Flowercrash (6 page)

“What did you say?”

The voice was thick, but Nuïy understood the simple words. “I want to join the Shrine," he said, “so I need to speak to the master. Are you him?”

The man stood. He was short, but he looked tough. “I am but the Leafmaster,” he replied. “My name is Raïtasha. So, you want to become an initiate of the Green Man?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

Nuïy had not expected such a question. Quickly he collected in his mind the facts he knew. “There is a tale of the Green Man, that he has so much honour there is enough to share amongst all his clerics, and so—”

“Don’t speak flowery, twig. Where you from?”

Nuïy faced his dilemma. If he lied, he would be found out, but if he told the truth he
might
be thrown out. Slowly he said, “From a house on the very edge of the filthy crone urb. Not in it, but on the edge.”

“Hmmmm.”

Nuïy tried to save the situation. “I see you have papyrus here, one of the plants of the Green Man. Did you know it has no flowers, and reproduces by vegetative means?”

Raïtasha scowled. “Yes, twig, I did know that.”

“I really want to join in with the Green Man.”

“I get the tree you’re in, twig. All right, stay here.”

Raïtasha limped around his desk and left the house. Nuïy stood still. Had he failed? Perhaps the Leafmaster had gone to fetch guards, who would eject him into the street.

He walked to the open door and looked out. Strolling towards him were the two guards who had laughed at his earlier misfortune, and Nuïy saw that he was considerably taller than them. They noticed him, and approached. One said, “It’s him again.”

Nuïy disdained all physical contact. He picked up a stick from the floor and, when the man who had laughed was in range, poked it in his chest and said, “Nobody laughs at me.”

The other guard leaped forward and tripped Nuïy, throwing him to the ground. Nuïy sprang to his feet, sudden anger in his heart.

“What were you doing down there, twig?” they taunted.

Nuïy stared them out. When they saw Raïtasha returning they left the house, but spoke to him as he passed. Raïtasha frowned, then waved them on their way and entered the house, throwing the dirty green robes he had been carrying to the floor.

“That guard hit me,” Nuïy complained.

“He said you struck him with a stick.” Raïtasha limped up to Nuïy, then in a motion too quick for Nuïy to see struck him across the side of his head. It was like being hit with a hammer. Nuïy slid across the floor and struck the wall. Blood in his mouth.

“Never strike a guard, twig. They are servants of the Green Man. You hit them, you hit the Green Man. Not a good start.”

Nuïy tried to see through the pain. His right eye would not focus. The blood streamed down onto his clothes.

“Get up, twig.”

Nuïy did as he was told.

“Strip off, twig.”

“What?”

Raïtasha frowned again. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes.”

“Then obey me.”

Nuïy hesitated, aware now of a side of the Green Man he had never dreamed existed, but he pulled off his clothes to stand naked before the Leafmaster, hands clasped in front of his body.

“Don’t hide yer cock, twig. The Green Man gave you that.”

Nuïy placed his hands at his side. He felt ashamed, particularly of the numerous pale boils that disfigured his belly.

Raïtasha took Nuïy’s clothes and with the delicacy of a tailor ripped them into strips, which he stuffed into a bin, before taking Nuïy’s bags and emptying their contents over the floor. The spare clothes he ripped and discarded in the same manner. Nuïy’s rations he took, smelled, then placed into a desk drawer. Nuïy’s tools he put on the desk, alongside a bottle of liquor and a box of cowries that Nuïy had saved. He took the book.

Nuïy called out, “Don’t damage that! It’s all my tales of the Green Man.”

Raïtasha skimmed through the pages. “This is very good writing, twig. You taken tutoring?”

“Yes.”

“You any good?”

“I believe I am perfect.”

Raïtasha nodded. “Pity these wafers is hardpetal. That’s un-man’s stuff.” He dropped the book to the floor and stamped on it, until every wafer was smashed to fragments and the floor was stained yellow and green. Nuïy looked on, desolation within him, but unable to show it.

Raïtasha turned finally to the knife. “Where did you get this?”

“Off a corpse.”

“You kill him?”

Nuïy wanted to lie, but thought better of it. “No.”

“Put on the green robe.”

Nuïy did. He realised he had been shivering. The sun lay behind the outer wall and soon it would be dusk. Raïtasha put the knife into a drawer, then stood before Nuïy and inspected him. He took a rag from his pocket, spat into it, then wiped the congealing blood from Nuïy’s face. “That’ll heal up nicely, that will.”

Nuïy said nothing, but then asked, “Am I an initiate, now?”

“No. Just a twig. A bark scraping off the buttock of the Green Man. You have to do the initiation ceremony to be a proper leaf.”

“Oh. Can I have that?”

“Do you want it?”

“Yes, I do.”

Raïtasha nodded. “All right. This is what we do. I’ll bunk you with some other twigs yet to become leaves. You stay out of trouble. Any trouble and I’ll knock yer head off. I’m in charge of you. I’m Leafmaster. You stay clean. Don’t rile the clerics. Look up to the Green Man, and one day you might even take my post.”

“Yes, Raïtasha.”

“You don’t leave the Shrine except on my business, or in my classes. You don’t talk about the un-men. And don’t mention where you come from.”

“I understand.”

“Chances are you’ll never leave Emeralddis again. You get used to that idea. It’s a good thing, not a bad thing.”

“Yes.”

“All right. Follow me.”

Raïtasha led Nuïy into the jumble of buildings and sheds that comprised the sector of the Shrine opposite his house. Nuïy saw many youths dressed in robes dyed various shades of green. Everybody wore a beard and moustache. Some looked with curiosity at him, others ignored him. An older man with a yellow hat Nuïy suspected to be a cleric. Away towards the north sector of the Shrine he could see imposing buildings, the tops of trees, and of course the central tower with its tree crown, while outside Emeralddis he glimpsed the lamps of Blissis, and on distant hills those of Novais. But around him the lichen-splashed granite walls seemed washed in evening gloom. His spirits sank.

Raïtasha led him into a single storey building that looked like a handful of sheds knocked together. Inside, he was confronted with an ill-lit dormitory smelling of leaves and damp earth. Six beds stood against one wall while at the other lay pitchers, piles of rags, a few old tables and a copper bath.

Five pairs of eyes stared at him.

Raïtasha spoke gruffly. “Pay attention, twigs. This is Nuïy. He’s going to become a leaf initiate tomorrow, like you. Molest him and I’ll be breaking fingers with my bare hands. Keep quiet, now. Tomorrow be ready an hour after dawn.”

He departed. Nuïy was left looking at his fellow hopefuls.

Two lads approached him while the others stared in an unfriendly manner. The pair were mismatched, one of middle height with a rounded belly and hair cropped so short he was almost bald, the other of similar height but stick thin, with a white face and deep, lucid eyes.

The thin youth said, “I’m Drowaïtash, and this is Eletela. Have you just come to the Shrine?”

“Yes.”

Drowaïtash reached out and grasped Nuïy’s arm, but Nuïy pulled away as if he had been electrically shocked. “Do not touch me.”

“I was just—”

“You do not understand. I am not touched.” Nuïy spoke with the intensity of one possessed; he could not help it. But he knew the effect it had on people. “All of you, never touch me. It grates against me.”

Drowaïtash stepped back a pace, while the others stared.

Eletela shrugged. “If you want.” He pointed to the bed nearest the door. “That’s yours.”

The atmosphere relaxed slowly as the other three returned to their game of dice, while Drowaïtash sat on his bed, which lay adjacent to Nuïy’s, and looked at him. Eventually he said, “So, Nuïy, we’re all going to become leaves tomorrow. What do you think of that?”

“I’m glad. It’s something for which I’ve prepared since last summer. Tell me, is Raïtasha a good man or a bad man?”

Drowaïtash shrugged. “Don’t know.”

Nuïy gestured at the gaming trio. “Who are those three?”

“It doesn’t matter. Fall in with us, we’ll show you the ropes.”

Nuïy realised that he had been chosen by the pair to make up numbers. Doubtless there were two gangs here, now equal in strength, for only one other youth was taller and stronger than himself. But he resolved to take no part in any childish games of warfare. He was here for the Green Man, not for pranks.

He heard a clock chime the eighth hour. Soon he would sleep, for he wanted to be as alert as possible in the morning. He intended outshining all the others, especially the quiet trio. With no personal equipment to check he spent the next hours tidying his bed and the few items around it, until he decided it was time to sleep. He washed his face, checking his stubble in a fragment of mirror while the others stared, then took off his green robe and wrapped himself in blankets.

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.