  ‘Not bad, but there was one measuring a hundred and thirty metres seen up in northern Chain. Can you imagine something like that heaving its roots up out of the ground and setting off to find a mate?’

  Hera laughed. ‘How did it die?’

  ‘Shot. Like most of them were. For sport and profit. The old folks reckon it was the crew of one of the barges sailing out of New Syracuse. One of the crew must’ve seen Old Man Dendron climbing up the hill here. This barge had some kind of gun with exploding shells. So these boys did some target practice. The first shot hit the crest. Completely blew it off. The Dendron was trying to turn when the second round hit it. Bang. Right there between the twin trunks, and that blew its lights out.’

  ‘Someone should have blown their lights out.’

  ‘Yeah, well. In all the times the Dendron were hunted, not one of them ever tried to fight back. The people who shot at them were hoping they’d put up a fight – in the interests of sport, you see. They made the mistake of thinking Dendron were like us, like animals. They weren’t. They didn’t have minds – well, not the way we think of them. They couldn’t think, and so they couldn’t come up with clever ideas like defending themselves. They just sat and took whatever hit them. And they died.’

  ‘And now they are extinct.’

  ‘Yep. And now they are extinct. Poor dumb buggers.’

  As he spoke the sun broke strongly through the clouds. The dull grey of the Dendron became patterned with blue and green as though it had feathers or scales. Pietr Z kicked about in the shingle and scrub behind the Dendron. Eventually he stooped and picked up a long black thorn with a thick wavy stem, like a kris. ‘Here,’ he said, handing it to Hera. ‘A memento of your visit. Part of the Dendron’s crest. Now imagine that coming at you with a thousand tons of Dendron behind it. How is that for lovemaking, eh?’

  Standing there now, many years later, looking at these pitiful remains, Hera felt the tears well up inside her. She had cried then too, on the way back to shore after her first visit, imagining the great Dendron walking, bright red flags waving at the very tips of their branches and the sharp tinkling sound as the Venus tears hit together. ‘I hope a comet blazed in the sky when the last Dendron died,’ she said.

  Pietr cut the engine to idle and let the boat glide past the remains of a giant stump. ‘Now there’s a fine poetic thought,’ he said, obviously surprised. ‘And it is still only the afternoon.’

  ‘The end of a species deserves a clamour!’ said Hera. ‘When beggars die there are no comets seen. The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. Of all the plants of Paradise, the Dendron were surely the greatest. That’s all. I wonder who saw the last one die?’

  ‘Sadly,’ said Pietr thoughtfully, ‘we’ll never know.’ He started the engine.

  Such then were Hera’s memories as she climbed back into the SAS. The remains of the Dendron were far more decayed now than when she had last visited. Much of its rear pad had fallen away, revealing a gaping hole. The twin trunks had begun to break up. Deep fissures had opened across the back. The next gale could topple the entire thing and send it crashing down onto the shingle shore, where it would slowly break up in the tides. And that would be that.

  Hera sent the SAS spiralling up and let it fly slowly over the bay towards the mainland. The sea was still littered with hulks. Wherever she looked she could see other debris too, far more modern and garish – dozens of blue plastic demolition cases which had probably blown off the wharf at New Syracuse, broken sheets of striped plastic, scraps of burned timber, the bottom of an upturned barge with a hole in it, broken bottles, an umbrella without its fabric, broken oars and hundreds of lengths of the bright red fibre used to truss up cargo for space and which here had become tangled and knotted among the trunks and branches at the water’s edge. That stuff would last for ever. Everything had a pale brown lustre, the patina with which Paradise covered the things of Earth. She wondered how many other inlets there were around Paradise choked with the flotsam and jetsam of Disestablishment. Millions, she guessed, for Paradise was a planet of islands and bays. It occurred to her that here was a job if she wanted one – a fine, sad, solitary job, token indeed, but rich with meaning: to compile a visual record of the state of the planet as left; a statement revealing the true face of Disestablishment.

  Hera circled the bay and was pleased to see that at least Pietr Z’s boathouse and slipway were still intact. It was probable that Pietr had never registered it as a building and so it had been overlooked by the demolition crews. A Tattersall weed had grown right up over the boathouse, sending its long ropy arms and flowers down the walls. Left to grow, it would end up crushing or tearing the building apart.

  Hera lifted quickly to clear the trees at the margin of the bay and then flew over the low dunes and turned inland to follow a narrow ravine. Below her was the road that she and Pietr had walked so many years ago. It had been well maintained until the Disestablishment. Now it was overgrown in parts but still visible winding up and following the twists and turns of a creek.

  Hera had decided to visit Pietr Z’s umbrella tree plantation. She, like many in the ORBE team, had never accepted that Pietr was dead. The thought kept recurring – the hope really – that Pietr might have survived out in the wild forest. If anyone could, he could. But she was realistic too. ORBE had mounted a search for Pietr Z as soon as he had gone bush after the Disestablishment was announced, and not a trace of him had been found. He had often said that he would never leave Paradise and that if anyone tried to make him retire he would retire himself. Perhaps he had simply decided that the end had come.

  The SAS flew over the Scorpion Pass and began to descend. The breeze which had blown in from the sea had dropped away. Only the wind from the rotor blades moved the treetops, which otherwise
stood stiff and still.

  The valley opened before her. At its end was Redman Lake, surrounded by hills and with the Staniforth Mountains as background. This was one of the pictures that the ORBE project had used to advertise its operation. The lake was already in shadow and the mountain tops were pink. Evening was falling quickly, as it did in these parts. Hera let the SAS drift slowly down the valley. No rush. She would spend the night here.

  Redman Lake was small by Paradise standards. Collecting different kinds of water plant had been one of Pietr’s hobbies, and the lake contained examples from most parts of Paradise. In the midst of these and far out in the middle of the water was a floating island built up over many years, and on this Pietr had built his small house. It was reached by a wooden walkway which zigzagged out from some shyris rushes at the side of the lake. But most often Pietr had used a small runabout which Hera could see still moored to the deck outside the house. She guessed that Hemi had deliberately removed the name and location of Redman Lake Station from the demolition manifest so that it would be left in peace as a monument to old Pietr.

  At the margin of the lake Hera studied the tall swaying umbrella trees, with their glossy purple domes from which streams of heavy sap slopped and dripped. Many of the trees were just reaching their full height, and it was now that they were beginning to extend their mature domes. The older the tree, the bigger the dome – that was the rule. Beneath them, permanently drenched in the sap, she could see the little ones called spikes. They grew up drinking the sap.

  Hera banked the SAS and flew slowly around the margin of the lake. How she wished to see Pietr come out of his house, hand raised to shade his eyes, wondering who had come to disturb his privacy. But nothing moved. The door remained shut. There was no drift of smoke from the chimney.