The Disestablishment of Paradise (46 page)

‘And what do I do?’

‘You’ll be up on the Dendron with the high-pressure hose. I want you to flush away everything I cut, all of these flukes. We have to get rid of all of them, into the stream. We do it
as quickly as we can, because the time between when I sever the two trees from the old one, and when the old one dies and stops transmitting its pain or sadness or whatever, is critical. Its pain
could become their guilt – or kill them, even.’

While Mack stripped out the rigging and built a platform and set up the high pressure pump, Hera took the opportunity to talk to Tania.

Following a request from Dickinson, she unhitched the camera and gave them a tour of the Dendron, explaining in detail what they planned.

‘And what about last night?’ asked Tania.

‘Last night?’ said Hera in astonishment. ‘You know about last night?’

‘We could see you.’

‘What!!!’

‘Yes, up there in the funny chair that Mack rigged up.’

‘Oh, that . . .’ Hera recovered quickly. ‘Let’s just say I was trying to bring comfort to the twin creatures.’

‘It seems to have worked.’

Dickinson coughed. ‘Well you certainly brought comfort to one creature,’ he said. This remark was swiftly followed by an interesting sound effect: a loud
thump
followed by
the sound of Dickinson falling off his chair.

Mack was ready. Stripped to the waist, chainsaw in hand, he stood in the channel he had cut between the two horns. Hera was at the other end of the Dendron, braced against the
remains of the ball-and-socket joint where the crest had stood. She held the hose in both hands. The compressor at the pump was throbbing and would go to full power as soon as the trigger was
engaged.

After pleadings from Dickinson and Tania, Mack had repositioned the camera high on one of the trunks to give a better view of all that was happening on top of the Dendron.

‘One last thing,’ called Mack. ‘And I’m talking to Doc now, not Hera. Remember the golden rule?’

‘What golden ru—’

‘If I say jump, you?’

‘Jump.’

‘Over the side.’

‘Over the side. Gotcha. Good luck, Mack.’

‘OK. Here goes.’

The saw whined and Mack began to ease the blade back and forth, cutting deep into the wishbone. Fragments of white fibre sprayed into the air, and Hera kept the wound clear of debris with a
steady stream of water. The air should have smelled of carnage, but it smelled of flowers instead.

As Mack cut deeper, he could see the wishbone curl as the pressure built. The cut was opening gradually of its own accord as the front legs of the Dendron strained forward. Mack had severed the
first layer of fibre and was beginning to cut through the pipes. As he did so, a jet of liquid held under enormous pressure spurted up and knocked him back. Hera shouted something and pointed. One
of the tall horns was wavering and beginning to wilt. Mack stopped the saw and crouched down and watched. The amount to which the trunk tilted was critical – too far and it might tear, and
that could be very serious because now, with the pipe cut, there was no way of replenishing the fluids. He had explained this danger to Hera but had also pointed out that the Dendron must have a
solution of their own. In the Mayday woman’s story the Dendron which had done the cutting had been far more ruthless than he was now, and there had been no problem.

As they watched, the drooping stopped, and the trunk hung steady and swayed. Mack’s guess was that somewhere within the front of the creature a valve had closed and the precious fluid was
retained. He started the saw again, cutting steadily while the fluid poured over him.

He severed the second pipe and watched the other trunk slump, but not as much as the first. Mack nodded in satisfaction.

Now the cut became more difficult. Mack was deep inside the front of the Dendron. Sufficient of the dark fluid had drained away, helped by Hera’s directed flow of clear water, and he could
see the place where he was cutting. He crouched down and, holding the saw vertically, began to ease the blade back and forth. He could hear it biting deep and steam rose – a tribute to the
toughness of the wishbone fibre. But it was yielding. He changed sides and, after a few seconds of cutting, heard a snap and the part of the body on which he was standing lurched. One of the main
fibres had broken before it had been cut. That was a warning. The stresses within the cut must now be immense. He again applied the blade. This time he both heard and felt the joint begin to break
open of its own accord. He stepped back onto the main body of the Dendron and watched as, slowly, the section with the two front legs began to tear away. The separation was slow, but it was now
being done by the Dendron.

There came a moment when the movement stopped, and Mack could feel the pressures beneath his feet build . . . and then the Dendron broke with a tearing sound that ended with a loud
snap
and both parts of the Dendron lurched. Mack was almost shaken loose, but the twin trunks were now straightening and pulling away from the old parent. He could see the stream beneath him. As the
separation widened, the full face of the cut he had made became visible. It was a wall of woven wishbone with a honeycomb of pipes at its centre.

According to his calculations, the main body he was standing on should now slump down to the stream. But it didn’t. Instead it started to straighten and lift. Mack was not sure what was
happening. The lifting might just be a temporary easing, and he waited and watched. But it didn’t stop.

Mack slung the saw over his shoulder and began to climb, wedging his feet into the pipe holes and heaving himself up on whatever he could grasp. Hera, meanwhile, had no idea what was happening
and kept spraying the trench until she saw Mack’s arm and head appear. The body of the Dendron continued to lift.

Mack shouted, ‘Hera. Cut the water. Get down off the Dendron.’

‘What’s wrong, Mack?’

‘
Jump! Now!
’

Hera threw the hosepipe down the side of the Dendron, and as she did so, she saw the escape ladder slip sideways, pushed by the rising body of the Dendron.

‘
Jump for the stream!
’

This time she did not hesitate. She jumped straight down, entering the water with a splash. She felt her feet touch the bottom and pushed up strongly, breaking the surface close to the bank and
away from the sharp tines of the crest. Three strong strokes and she was at the side and able to pull herself up and out of the water in a second.

Mack, meanwhile, had climbed out and lowered the chainsaw to the ground. He too was preparing to jump. But the Dendron lurched, and he lost his balance and fell into the trench that they had cut
along the back of the Dendron on the first day. At this angle it was like a slide, and though he grabbed for the edge and did manage to catch some fibres, they tore loose and he continued to slip.
He tried desperately to wedge his body across the trench, but it was too steep and with a cry he fell into the hole above the codds. Since the moment of severance this had filled with the white
wriggling flukes, and there was nothing for him to hold on to. Mack might still have been able to clamber out, but the Dendron was gulping wildly and beginning to droop again. Then, as Mack was
reaching desperately for something to cling to, the membrane above the codds gave way. To Hera it looked as though he had been pulled from below. His upper body and head and arms vanished down into
the dark hole of the codds, and she heard him scream.

Hera ran onto the platform Mack had built that morning under the Dendron. She could tell where he was struggling inside the great bellows. But she knew this was the strongest part of the codds,
used to rough treatment, and there was no way he could tear it.

The electric chainsaw had landed nearby. Hera ran over, grabbed it and climbed back onto the platform. She reached as high as she could and made a long raking cut. Part of the sagging codds fell
open and water and flukes came tumbling out. Mack was still moving and this told her where he was. He was trying to make it to the gash. She moved along the platform and slashed again, trying this
time to cut through the pleats of the codds. Mack’s boot appeared and she could see where the other foot was kicking. But then the Dendron gulped one more time and the boot vanished. She had
no choice but to cut blind. She made the cut as shallow as she could and heard a muffled scream. She moved to the side and cut again. This time Mack’s arm appeared. She seized it and pulled,
putting all her strength into it. Once the elbow was out Mack was able to grip the side himself and pull. Hera moved as far away as possible. She started the saw again, hoisted it as high as she
could, and plunged it deep, raking it from side to side. She must have cut something important, for the codds began to tear apart of their own accord and with their last strong gulp Mack was
ejected.

He slithered down onto the platform. His entire body was covered with the wriggling white flukes. He twisted and turned as he tried to claw them from his face, but his arms and hands were
covered and they were in his mouth too. Hera grabbed him by one boot and pulled, and pulled again, dragging him slowly across the slippery platform and onto the bank. There he writhed, trying to
pull flukes of his skin.

The compressor was still chugging and Hera, quick thinking as ever, chased the hosepipe, which had fallen into the stream, found the nozzle, pointed it at Mack and pressed the trigger. At this
range the water must have seemed like being punched, but it worked, and the jet prised the flukes free from Mack’s skin and sent them tumbling into the stream. She hosed his hands, arms and
neck and he was able to pull the flukes from his face. She hosed his legs, and when he staggered to his feet, she hosed his back. They were in his shorts too, and he pulled them off and picked the
flukes off one by one while she hosed his buttocks.

His body was bloody. It was as though someone had pressed bottle tops into his skin until they drew blood. On his thigh was a more serious cut where the chainsaw had grazed him. But the cuts
didn’t bother him. Mack had reached a point of frenzy. He picked up the chainsaw and went back onto the platform, ignoring the flukes still writhing about. He hacked his way into the Dendron.
There was no finesse. He raked what remained of the codds with the saw, and then tore the pieces away by hand, throwing the bits into the stream.

Next, he heaved himself up inside the cavern of the Dendron and cut at a membrane which he now knew contained the deeper parts of its brain. He was rewarded with a cascade of the flukes, larger
ones this time, and darker coloured, which tumbled over his shoulders. Hera was behind him and hosed away any that attached. He climbed on, right into the beast. He cut the sides and he cut the
top; he cut down and he cut across, and all the time the small wriggling creatures came tumbling out.

Finally Hera heard the chainsaw rasp against the hardness of the stump. The saw stopped and Hera heard Mack call, his voice echoing, ‘Hera! Do you want to see?’

Hera stopped the hose. Mack’s arm came reaching down out of the Dendron and hoisted her up. ‘It’s all right now: I’ve got rid of most of them. It was a nest. Just here,
and that’s all that’s left now.’ He pointed at a large white open-mouthed worm which grew out of the dip in the middle of the stool. It groped around blindly like an arm without
finger. Hera recognized one of the roots of Paradise. This was larger than most she had seen. When the Dendron tore free to go walkabout, the root went with it. ‘Do you want to finish it, or
shall I?’

For an answer Hera took the saw and placed its tip at the place where the wavering root rose from the stool. One brief burst and the whirling blade severed the root, which fell to the platform,
twisted as it rolled and fell into the river. ‘
Sic transit gloria mundi
,’ she murmured. ‘Now, what about the little ones?’

‘I’ve not finished yet,’ said Mac. ‘Last job.’

He climbed out from under the newly dead Dendron, which was slowly collapsing, went straight to the tool chest and selected the heavy axe he had sharpened on the first day. Then he collected the
ladder, which had fallen to one side, and set it up so that he could climb up to the twin trunks, which were still joined, forming an arch over the stream.

Hera followed. She picked up his shorts. Thought for a second and then threw them away into the stream.
Why distract a man with something as trivial as clothes?

‘I’m going to finish this bloody job now!’ said Mack as he propped the ladder up against the arch. ‘I’m so steamed up I reckon I could tear these two apart with my
bare hands.’

With that he climbed the ladder, the axe poised over his shoulder. He positioned himself between the trunks and began to chop. Splinters of wishbone flew, and within five minutes he had cut a
trench round the fine dark line which marked the place where the two trunks were joined. It was a growth line, slightly jagged, as though joined by a master carpenter. He touched it lightly with
the sharp blade and saw the fibre peel back. The trunks were straining apart.

All he now needed to do was cut a V straight down and the Dendron would do the rest. Mack made two clean cuts. Satisfied that his line was good, he started again. He struck a rhythm. Chips of
wishbone flew again.

Hera watched. It was the first time she had ever seen a man such as Mack taking full pride in his strength. He was totally absorbed. Naked too. Primitive and casual with his beauty. She saw the
way he lifted the axe so that he didn’t waste energy, and the way he let the weight of the axe do most of the work but guided it just at the moment of impact so it stayed true. Periodically
he turned and attacked the other side of the arch so that the two sides did not get out of balance. She was intrigued by the different patterns of muscles that stood out during the course of a
single swing of the axe – it was the artist in her – and she found herself thinking of some of the statues she had seen of athletes – wrestlers, discus throwers and the like, and
of the ancient Celtic warriors who ran naked into battle, confident of rebirth. Surely Mack was descended from them.