The Disestablishment of Paradise

by Phillip Mann

  There was no warning. Suddenly the Dendron steeping at the edge of the circle hoisted its stump, turned round and advanced slowly on our lovely Mustard. It came towards it, as it were, stool first, and its crest was hard and poised, like an axe over a block. It came up beside Mustard and I was interested to note that it was slightly smaller than Mustard. Smaller or not, we saw the saw blade strike, an oblique movement, and at the moment of impact the blades jerked so that it cut as well as sliced. In that one movement it severed Mustard’s bladed crest, which fell to one side in the water.

  The little girls cried out and held on to me, their arms round my legs, but I told them that what they were seeing was all completely natural and that Mustard hadn’t been hurt. But they were a bit too young to understand.

  Mustard started to shiver again and green water poured from the wound. I think the cut had also severed a connection inside her where Dendron have that great pump. She seemed to be gulping with shock. Then the smaller Dendron backed off, lowered one of its horns, put the tip under the edge of the fallen crest and, in one quick movement, flipped the whole crest right out of the swamp and down onto the beach. It landed among some rocks and dropped down into the water.

  When the crest hit the water, the attacking Dendron seemed to fall into some kind of frenzy. It waved its own mighty crest back and forth, flexing the blades and scattering the inner parts of Mustard which had stuck to the tines. Then it stamped round Mustard again while her torn body shook and gulped. Finally it moved in. It was walking backwards again, crest to the fore, if you can imagine that. It was working its way backwards until the sharp blades of its crest lay flat across Mustard’s back. The blades swept along horizontally and began to shave great slabs of fibre from Mustard’s body. The flesh revealed under the mustard-yellow thatch was a patchy green with strands of white. Horrible. Then, with one swift movement, it cut downwards, close to the stool, and we saw great plumes of liquid and dense matted fibre fly in the air as it hit the codds. It cut faster, and chopped down hard several times, digging the tines as deep as it could and working the blade back and forth with a rocking motion. Soon the blade was buried deep inside the still quivering Dendron. And when it was as deep as it could reach, the smaller one pulled away with a great heave of its body, using the weight and strength of its own stump to add pressure. It tore half the side of the Dendron out. We could just see the open wound where the codds had been. It was black inside and seemed to have small tubes clustered there. We saw it cut three or four more times until finally, with a heave, Mustard’s stump separated from the main body. A white mush filled the river, like the contents of a stomach pouring out, and drained away. Mustard swayed but the smaller Dendron steadied her with its horns, running them right along the torn length of her body in long smooth strokes. Then it moved round to the front and slid its horns up the horns of Mustard and for several minutes the cherries of the two creatures touched and rang together. There was a sensuality about that, to my human eyes. I may be quite wrong, but that was what I thought. Like Mayday used to put his arms around me after little Isaac died.

  Next I saw Mustard shake and curve the upper part of her body, as though testing to see if she could stand alone. She could, but we could see that without the stool to support it, the weight of the rest of her body was heavy on her and threatening to tip her back. The smaller Dendron moved round behind her and ran the blades of its crest under her. It was both supporting her and feeling for the place where the front legs joined the main body. It cut slightly, feeling with its blade almost to make sure that it had the right place. We saw Mustard heave slightly, as though to ease the entry of the sharp crest. And when it was in place the small Dendron began to rock back and forth, cutting upwards, feeling its way. We could see why – one wrong cut and it might slice one of the trunks and that could indeed be fatal. As it rocked and cut, so Mustard rocked too, riding the blade until, with one final pull, we saw the tines of the crest appear up between the hump and the twin trunks and, with a tearing sound, the main body of Mustard fell away and collapsed into the churned mud of the stream.

  More liquid came pouring out of the wound. But not as much as we might have expected. The butcher Dendron now moved round to the front. It placed its crest in the cleft between the two trunks and folded it down so that it became a single cutting blade, almost like a samurai sword. The two girls hid their faces at this. They did not want to see what they thought might be the coup de grâce. But I made them watch. This might be their only chance, and they would never forget and they could tell their grandchildren. I showed them how carefully the blade had been placed in the cleft. How carefully it was being raised. I showed them how carefully the Dendron was lifting itself up to gain the greatest cutting power. And then it struck down. One powerful, surgical downward cut. It was like a lightning strike. And then, when the power had gone out of the strike, it pulled away and the crest blade cut through the remaining tough fibre of what I knew was the wishbone. The severance was complete. And we cheered as the Dendron which we had called Mustard slowly straightened and split and became two trees, sisters or brothers – call them what you will – standing on either side of the stream.

  The Dendron that had done the cutting staggered back. We had hardly given a thought to the energy it was expending. It stood for a while in the muddy green water, steeping. Last of all it lifted what was left of the middle body of Mustard and tipped it down onto the beach. I think that was as much as it could do, and then it made its way slowly down the stream and out onto the shore. Its crest was still raised and we could see that it had lost a number of tines, but it lowered slowly as the Dendron walked out to sea. Then, when the water was almost up to its hump, it stopped, and it did not move for a month.

  Next day I took the girls down to the beach to look at what remained of Mustard’s crest in the rocks at low tide. We gathered some tines to show Mayday when he got back. Then we visited our two new family members. We could see small white roots around the bases, and we knew that by now both trunks would be bedded deep. Scars had closed over where the wishbone had been cut. The twin trees were straighter too. The stool was . . . the stump. The top had already poured away, and there was a big cavity in it, but the rest was unchanged, pitted, hard as iron, more hoof than tree.

  Down on the beach the main body had already started to liquefy, but other parts – the remains of the wishbone – were hardening. I promised I’d cut them pieces off the bone for them to wear as pendants and keep for luck. But most important to all of us was that at the top of the two trees, though some of the cherries and Venus tears had fallen, the flags were flying high.

  •

  NOTE: This article was written some six years before Mayday Newton was killed while scorching back some Tattersall weeds round Wishbone Creek. It was regarded as a freak accident at the time, as Mayday was an experienced farmer. The exact circumstances of his death were never discovered. Suffice to say that this accident reinforced the doubtful reputation of Tattersall weeds.

  Two days after Mayday’s cremation, Marie made arrangements to leave Paradise, taking her daughters Berry and Cherry with her. Her son Tycho, who later married Isadora Silvio, chose to stay and manage the farm. They would continue the battle to grow crops derived from Earth-raised seed until the Disestablishment.

  DOCUMENT 8

  ‘If You Go Down to the Woods Today . . .’, from Tales of Paradise by Sasha Malik

  Records regarding the enigmatic creature called the Michelangelo-Reaper are sparse. No one knows when the two names were first utilized. They were certainly in common use during MINADEC times, and were frequently interchangeable. In general, Michelangelo seems to have been the more threatening name, Reaper being used more ironically. The Michelangelo who dallied with Hera was a child and so we must excuse its behaviour, for it had no understanding of its power. We do the same for Cupid with his little darts, do we not? Those readers who perused Document 2, ‘Getting Your Man’, will have noted Sasha’s enigmatic note conce
rning the disposal of the dead Anton.

  So what more is there?

  Again we turn to Sasha. Her short story ‘If You Go Down to the Woods Today . . .’ is a strange little tale that might have been composed as a bedtime story and must have come to her after many mouths had shaped it. I am sure it began as a fireside story and she added her own special gloss. It reflects the fear and wonder which this enigmatic creature inspired.

  Note that a GB Pass was a free pass to any of the brothels, shows, gymnasia, clinics, etc. available on Gerard’s Barn. They were sometimes given in lieu of bonus certificates to MINADEC workers. ‘Grubber’ was the nickname for a contract miner who would dig anywhere for wages and a percentage of the find. It is doubtful that Sasha would have known what a kipper is. The identity of Jemima, if indeed there ever was such a person, will probably never be known.

  If You Go Down to the Woods Today . . .

  Long time ago, before I was born, there were two gum miners called Norris and Morris. They became mates because their names sounded the same, and they always worked together. They were what Father calls a double act, meaning that what one began to say, the other would finish, and they were always cracking jokes. They could keep their cross-talk up all day and it used to amuse the men in the camps to hear them. They’d begin in the morning as they were loading up their mechanical digger.

  Norris Good morning, Mr Morris.

  Morris Good morning to you, Mr Norris.

  Norris I think we should go and –

  Morris – dig for gold today.

  Norris Gold? No, Mr Morris, something better than gold. Gum.

  Morris Gum? Chewing gum!

  Norris Gum to sell to the MINADEC man.

  Morris Who took a crap in an old tin can.

  Norris Used a banknote to wipe his arse.

  Morris Then folded it neat like a GB pass.

  Norris Put it in his wallet, put the wallet away.

  Both And that why he’s rich and we dig clay.

  Morris I get your drift, Mr Norris, and I’m shifting upwind.

  And so they went on. Making it all up. It doesn’t look so funny when you write it down, but when they got going they could stop the whole camp and I hear that men fell down laughing.

  The way they worked it in those days, the MINADEC surveyors would come in first and prospect by flying over the valleys and gullies. They had lots of ways of measuring things, and if they thought there was a chance of minerals or gum or anything under the soil, they’d whistle up a digger team of twenty or so grubbers and in they’d go like robbers’ dogs.

  Well, this was a gum dig where Morris and Norris were working. A big one. The camp was in the middle of a couple of thousand hectares of the tall silver-barked trees they used to call girl in a trance. Good name that, because in the spring the long trailing leaves turn blonde as straw. When the wind blows they swish and bob like hair. Not like my hair. I’m black as Tess O’Leary, but the leaves are beautiful and clear-looking.

  Beautiful or not, in they’d go and cut down the trees as near to the ground as they could and drag the lumber away. They cut it short like that as the stump was a good solid foundation for the digger. And then they would dig until they’d turned up all the roots round the tree. It was the roots they wanted as the gum was inside them, little hard yellow veins of it, and they would cut the roots off as they went. Then they’d move on to the next girl in a trance and make her shake her head. They’d bulldoze a track as they went, so that they could send the roots back to the factory on Kossof Island.

  Well, this was a good dig where Norris and Morris were working, and they were happy as they were finding lots of gum and making big money.

  So, one morning, off went Morris and Norris in their old steam-driven half-track with the big auger sticking out the back like a tail and the root snips riding high. They were working at the bottom end of the stand of trancers and come midday they wanted a rest. There was a dark valley nearby with a little stream coming out of it. So Morris says to Norris, ‘Where there’s a stream there’s –’

  And Norris says, ‘– a place to swim.’

  And Morris says, ‘And a cup of tea with whisky’.

  So in they went, up the valley, following the stream. And they came to a lovely deep pool with the sunlight falling on it and the water so clear you could see the sunshine on the bottom and the shadows of bubbles turning with the flow over the smooth round stones. Without a word, Morris dived in and Norris followed. And when they bobbed up, mouths open as if they’d been drinking like fish, Morris pointed and said, ‘What’s that, Norris?’

  And Norris looked and said nothing. For the first time in his life he didn’t have a word to say.

  They were both looking at the cauldron bulb of a Reaper – but they didn’t know that. They had never seen one. It had big blue knotty veins standing out round the bulb so you could tell it was an old one, and the background was a misty green.

  Morris Looks like a Chinese vase.

  Norris Bit big for a Chinese vase, unless we’ve shrunk. And what are those big black globes up in the air above it? Lot of them.

  Morris Those are its eyes.

  Norris If those are its ayes, I don’t want to see its noes. I’d be voted out before I was in.

  Morris You don’t get a nose on a Chinese vase.

  Norris Or eyes. Let’s call them its plums then.

  Morris Mmmm. You know what I’m thinking, Mr Norris?

  Norris You’re thinking you might shin up that tall stalk there, grab a plum for yourself, one for your mate, and then slide back down using your balls as a brake.

  Morris And what will you be doing while I am intermasterbustimacating myself?

  Norris I’m going back to the half-track to get us some smokes.

  And this Norris did. But when he got back there was no sign of Morris. But the air was filled with this perfume like almonds and lemon. And the plant had changed too. It had closed up so you couldn’t see its cauldron. ‘Mr Morris,’ he called, but there was no reply. He got frightened then, because he saw the big clusters of balls moving above and descending. When he stepped back, he fell right into the pool.

  He was in the water thrashing about when he bumped into something and, thinking it might be a piece of wood, he hung on. But it had clothes on and a little screwed-up face like a puppet and hands like little paws. No mistaking who it was. Mr Morris.

  Mr Norris let out a great big scream and swam downstream as fast as he could. He swam over the rocks and through the pools until he got to where they had left the half-track and he revved it up and shot back to camp.

  He rang the fire bell, and the men came roaring and running back from where they had been working – all except Lucky Dip, who had chopped a toe off the previous day when an axe went through his boot, and he hobbled up on crutches.

  Norris gabbled out his story. No one understood what he was talking about, but they all broke out their weapons and set off back to the ravine – all, that is, except Lucky.

  Not one of them came back.

  And that is the end of the story.

  Finally, in the evening, Lucky raised the alarm. Next day some of the MINADEC ‘specials’ arrived – the big ugly ones they send in if there’s been a slugging between camps. They found the ravine. They found the stream. They followed it up until they came to the pool. They found the Reaper too. It had changed. It was all open and on show like a fairground, all colours and with growths like big blue rubber hands coming up out of its cauldron. And the black cherries were bobbing about on the end of their stalks like bees on a string.

  The specials also found the men. They were hung up in the trees like kippers, all dry and shrunken, with eyes like buttons and their muscles turned to white strands of Crispin. They had little black marks on them like someone had spattered them with black paint. The specials cut them down and retreated. One or two of them had started to feel funny with the collywobbles and wanted to lie down on the spot, saying they were tired. Dumb f
uckers! They probably would have too, if the others hadn’t kicked them down the stream.

  They called up an incendiary grenade launcher, the type they use when they want to start a forest fire. Long silver body with a big black warhead. And they fired it up the gully and right into the Reaper. They say the bang could be heard up on Tonic, where it rattled the glasses on the MINADEC bar. And the smell came like a shock wave. I’ve never smelled a cow’s stomach when it has lain dead in the field for a week, but I’m told this smell was worse. I’ve heard of latrines in the badlands of Byzantium that could stun an ox at forty paces and fell a man like a flying brick. But this I’m told was worse.

  So you make your own idea up, Jemima. They said the smell stuck to you like tar and no amount of washing could get rid of it, and that I can believe, because what a Reaper does isn’t on you, it is in you once you have breathed its perfume. And it will come out through your pores until your last kiss – I mean the kiss of death.

  So that is why you don’t go down in the woods, Jemima, leastways not without your Auntie Sasha. Sasha knows how to talk to Reapers so they smell sweet as honeysuckle and won’t hurt a moonbeam like you.

  End

  •

  COMMENT: Events such as this spread as stories. No one knows how many men and women were actually killed by Michelangelo-Reapers, but disappearances were common, and if someone went wandering off into the trees and did not come back, then they would say, ‘The Reaper’s for him.’

  I think men rather like to have an enemy waiting out there in the dark when they’re gathered round campfires, and the Reaper fitted the bill for the MINADEC workforce. It’s a shame Reapers couldn’t uproot and wander like Dendron! Then the MINADEC specials would have had a real nightmare to deal with, but the end would, I think, have been the same.