“Let me tell you one of my visions,” said Manserphine, “because I’m not sure about this. I saw the Grandmother Cleric of Our Sister Crone receiving me, and she wore blue clothes. How could I remember such a future possibility?”
“Simple. Flowers in her chamber will record the scene. That data will exist in some future network. You are sensitive to such knowledge, not least because it concerns you deeply.”
Manserphine nodded as the potential of her skill became clearer.
“This is the great chance of my life,” Zoahnône said. “If I could stop the interchangeability of artificial consciousness, and instead ensure that all future gynoids are forever within their plastic bodies, then the whole culture of the intellect could fade. All the deeds, the bad morals and ethics, all the fighting and conflict and pain, in short, all the obscene acts done because people do not see the world around them with emotional love, could vanish forever. I wish to create a utopia of the body.”
“It is a grand scheme,” Manserphine said, moved by the passion with which Zoahnône had spoken, “but I think a little beyond me. I’m just one woman. How can I help you? And anyway, why should I, when it is a matter for gynoids and network entities?”
“I regret to inform you that humanity is intimately concerned with my plan,” said Zoahnône. “You must help me. If we fail, the flower networks will wither and humanity will be returned to a culture of computation and naked intellect. We cannot allow that to happen. I want a new moral flowering of human culture to spread from this single locality—from Zaïdmouth. It is possible. You see, we must
bring about
that future.”
“Well I don’t see why withering would necessarily happen if your plan failed. The networks are strong.”
“What do you mean by strong?” countered Zoahnône.
“Well, permanent, I suppose.”
“Such is not the case. Tell me how old you are, Manserphine.”
“Thirty.”
Zoahnône looked up at the stars. “One generation. Such innocence.”
“What
do
you mean?”
“The flower networks constitute a local ecology unique on this planet. If the balance of this ecology is upset by careless behaviour, sourced in humans or in gynoids, then the flower networks will die, and with them all the knowledge that presently they hold. The beauty of this knowledge is alone a reason to save it, quite apart from its utility. For instance, in the networks of Our Sister Crone lie treatises on the human condition, and it is the human condition that must be understood if societies are to evolve that are peaceful, just, diverse, and brilliant with colour. If those treatises are lost, humanity is set back.”
“I still don’t see the link between remaking gynoids and saving culture,” interrupted Manserphine.
“This is the link. As I said, the flower networks comprise an ecology. Part of this ecology is abstract. The metaphors of knowledge contained in the networks can be influenced. If those metaphors become overly cold and intellectual, concerned with simple power or selfish acquisition, then the flower networks will fade. If on the other hand the metaphors become warm, emotional, concerned with moral value and the joy of existence, then the flower networks will survive.”
“But why?”
“Because each network flower is a proto-gynoid,” said Zoahnône. “We enjoy the benefits of an ecological technology. That is why you saw flowers upon my body. If these proto-gynoids are predisposed to embodied existence, then the metaphors of the networks will over time evolve to account for that, bringing about the result I desire. They will do this because metaphor and physicality act upon one another in a never ending cycle. But if the proto- gynoids are predisposed to the temptations of interchangeable existence, then the intellectual metaphor will over time come to dominate.”
“But that domination doesn’t preclude life,” Manserphine complained. “The networks would not necessarily fade.”
“They would, and I can prove it. Here, however, you must trust my judgement. I asked how old you were because older people may have noticed a subtle change in the nature of network flowers, to wit, there are fewer species. Over recent years, the number of species distinguishing the flower networks has fallen by twenty percent. That means the local ecology is becoming a monoculture.”
“You mean it is losing diversity?”
“Yes. Eventually the number of species would fall to one, at which point the networks could never recover, since it is not possible to recover from an entirely monolithic culture. So you see, we must encourage diversity. Therefore we must encourage the body-centred, emotional ethic. To do that, the proto-gynoids must be predisposed to embodied existence. Hence my plan. All future gynoids must be born like human beings. They must remain in their bodies for life, however long that happens to be.”
“I have one argument against all this,” Manserphine said. “Your thesis assumes that intellectual existence is somehow a temptation away from the morally preferable embodied existence, and it assumes that this intellectual metaphor is what is making the flower networks less diverse.”
“But I believe that to be the case, Manserphine.”
“Why? And how?”
Zoahnône replied, “Here is where human beings come in. Because human beings interact so much with the flower networks, those networks mirror their culture. Simply put, the knowledge they hold is by and large human knowledge, and so the networks are to an extent a symbol of human culture. But of course there is one culture that we know to hold the cold, intellectual, simplistic moral code that I have said we must reject. It is centred at the Shrine of the Green Man. Another, it could be argued, lies with the Sea-Clerics. I believe it was the rise of those two Shrines that began the subtle shift to monoculture.”
“That still doesn’t explain why intellectual existence should necessarily be a temptation from embodied existence.”
“The answer is that simple, intellectual existence is the easier option. If you are to become a mature, emotional, valuable person, you must constantly face the difficulties of existence, answering the questions of life, feeling pain, grief, loneliness, and feeling lost in a vast universe. The intellectual view bypasses these difficulties by imposing its own simplistic moral code upon the real world. Essentially, this moral code is that of the child. Consequently, faced with the dilemma of living in the real world, with all its potential trauma and its requirement of effort, or faced with the promise of simple answers and the freedom to indulge in selfishness and laziness, individuals—and cultures—tend to the latter.”
Manserphine was silent for some time, sorting out what Zoahnône had said in the privacy of her own mind. Some of the passion of Zoahnône’s speech had inspired her, and she saw the value of what she had said, particularly as some of it chimed with ethics delivered by Our Sister Crone. But as yet there were too many imponderables.
At length she said, “You seem to be saying that a bad culture from the Green Man and the Sea-Clerics is making the flower networks less diverse, because they are responding to the actions of those two Shrines.”
Zoahnône nodded. “The rise of such culture I believe to be the ultimate cause of the problem we face. Simply by interacting with the networks, the clerics of the Green Man imprint their culture upon the whole. So do clerics of other Shrines, of course, but those of the Green Man have an advantage.”
“The lure of the intellect?”
“Exactly. They will always win because they represent the easy option. Let me give you an analogy. Suppose there is a room of seven children, six of which are kind and good. One, however—a boy—is simple and aggressive. In the end, he always has the option of using force. Force is the easy way out of difficulties. Force can always triumph over kindness and good nature. Therefore we must create a room in which force can never be used.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to just remove the Shrine of the Green Man?” suggested Manserphine. “No monolithic culture means no species loss.”
Zoahnône laughed. “And so you are yourself seduced by the intellectual view! Do you not see your mistake? To remove the culture of the Green Man you would need to take on their values. Fighting and killing might be involved. Even if you succeeded, the metaphor of their culture would live on in you.”
Manserphine nodded. “I didn’t think.”
“The answer is to be profound. If we make the most profound change, working ecologically and with our emotions, we can create a situation where the culture of the Green Man and any like it will never be able to gain a foothold. They will wither and die.”
“It seems such a complex link. New gynoids means new culture.”
“To you, perhaps. Better to say, ‘new networks means no more bad culture.’ But I think my view will sink into your mind, and you will feel its truth.”
Manserphine sighed. “What then of the flower crash?”
“What indeed?” Zoahnône replied, gazing again at the stars, as if the answer would come floating down. “This is where you must help me. You can acquire the potential to deepen your visions. I think you must do this, since a premonition of a flower crash must imply a premonition of future domination by the Shrine of the Green Man, or the Sea-Clerics. We must know more of the flower crash.”
“Could it symbolise the point at which only one flower species exists?”
“Possibly,” said Zoahnône.
“I suppose one answer revolves around Shônsair and Baigurgône?”
“Yes. There can be no doubt that humanity is in danger of a decline into simplistic existence for as long as Shônsair and Baigurgône survive. We must struggle against them, for they will act on the side of domination and hate.”
Silence fell as they immersed themselves in their thoughts. Manserphine watched a single bright star move behind a chimney stack, then emerge on the other side. She felt momentary awe at the sight. It was so simple, yet so profound. At length she said, “Who is the mermaid who inhabits my every vision?”
“I do not know. Though she looks somewhat like you.”
Manserphine turned to stare at Zoahnône. “You think so?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps she is related,” Manserphine joked.
“If she is related,” Zoahnône pointed out, “she may share your ability to sense future networks. There will be a close genetic similarity.”
Manserphine frowned. “I have no relations like me, let alone like mermaids. Nobody I know is like me.”
“There may be somebody. What of your cousins, your parents?”
“My mother was lost at sea some years ago. My father is old, my brother a cleaner at the Shrine of Root Sculpture. No, my family is ordinary. Except for my great-grandmother, who was captured by Sea-Clerics and never reappeared.”
“You should investigate your family tree,” advised Zoahnône. “Relevant facts may appear.”
Manserphine stood up, and stretched. It was late. “What now?”
“I have a number of immediate tasks. For the moment, the only thing to consider is how we should keep in touch.”
“Through the networks,” said Manserphine. “There are some very rare flowers that people tend not to use because of the difficulty of operation. That would help conceal our traces.”
“You say they are not used because of their rarity?”
“Yes.”
“Then they may not be suitable.”
Manserphine shook her head. “In the right districts they are obvious. The large orange snapdragons are the best. All you need is an insect pen specialised to the form of the humble bee. The Shrine of Flower Sculpture would be best for that.”
“I cannot realistically return there.”
“No…” mused Manserphine. “I’ll see if Pollonzyn can get one.”
“And until then?”
“I”ll be at the inn tomorrow, and the morning after. We should have found a pen by then.”
“All right,” said Zoahnône after a moment. “For now I shall skulk around the garden here.”
They parted. Manserphine was exhausted, for midnight was not far off. She entered the inn, bade goodnight to Vishilkaïr, then made for her room, where, after some hours of turning amidst her bedclothes, she managed to drop into slumber.
~
Next day she lazed in bed until noon. After a relaxed breakfast she spent time readying herself for a walk to Novais. But Vishilkaïr discovered her intentions, and he said, “Not just yet, Manserphine. I have a favour to ask of you. I’m supposed to be mixing vermouth cocktails and I’m in a hurry. Could you go out and find me a few dandelion nuts?”
“Oh… very well,” Manserphine replied. She scoured the eastern paths of the kitchen garden until she had picked a handful of last year’s crop, still orange on the twig. Glancing behind the compost heaps, she saw no sign of Zoahnône. She returned to the inn. The inner hall door had been closed, so she opened it—
“Surprise!”
She almost dropped the nuts. There was laughter and applause. Four people stood in front of a table laden with exotic food and drink: Vishilkaïr and Kirifaïfra, Omdaton, and Pollonzyn.
Vishilkaïr laughed and pointed at her. “Surely you didn’t think we’d let you go without a farewell party?”
“Er…”
“You thoughtless woman! How dare you not realise what we were up to? What do you take us for, vagabonds?”
“To the food,” Omdaton said, sitting at the head of the table.
Still stunned, Manserphine sat in the chair pulled out by Kirifaïfra, who then sat at her side. She looked at the repast before her. Metal trays arranged on a helix were full of bubbling sauces, a nightlight under each, while elsewhere there were bowls of salad vegetables in wine, and unleaven dough hanging on tiny lines, ready to be dried into crispcakes with candles. Bottles of gin and whiskey twinkled as the late afternoon sun lit them. There were dishes of deep fried crispy worm. Saucers with spicy corn relish. Handbowls filled with mint water. Suddenly she sank into her seat, feeling tears come to her eyes.
“I don’t know what to say,” she managed.
“Say nothing,” Vishilkaïr advised. “Dig in.”
Manserphine dried her eyes with a napkin and followed his instructions. The food was magnificent; Omdaton was an experienced cook. It dawned on her that leaving this idiosyncratic inn would be far more difficult than she had imagined. Please don’t let there be speeches, she thought.