The Disestablishment of Paradise (37 page)

They climbed out of the SAS and stood looking at the Dendron. Slowly it closed its crest of blades and they heard a ruffling sound as it did so. Then it slowly moved its twin
trunks, first to one side and then to the other, until the tips were just touching the ground. After which it straightened again.

‘Why is it doing that?’ asked Mack.

‘It’s saying hello, or welcome. I think it was a message, Mack.’

Mack pondered. ‘You’re sure it knows we are here?’

‘It knows! And it’s waiting for us. This is it, Mack. Payback time!’

‘Payback for what?’

‘Saving me.’

If the Dendron was aware of them it gave no further indication, except perhaps that its crest lifted partially and then locked. The codds were quiet except for the occasional
small gulp. The heave up the slope must have taken its toll. It would need to rest, and with a Dendron a rest could mean a complete close-down before it was roused again by its need to divide.

Cautiously, they made their way down the slope and approached the Dendron. The sense of its living presence as they came under its shadow, combined with its stillness, was unnerving. They
stopped while still some distance away and faced the great arch between its front legs.

Mack looked closely at the sweep of the Dendron’s arch. He saw the way its curve might suggest the sensitive place in a human where the neck meets the back or, more crucially, the place
where the thigh curves in and down. He looked at the soaring twin trunks and the codds – so suggestive and yet, if Hera was to be believed, nothing to do with sexual organs. Mack thought too
of the story of Redman, and wondered how the hell that man had had the guts to get right up under a beast like this when it was charging. Ecstatic or not, symbol of sweet fulfilment though it might
be, to Mack a Dendron at full stamp was the very stuff of nightmares.

But other things distracted him. At close quarters the stench of the Dendron was almost overpowering. He couldn’t believe they always stank like this, otherwise there would have been more
comment. What was it that young Sasha Malik had said – that they smelled like pineapples? Mack put his lips close to Hera’s ear. ‘If that’s what pineapples smell
like,’ he whispered, ‘then I never want to try one.’

‘It’s not what pineapples smell like,’ answered Hera, also whispering. ‘Sasha got that one wrong. She’d never tasted a pineapple. That’ll be its sap. And it
does smell strong, I agree. If you imagine that smell diluted then it would be OK, but I think something is wrong. It could be all part of its condition. We’ll find out.’

Hera didn’t want to say more. She wanted to dwell in the moment. Being close to the Dendron, the enigma of the creature increased. In the literature the ‘sap’ of a Dendron was
described as a viscous green liquid. She imagined it now, pulsing through its body, passing through membranes, driven by that great bellows. Someone had once calculated that the pressures inside
the Dendron were enormous, every movement being a transfer of fluid. No living creature could contain them, but here it was. She murmured, ‘I wonder what it does to relieve the pressure?
It’ll have some venting mechanism, or cooling system. Steeping would help it but . . . No wonder they don’t like to get too far from water. That trip over the desert must have been hell
for it. There’d be a build-up of impurities and that could account for the smell.’

Mack nodded but said nothing.

Then they heard a sound not unlike that of a talking jenny. Mack frowned. It came again, but much louder, and moments later the sides of the Dendron shivered and dark green sap began to ooze
from its rough blue hide. It ran down its sides and dribbled into the stream. There was a sound like soapy hands meeting in a slap and the green sap stopped. ‘What did I say?’ said
Hera. ‘That must be it equalizing pressure.’

Mack shook his head and turned away, fanning his face with his hand. ‘It’s just air and water, Mack.’

‘So is a fart.’

‘Oh, pull yourself together. No Dendron has been seen on this planet in living memory. You’re privileged to stand here. And if it wants to fart, it can fart.’

‘I know. I know. It’s just when I was growing up . . .’

‘Well, grow up some more. Seize the moment. Look with understanding eyes. I don’t want to hear any more silly ideas or schoolboy humour. For all you know, the Dendron might think you
stink, or worse. What you are looking at just did you the honour of farting in your precious presence. This Dendron is one of the most efficient engines you’ll ever meet, and it’s alive
and you’re going to have to help it. Soon. And with honour, and with care, and with love.’ The sudden flash of temper subsided. ‘Now. Just give me a few minutes. I just want to be
on my own.’

Hera moved away. And she deliberately breathed deep. To her the smell was distinct and sharp, not of putrefaction and not like the talking jenny. It was a smell of life and dark mystery, a smell
to get to know. Anyone who fouled that concept deserved what they got!

She shrugged off the anger. She didn’t want it to spoil these first precious moments of encounter. Couldn’t Mack feel the energy of the beast? What a strange man! So earthy and
capable, and yet so easily distracted by something so childish. She looked at the swell of the Dendron’s back and the great crest stark against the blue sky. What a beautiful thing it was, so
perfectly balanced, so economical and clear in its lines. And practical!

Hera walked deeper into the shadow of the Dendron, then she made herself walk close. Its presence was wonderful and terrifying and she knew what Sasha had meant when she said she was thrilled by
the energy of the creature. Hera could feel it too, as though inside her. She stood right beside one of the front legs and looked up, staring directly up the swaying, tapering trunks to the flags,
which still hung limp. It made her dizzy, just looking. She touched the fibre of the leg with the tips of her fingers. It was hard, like frozen string, but prickly too where the tough strands had
broken off.
They must be shedding their bark all the time
, she thought.
Bark. Hm. Can it feel me touching it, I wonder, like I can feel a fly on my hair?
She reached up and
touched the place where the fibre started to turn blue, and that was softer. Still strong, but softer and more pliable. Almost like meshlite. It was able to stretch too.

She placed her palm flat and could feel a slight vibration in the beast.
There must be hundreds of small pumps working in there all the time, or the beast would slump. I wonder how she copes
when the moons are full and pulling together. She’ll feel them inside her. Oh yes, she’ll feel them all right.
Hera looked down at where the trunk-sized feet of the Dendron were
pressed into the soil. She knelt and disturbed the soil with her fingers. Just under the surface she could see tiny white roots which fanned out all round the foot and dived down. Perhaps that was
what it was doing now. Growing down, bedding down. Those roots definitively answered one question: it was waiting to divide. Waiting for its prince to come with shining armour and a swift sharp
sword.

The stream flowed between the twin legs. Steadying herself with a hand against the front of the leg, Hera stepped down into the quickly flowing water, which rose to her hips. She waded out to
the middle of the stream and stood between the legs, looking up. It was a very deliberate move. The memory of her dream was vivid, but not overpowering. The inside of the arch was darker than she
remembered – a mixture of blue and black. But then all Dendron differed, didn’t they? ‘But this?’ she murmured. Within there, deep inside the dark arch, would be the living
wishbone, oil-rich, tough as spring steel, smooth as ivory and ‘smelling of primroses’.

Hera made herself walk right under the Dendron. What a private space she was in. She examined the twin codds – good name for them. She liked that name. They arched right into the body with
great folds, like a concertina. They would have to be able to work independently, she realized, one blowing while the other sucked. And be able to reverse quickly too. That must be how they managed
the twin trunks right up to the cherries and Venus tears. Sometimes, like when the beast was walking, they’d have to work together like one single bellows. What power! To be able to shift as
massive a thing as that great black stump! And where was its consciousness? For it was inconceivable that something as organized as this could just be . . . just . . .
be
. Or had she got
that all wrong, and just being was a higher wisdom?

At that moment the codds obligingly gave one gulp, and she could hear the strive and gurgle of fluids within the Dendron as they began the long surge through its body. Hera reached up and was
just able to touch the bottom fold of the codds, but she immediately snatched her hand away in surprise, for the dark matted fibre was warm and moist. And why should it not be warm? Fluid moving
under pressure gets warm. And what better place for a safety valve? She smelled her fingers, and it was just the rich ooze of the plant.
Must remember to tell Mack about this the next time we
drink wine
, she thought mischievously. She washed the sticky juice from her fingers. Then she waded on further and touched the stool. It was like stone, hard and cold from the river. She
walked round the stool and out into the daylight. One last look at the rounded rump of the beast – no anus of course – and the shimmering crest that could carve and crush. It had not
moved. And she was done.

‘OK, Mack,’ she called, ‘I’ve had my little tour. You can come out now. Sorry I got ratty. Let’s decide what we’re going to do. It’s putting down roots.
It will be dormant now for a little while, but then the anguish will start up again unless we’re able to bring it some relief. Are you OK?’

While Hera was making her tour round the beast, Mack had moved up the stream, which meant he was also upwind of the Dendron. He’d been upset by Hera’s sudden
outburst, but he’d understood too. This was her moment. How would he feel if he’d been invited to take down something as beautiful as, say, the Parthenon, and someone had come along and
pissed against a pillar? He’d do more than give them an earful.

He was not just being fanciful in thinking of the Dendron as a building. To him there was something monumental about it. Still as the Sphinx, but living too. And Hera was right: he had to get
past stupid knee-jerk reactions if he was going to do anything to help. He’d been surprised, that was all. Surprised that such a human sound, as he thought, could come from a creature so
inhuman. But already he was adapting to it, getting the relative proportions sorted out, working out how it moved, looking for danger points. If it reared now, he would be frightened, but he would
watch it carefully too.

Mack watched Hera step into the stream and walk right under the creature and knew it would take a lot to get him to do that. He was too aware of the weight pressing down. But his thoughts were
complicated by his unthinking assumption that the Dendron was male. It was the codds that worried him, for they were altogether too like a giant scrotum. No doubt Hera was remembering her dream.
The irreverent thought came to him that if ever the happy day came when he and Hera made love, he hoped she did not expect him to perform like a Dendron . . . but he wouldn’t mind trying.

Mack moved further away. He moved to the side, up the hill, and lay down on the ground. Out here, sitting with his arms round his knees, staring at the twin trunks, he could see the cherries and
the discs of pale mineral fancifully called Venus tears. Their tinkle reached him faintly.

He studied the Dendron, trying to see it whole. He tried to imagine the strong springy structure that gave it shape. This ‘wishbone’ thing that Hera talked about. He would have to
study her drawings again if he was to make sense of it. Because it didn’t make sense. There was more to it than just a few springy bits of bone. But if he could work out its logic –
why, then it should be no more difficult than dismantling an old building with all its stresses and weaknesses. As long as it did not die on him, or shake him off or start to run. Best not to think
of that. Now, if he had his team here . . . Young Annette would already have shinned up one of the legs and be calling for ropes. Polka would have her eyes on the tears, thinking of earrings
probably. And Dickinson . . .? It was hard to know what Dickinson would do; he was a strange one. He’d probably climb up and sit on its rump and wish he could ride it.

At that moment the Dendron gulped and the codds heaved. Mack was reminded of the time he had seen a baby kick in its mother’s stomach. His thinking turned over and he began to think of the
Dendron’s codds as a womb, of the beast as being female. Of course, he knew it did not have a womb, but he shifted from thinking of it as male and something that he had to
battle
against, to it being female and something which he needed to
help
through its own battle. Such a little shift, really, but he felt altogether easier in his mind.

Mack wished his team could see him now. They would be wondering what he was up to. Hell, what a show this would be. And then he thought of the tri-vid camera mounted on the SAS. That could send
signals up to the platform. Why not? Let them share? They might even have some good ideas to help him.

It was at this moment that Hera called to him, and waved. He roused and went to join her. ‘Satisfied?’ he asked.

‘Yes and no. I want to get started.’

It was hard to believe it was only just after midday, so much had already happened. They had eaten with a growing sense of urgency, and were now planning.

Mack had studied Hera’s sketches, puzzling over them, trying to work out what was missing because there was a lot missing. He’d had her relate again and again what she could remember
of Marie Newton’s description of a severance and he sat with his head in his hands, trying to imagine the sequence and understand it. He quizzed her for details that just were not there. And
she was getting tetchy having to say ‘I don’t know’ or ‘There’s no evidence that . . .’ or ‘If only.’