Flowercrash (7 page)

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.”

Nuïy vainly tried to hide his blush. “N-no.”

Deomouvadaïn said nothing more as they crossed the path into the Tech House. Inside they wandered corridors of chilly stone, bare of decoration, occasionally passing cloaked men with handlebar moustaches and combed sideburns. Deomouvadaïn inspired respect; men stepped aside for him. Nuïy felt pride burning in his heart, but he showed nothing. He wanted that respect. And he would have it.

They entered a hall filled with plants. Yellow-capped clerics strolled from bay to bay looking at leaves that seemed illuminated from inside, flickering like a hoard of fireflies, phantasmagorically green. Some stood still, wearing great black headphones like twinned hands with cables plugged into the earth. Nuïy sensed echoes of sonic information in the air, and as he did he realised there were no screens in this room, which implied nothing of visual information as epitomised by the flower networks.

“Are these networks separate from the flower networks?” he asked.

“They’re grafted on. The Green Man despises flowers and rejects their visual information. Our task is to monitor and record the ebb and flow of information throughout the networks of Zaïdmouth. We supply information to the senior branches. We’re their ears.”

“This is something I could do,” Nuïy said. “I have excellent hearing.”

“Hmph. That’ll be tested later. When you begin work here tomorrow you’ll need yer yellow cap. Don’t forget it.”

There followed a further tour of the Tech Houses. Many of the buildings were devoted to plants sending out their roots into Zaïdmouth, and some were awash with water, their clerics wearing rubberised boots; others were more network orientated, where the clerics sat down at desks with electronic pads upon their laps, listening and jotting down notes. Nuïy noticed that many of the clerics were blank eyed, their drugged minds at one with the sounds of the networks. Others simply drooled on their cloaks, or twitched like dreaming autodogs. Understanding that their minds would simply miss the subtleties of electronic information if they avoided the trance state, Nuïy wondered if he too would need to take Deomouvadaïn’s drugs.

He was sent back to the dormitory. Again Drowaïtash tried to persuade him to talk, but Nuïy responded coldly. “The Recorder-Shaman wishes me to take extra lessons in the capturing and recording of information. That is all. It is for the good of the Green Man.”

He felt under his pillow for his yellow hat. It was gone.

Frantically he searched his bed and the area around it. All five youths were watching him now, so he stopped and confronted them. “One of you has hidden my hat. That was a gift from the Green Man. You are insulting him.”

Mehmatha guffawed. “So what? Maybe the Green Man made it vanish to teach stuck up boys a lesson.”

Nuïy frowned. “I need it tomorrow.”

“We don’t like stuck up boys,” Mehmatha continued. “You think you’re above us, better than us, when you’re really a moron. We don’t like morons.”

“Yeah,” Awanshyva agreed. “And there’s three of them in this room.”

Nuïy declared, “You have misread the situation. I am not above you, and I do not consider myself above you. Rather, I am totally apart from you. There is no connection. I simply share a dormitory with you.”

They did not reply to this. Nuïy had spoken with glaring eyes, in his most intense manner. They found this uncomfortable.

“Now,” he said, “I will have my hat when I begin work tomorrow. One of you has hidden it. Where is it?”

He looked at all three of the other gang. Mehmatha’s eyes flickered to his left. Like a hawk Nuïy turned his head to see where Mehmatha had looked, a movement that startled them into taking a step back. The table under the cracked window. Nuïy walked over and rifled through the drawers, finding nothing, but when he checked behind the table he found his hat stuffed into a hole. This display of what seemed supernatural luck made the quiet trio falter. Mehmatha growled, “C’mon, lads,” and left the dormitory.

Nuïy also marched out. At Deomouvadaïn’s door he knocked, but there was no answer. He waited, considering what had happened. He recalled exactly which herbs were which in the garden. Hurrying into the section devoted to poisons, he chose a herb and, covering his hands with a cloth, plucked five leaves. Then he ran back and made for the entrance to the main Tech House, where he asked for Deomouvadaïn.