The Disestablishment of Paradise (24 page)

There was a long pause. I saw Hera drift away. My question had caught her off guard. I saw her eyes dart and flicker as though waking up in a bright light, and her lips purse,
and then the black stains on her face became more pronounced. Hectic. Finally she mumbled something and moments later she sighed and her eyes closed. When she came back to herself, she was
tired.

I heeded the warning. I did not press her to explain further. And there we must leave our discussion. I am sure an entire library could be written about the complexities of
communication with the alien, and the common ground which must be discovered before any communication can take place. I know that the demanding of proof can be a kind of blindness. But, having
accepted the enigmas of the fractal, I wonder what could be stranger? Like many of you perhaps, I wish I could venture to Paradise and witness it for myself.

We return to Hera on Paradise. She is sitting in the meadow, naked and with a glass of unsipped wine in her hand. The echoes of the voice she has heard inside her are slowly
fading.

Hera sat for a while, in that present moment – holding it, unwilling to let it go.

And the next thing she heard was music. Bach. Toccata and Fugue in D Minor no less. It came from the open door of the SAS. This was Alan’s way of telling Hera that the repairs were done,
the SAS was ready.

She smelled coffee too, and that was his way of saying that normal service had been resumed. Hera stood up and wrapped the tablecloth round her. Hera is not sure why she did this, but it
definitively marked the return to her habitual self.

In truth she felt a bit let down – a bit, I suppose, empty, unfulfilled. She wanted more, but once again nothing tangible had been communicated except a sense of delight, as well as that
fine thread of pain she mentions. Most positive was the realization that communication of a kind had taken place. It was a kinder communication too . . . kinder than the abrupt seizure of her
memories on that first night, and more personal. She was hungry for more. Being sensible, she knew she must be patient, for the timing was not in her hands. Being human, she was restless and full
of longing . . .

. . . for home.

An hour or so later the sturdy SAS barked into life. The two rotors began to carve the air and moments later the flyer lifted. Hera was at the controls and she set a direct course for her Monkey
Terrace home.

She followed the rift valley and watched as little by little the

Mother Nylo became bigger as more tributaries entered it. At the place where the Mother Nylo was joined by the Lazyboy stream, she turned west, and then she handed over the controls to Alan.

Night had by now fallen. Hera fell asleep in her chair.

Twelve hours later, when she awoke, the SAS was cruising over the Chimney Mountains. By mid-afternoon she had reached Big Fella Lake and could see her small shilo at the end of the water. How
peaceful it looked. How welcoming!

Some washing she had left out to dry when she went to bid farewell to the last shuttle was still flapping on the line. The large and straggly monkey tree was white with blossom and small weeds
were sprouting up in the clearing. How differently she felt about the weeds since seeing the umbrella tree plantation.

An hour after landing Hera was swimming in Big Fella Lake. She had had enough of travel for the time being. There was a lot she needed to think over and a lot to absorb. As she lay back and
floated, her hair loose in the water and arms spread wide, she could, if she relaxed, just hear, or see, or feel, that shimmering music, that golden light, that warmth that was now part of her.

And always it was also there, woven through the experience – that fine thread of pain.

Hera did not sleep well after returning to her shilo. And when she did sleep, her dreams were vivid and scary. She also found herself waking at strange hours. A great
restlessness led her to wander about at all hours. ‘All symptoms,’ she said, ‘of turbulence in the psychosphere of Paradise.’ She did not feel that she was again being
called or contacted as such; it was just that she was now aware of movements, sometimes quite violent, such as sudden squalls in the lake or strange lights in the sky.

Then one night . . . Shortly after midnight she started awake, every sense alert. She had heard something move outside. The popping of seed pods did not occur at night and the only sounds that
normally disturbed the night were the creaking of the nearby trees or the slap of waves on the shore. The sound she had heard was not like these. It was a scraping sound. And then, unmistakably,
she felt as well as heard something bump against the wall of the shilo.

Pulse rising, Hera slipped out of bed and crept over to one of the windows. The two moons, riding almost together, were high above the clearing, and their light cast the shadow of the window
frame starkly onto the plastic blinds. Not wanting to make a sound, Hera eased the blinds open and looked out into the clearing. No breeze was disturbing the tops of the monkey trees. She
scrutinized the table, the greenhouse, the sheds, the hangar, holding her gaze on each until she was sure there was no movement. Then her eye fell on a that had grown beside one of the sheds . . .
. There was something happening there. As Hera watched, the plant trembled. The movement started small but gradually increased until the entire shrub was shaking.
It will shake itself to
death
, she thought. And then the shaking ceased and the entire plant fell forward onto the ground, its branches spread in an untidy tangle. She could see where the shallow ball of its roots
had detached from the ground.

Again Hera was reminded what strange plants the s were – beautiful, sweet but with a presence that made her uncomfortable. Always she was aware of that tainted reputation. And now this one
had shaken itself to death. Why?

She heard again the scraping sound that had wakened her. Then there came a distinct but muffled thump against the opposite side of the shilo, the side closest to the forest. It was as though the
wall had been hit with a mop. Quietly she crept across the room. Above her was a sloping skylight through which the moons were shining. As she watched, a shadow moved across the window. There was
no mistaking its shape – it was a flower, fully open. Hera ran to the kitchen where she kept a ladder. She set it up just under the skylight, which had been left propped slightly open due to
the nights being warm. Hera climbed up stealthily and peered out through the narrow opening. As she did so, a limb of the came over the roof like a thrown rope and the thorns scratched on the hard
surface of the window. Hera almost fell off the ladder, but she steadied herself, slammed the window shut and slid the bolt. Lying across the window was the branch. She saw it begin to contract,
and the long thorns struggle for purchase, but there was nothing now for them to hold on to. The branch slipped back and fell heavily outside and with it went the flower.

Shaken, but more surprised than frightened, Hera climbed down. She crossed to the front door and made sure that it was secure and then hurried to all the other windows and the small back door,
making sure they were closed and locked. Shilos were strong, built for frontier conditions on strange worlds, and she had no fear that a weed could rupture the walls or bring the roof down. Nor did
she feel under attack. As she explained to me, ‘Strange as it may seem, I rather accepted what was happening as just another manifestation of how quickly things were changing on Paradise. I
thought of myself as a kind of beacon, a candle flame attracting strange things – experiences. Mark you, I was careful and on my guard. I was not afraid of being attacked, but more that an
accident might happen. The s were very clumsy!’

Satisfied that all was now secure, Hera returned to the ground-floor window. The that had trembled and fallen was moving again. It had contracted and the roots had pulled well clear of their
hole. Then part of it convulsed and one of the upper branches was thrown forward, towards the shilo. Other branches uncoiled and, when they had reached their maximum extent, twisted. The long
thorns pressed into the brevet. Now began another slow contraction. Some of the thorns tore from the soil, but many held and slowly (‘painfully slowly’ said Hera) the root ball of the
weed was dragged forward.