The Disestablishment of Paradise (67 page)

Two great heaves, reaching up with the front legs and pushing with the stool, and it was onto the plateau. The other Dendron moved out of the muddy area that it had pounded and started to prowl
around the perimeter. I say prowl because that is what it looked like. It had its horns lowered in the front and was tapping them on the ground. It crept forward with small steps, stopped, dragged
its stool up and stamped it down. It was just like a dance. Its crest, meanwhile, was stiff and erect – you get the picture – and the tips of the blades gleamed like butchers’
knives.

We have a pair of those blades that Mayday found a bit further up Wishbone Creek and we keep them like crossed swords on the wall. They are very sharp, and the edge is serrated like a bread
knife. They are quite light, and very brittle now.

The Dendron that was doing the prowling began to move each of the blades in its crest separately. It was as if each one had a mind of its own. Sometimes they rippled like the side of a stingray
when it is swimming and sometimes they crossed like scissors. If you put your hands together but with the fingers straight and interlocked, and then move your fingers, still keeping them stiff, you
get the general idea. It was obviously getting ready to cut and was trying out its weapons.

The one that had come in from the sea – Mustard, the girls had christened it – moved right into the middle of the swamp. Its crest was very erect. It too had its horns lowered and
had them in the mud. It seemed to be looking for something. Then it reared up and did that slam-slam to either side they are so fond of. I don’t know how it is they don’t lose their
cherries – they must be welded on – but they don’t. Obviously they know what they are doing. Well. The effect of this slam-slam was significant. It made a trench in the mud but,
more important, it must have dislodged some blockage higher up as I saw the water start to run more freely. It was still muddy of course, but it was soon clearer and flowing quickly. Then Mustard
positioned itself so that its two front legs were on either side of the stream, and the stool – well, it stamped it down once really hard right in the middle of the stream and the water
splashed up and the stool sank deep. The crest was very stiff and, after shaking a bit, didn’t move.

The other Dendron, the one that had come overland – it didn’t have much colour, just a dun browny grey, nothing like Mustard, though its cherries and flags were bright – now
stopped its prowling and came into the circle and then it lowered one of its horns down between Mustard’s horns until it rested on the cleft there. It rocked for a while, and I could
understand that. It was a tender movement. But then it started to walk slowly backwards, and just at the moment when its cherries were being dragged between Mustard’s horns, Mustard started
to shake. Then the brown and grey one withdrew quickly, back to beyond the edge of the circle where there was a muddy pool, and there it stopped and steeped.

Great shivers ran through Mustard, and green water came from its back and from its hump and from its cleft. Water poured down its tawny sides and stained the stream. It looked horrible, the
green dribbling down over the yellow, like one of my watercolour paintings when I get caught in a shower. The girls thought it was having a pee and they are young enough to giggle. Young Mr Tycho
looked a bit disgusted, and since I could not think of any better explanation I kept quiet, though I am not convinced it was having a pee. Something else was happening. Like Mayday says, when we
get some specialists out here, we’ll find out all these things.

I could see the way the shivers started down at the stool and travelled right up through its body to the tops of the flags, and the flags flapped but they were wilting. When the shaking stopped
they drooped and became heavy, and I think some water dribbled from them too. Then Mustard opened and closed her crest twice, and Berry and Cherry, bless them, waved back to her. We watched as,
very slowly, the crest sank down. It didn’t close onto its back the way they do when they are walking at sea, it lowered down right behind it and slightly turned so the sharp blade tips cut
into the bank of the stream. My brave son saw this as submission. ‘Yah, it’s yitten,’ he said. (I have no idea where he has learned that language.) ‘It’s not going to
fight.’

Mustard waited, crest awry, still as a statue.

The other Dendron waited too, stiff and still at the edge of the circle, stool deep.

We all waited. Almost an hour. The girls started to get restless and Cherry wanted to go back and get her book. Tycho wanted to walk down and get closer, but I absolutely forbade that. I
don’t want to lose two sons.

There was no warning. Suddenly the Dendron steeping at the edge of the circle hoisted its stump, turned round and advanced slowly on our lovely Mustard. It came towards it, as it were, stool
first, and its crest was hard and poised, like an axe over a block. It came up beside Mustard and I was interested to note that it was slightly smaller than Mustard. Smaller or not, we saw the saw
blade strike, an oblique movement, and at the moment of impact the blades jerked so that it cut as well as sliced. In that one movement it severed Mustard’s bladed crest, which fell to one
side in the water.

The little girls cried out and held on to me, their arms round my legs, but I told them that what they were seeing was all completely natural and that Mustard hadn’t been hurt. But they
were a bit too young to understand.

Mustard started to shiver again and green water poured from the wound. I think the cut had also severed a connection inside her where Dendron have that great pump. She seemed to be gulping with
shock. Then the smaller Dendron backed off, lowered one of its horns, put the tip under the edge of the fallen crest and, in one quick movement, flipped the whole crest right out of the swamp and
down onto the beach. It landed among some rocks and dropped down into the water.

When the crest hit the water, the attacking Dendron seemed to fall into some kind of frenzy. It waved its own mighty crest back and forth, flexing the blades and scattering the inner parts of
Mustard which had stuck to the tines. Then it stamped round Mustard again while her torn body shook and gulped. Finally it moved in. It was walking backwards again, crest to the fore, if you can
imagine that. It was working its way backwards until the sharp blades of its crest lay flat across Mustard’s back. The blades swept along horizontally and began to shave great slabs of fibre
from Mustard’s body. The flesh revealed under the mustard-yellow thatch was a patchy green with strands of white. Horrible. Then, with one swift movement, it cut downwards, close to the
stool, and we saw great plumes of liquid and dense matted fibre fly in the air as it hit the codds. It cut faster, and chopped down hard several times, digging the tines as deep as it could and
working the blade back and forth with a rocking motion. Soon the blade was buried deep inside the still quivering Dendron. And when it was as deep as it could reach, the smaller one pulled away
with a great heave of its body, using the weight and strength of its own stump to add pressure. It tore half the side of the Dendron out. We could just see the open wound where the codds had been.
It was black inside and seemed to have small tubes clustered there. We saw it cut three or four more times until finally, with a heave, Mustard’s stump separated from the main body. A white
mush filled the river, like the contents of a stomach pouring out, and drained away. Mustard swayed but the smaller Dendron steadied her with its horns, running them right along the torn length of
her body in long smooth strokes. Then it moved round to the front and slid its horns up the horns of Mustard and for several minutes the cherries of the two creatures touched and rang together.
There was a sensuality about that, to my human eyes. I may be quite wrong, but that was what I thought. Like Mayday used to put his arms around me after little Isaac died.

Next I saw Mustard shake and curve the upper part of her body, as though testing to see if she could stand alone. She could, but we could see that without the stool to support it, the weight of
the rest of her body was heavy on her and threatening to tip her back. The smaller Dendron moved round behind her and ran the blades of its crest under her. It was both supporting her and feeling
for the place where the front legs joined the main body. It cut slightly, feeling with its blade almost to make sure that it had the right place. We saw Mustard heave slightly, as though to ease
the entry of the sharp crest. And when it was in place the small Dendron began to rock back and forth, cutting upwards, feeling its way. We could see why – one wrong cut and it might slice
one of the trunks and that could indeed be fatal. As it rocked and cut, so Mustard rocked too, riding the blade until, with one final pull, we saw the tines of the crest appear up between the hump
and the twin trunks and, with a tearing sound, the main body of Mustard fell away and collapsed into the churned mud of the stream.

More liquid came pouring out of the wound. But not as much as we might have expected. The butcher Dendron now moved round to the front. It placed its crest in the cleft between the two trunks
and folded it down so that it became a single cutting blade, almost like a samurai sword. The two girls hid their faces at this. They did not want to see what they thought might be the
coup de
grâce
. But I made them watch. This might be their only chance, and they would never forget and they could tell their grandchildren. I showed them how carefully the blade had been placed
in the cleft. How carefully it was being raised. I showed them how carefully the Dendron was lifting itself up to gain the greatest cutting power. And then it struck down. One powerful, surgical
downward cut. It was like a lightning strike. And then, when the power had gone out of the strike, it pulled away and the crest blade cut through the remaining tough fibre of what I knew was the
wishbone. The severance was complete. And we cheered as the Dendron which we had called Mustard slowly straightened and split and became two trees, sisters or brothers – call them what you
will – standing on either side of the stream.

The Dendron that had done the cutting staggered back. We had hardly given a thought to the energy it was expending. It stood for a while in the muddy green water, steeping. Last of all it lifted
what was left of the middle body of Mustard and tipped it down onto the beach. I think that was as much as it could do, and then it made its way slowly down the stream and out onto the shore. Its
crest was still raised and we could see that it had lost a number of tines, but it lowered slowly as the Dendron walked out to sea. Then, when the water was almost up to its hump, it stopped, and
it did not move for a month.

Next day I took the girls down to the beach to look at what remained of Mustard’s crest in the rocks at low tide. We gathered some tines to show Mayday when he got back. Then we visited
our two new family members. We could see small white roots around the bases, and we knew that by now both trunks would be bedded deep. Scars had closed over where the wishbone had been cut. The
twin trees were straighter too. The stool was . . . the stump. The top had already poured away, and there was a big cavity in it, but the rest was unchanged, pitted, hard as iron, more hoof than
tree.

Down on the beach the main body had already started to liquefy, but other parts – the remains of the wishbone – were hardening. I promised I’d cut them pieces off the bone for
them to wear as pendants and keep for luck. But most important to all of us was that at the top of the two trees, though some of the cherries and Venus tears had fallen, the flags were flying
high.

•

NOTE: This article was written some six years before Mayday Newton was killed while scorching back some Tattersall weeds round Wishbone Creek. It was regarded as a freak
accident at the time, as Mayday was an experienced farmer. The exact circumstances of his death were never discovered. Suffice to say that this accident reinforced the doubtful reputation of
Tattersall weeds.

Two days after Mayday’s cremation, Marie made arrangements to leave Paradise, taking her daughters Berry and Cherry with her. Her son Tycho, who later married Isadora Silvio, chose to stay
and manage the farm. They would continue the battle to grow crops derived from Earth-raised seed until the Disestablishment.

‘If You Go Down to the Woods Today . . .’, from
Tales of Paradise
by Sasha Malik

Records regarding the enigmatic creature called the Michelangelo-Reaper are sparse. No one knows when the two names were first utilized. They were certainly in common use
during MINADEC times, and were frequently interchangeable. In general, Michelangelo seems to have been the more threatening name, Reaper being used more ironically. The Michelangelo who dallied
with Hera was a child and so we must excuse its behaviour, for it had no understanding of its power. We do the same for Cupid with his little darts, do we not? Those readers who perused Document 2,
‘Getting Your Man’, will have noted Sasha’s enigmatic note concerning the disposal of the dead Anton.

So what more is there?

Again we turn to Sasha. Her short story ‘If You Go Down to the Woods Today . . .’ is a strange little tale that might have been composed as a bedtime story and must have come to her
after many mouths had shaped it. I am sure it began as a fireside story and she added her own special gloss. It reflects the fear and wonder which this enigmatic creature inspired.

Note that a GB Pass was a free pass to any of the brothels, shows, gymnasia, clinics, etc. available on Gerard’s Barn. They were sometimes given in lieu of bonus certificates to MINADEC
workers. ‘Grubber’ was the nickname for a contract miner who would dig anywhere for wages and a percentage of the find. It is doubtful that Sasha would have known what a kipper is. The
identity of Jemima, if indeed there ever was such a person, will probably never be known.