Chapter Ten: Native Vegetation
So far, the Mainland wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. That was probably the hypothermia’s fault. It was hard to get a clear idea of the place when all James could think about was how cold he was. His thick fur coat helped. Like a toasty hug.
Great; thinking of hugs had reminded him of Lisa and the fact that he’d left her on Archi. It was for the best, but it didn’t stop him missing her.
“It’s not a full moon,” Beck said, “or night. It’s morning.”
“The change is chemical, “McGregor said. “Caused by testosterone, most likely; he won’t let me test him to find out for sure.” The motivation behind McGregor’s recent impulse to move from scrawny geek to bodybuilder was probably the strong scents Skylar was giving off. Humans wouldn’t notice it; the wolf did. “Which means it’s not controllable per se, but there are ways to promote testosterone which, I think, allow him some, uh, control. Also I have an idea of using an injection of testosterone or—”
“So if he gets too angry he loses control and becomes a bloodthirsty monster?” Beck asked. “And you’re sure he’s safe to be around?”
Ugh. Prejudice. Right about now it would be good to be able to talk. That meant changing back, though, and it was too cosy here in all his fur for that.
“He’s still him,” Clarkson said. “He doesn’t become insane.”
Beck leaned in, wanting to examine James but too scared to actually step closer. “So can he… think?”
“He’s fine.” Clarkson perched on the arm of the couch by James’s tail. “He can do everything he needs to do. He doesn’t bite and occasionally he comes in handy, tracking down scents and stuff. He’s like himself, but in furry form. Aren’t you, boy?”
James raised an eyebrow and uttered a low growl.
“See? That’s him threatening to put me on day duty, but that’s not much of a threat now that I know I won’t fry.”
Mitchell returned with a hot water bottle and a hair dryer and McGregor arranged the Team around him like a mother hen. The pampering wasn’t half bad. If only he hadn’t had to nearly die.
“Oh, before I forget,” McGregor said after a few minutes, “did you bring any Nepeta Dynatos with you?”
It was time to talk. James closed his eyes and found the human, Paddington, waiting in the dark place and felt his bones shift, his fur recede, his fingers grow, his tail withdraw. It only took a few seconds and then he was Paddington again. It was always somewhat disappointing when that happened.
“It’s at the bottom of the ocean now,” he said.
Was hypothermia making him see things or had Clarkson twitched at that?
“Any idea who sunk your boat?” Truman asked.
“The Andrastes left Guenevere on Archi,” Paddington said, “so my money’s on her. That said, she did also tell me there’s another prophecy and that my father is still alive, so… I’m reserving judgement on her for now. Hello, I’m James Paddington.” He extended a hand to Beck.
Beck stared with amazement at his hand in Paddington’s. “I have a teddy bear with your name. Which probably isn’t relevant right now. I’m Constable Joel Beck.”
“Another prophecy?” McGregor cut in.
“That’s the word,” Paddington said. “I don’t know anything else, though, so don’t get excited.”
“Oh. How are you feeling?”
“Warm, thanks. A new set of clothes and I’ll be right as rain.”
“It’ll take a few days before you’re back to normal, but as long as you stay warm and avoid physical exertion you should be okay.”
“Good thing we’re not doing anything strenuous like waging a war,” Skylar said.
“What’s this about your father?” Truman asked.
“Best guess,” Paddington said, “Adonis forced him to leave Archi and made my mother tell me he died.”
“Why?”
“Prophecy.”
“Right,” Truman said. “Skylar, take the car and find Paddington some clothes.”
“I have to do the shopping, is that it?” she asked. “Care to be more blatant with your sexism, sir? Would you like to call me a little lady as well? Maybe slap me on the bum as I go past?”
“You’d rather I send Clarkson or McGregor?” Truman asked. “Clarkson’d buy a three-piece dinner suit—”
“Top hat and tails,” Clarkson confirmed.
“—and McGregor would… I don’t want to think about what he might consider fashionable.”
McGregor looked slightly offended but his attention was more on Skylar’s reaction than the insult itself.
“What about Mitchell?” Skylar asked, less antagonistically.
“He went last time.”
“How about I buy my own clothes?” Paddington said. “Just lend me a set for ten minutes.”
Mitchell’s were closest to his size, so Paddington wore those while he and Skylar went to a nearby superstore. It was huge, the ceiling forty feet above them. Thousands of products stood in neat rows on tall metal shelves. Huge signs overhead directed consumers to the relevant sections. Smiling people in bibs asked if he needed help.
“Which way is the tailor?” Paddington asked.
“We’re fine,” Skylar said, steering him to a section called “Menswear” which featured a selection of pre-made suits. He found a brown one with pinstripes that fit well enough and looked decent in the mirror, though Skylar refused to offer an opinion. It felt cheap; too light on him, with stitching that would come apart within a few years, but they were all like that. Maybe Quentin’s complaints about Mainland products were justified after all. The multi-bladed plastic razor he bought was certainly inferior at clearing away his post-wolf beard than his wood-handled straight razor back at home, but that may have been the fault of the water in the shopping complex’s men’s room which wouldn’t go a degree above temperate.
They returned to the Team’s sniper nest via a slow drive past the castle, which was not as imposing as Paddington had expected. No high towers for dramatic flashes of lightning. The keep was a long single-storey hall. It was all single-storey. Still, what it lacked in dramatic visage it made up for in fortification. The only way in was over the main bridge, but that meant being exposed to gunfire for a few hundred feet. A frontal assault was suicide. Thanks to the steep hill on three sides and the cliff on the fourth, any other assault was impossible.
“Better?” Skylar asked when she brought Paddington back in. He did a spin to show off the suit, but that made him giddy and he had to sit down again. Fat lot of good he’d be in a fight.
“He looks good,” McGregor said, “did you pick the outfit?”
Skylar scoffed. “No. He looks like he’s from the fifties.”
“Latest fashion on Archee, then?” Mitchell said.
“Ark-eye,” Paddington corrected.
“Can we stay on topic?” Truman asked. “Apparently Beck still needs to finish our tour of the town. We should be safe enough leaving the castle unguarded now that the sun’s up.”
“I’m telling you, they won’t leave,” Clarkson said. He sounded tired of the argument. “They’re hundreds of years old; I doubt they consider us more than children. No threat.”
“We’re a threat and they know it,” Paddington said. “But they’re not going anywhere.”
“Why do you say that?” Beck asked, somewhat cautiously.
“They’re too proud. Besides, the castle is where they’ll think they Should Be.”
The four Team members and three policemen crowded into the two jeeps for the last leg of the tour. Paddington was in with Clarkson and Skylar, listening to Beck point out landmarks over the car’s radio: mostly interesting architecture or buildings that would help them to find their way around the town.
“How long have the buildings been like this?” Paddington asked during a break in the flow of rapid-fire words. Honestly, Beck was trying to rival McGregor. He wasn’t succeeding, but it was nice to have another competitor
.
“Hundreds of years, Paddington,” Mitchell said. “They’re historic.”
“No they’re not,” Paddington said. “We have old buildings in Archi. This is too… safe. The handrails on the balconies are too tall, built to a standard; the spires are built in single sections, not out of smaller blocks of stone.”
“Disneyland for vampires?” Mitchell said.
“I’d never thought of it like that,” Beck said. “It all happened so gradually.”
“How gradually?” Paddington asked.
“About thirty years, I think, after the count moved in. I don’t remember much of it beforehand, I was too young.”
“Did the Andrastes build this?” Truman asked. “To feel like home?”
“I doubt it,” Paddington said. “Adonis would have done this right; authentic. The people built this to be more like the Andrastes. Like a form of worship. They corrupted Archi through fear of the Other and they corrupted Estika through love of themselves.” He looked out the window at the façades, safe and clean and wrong. “I’m not sure which is worse.”
“Hey now,” Beck said. “It’s not… that bad…”
“Tell that to the women in the hospital who’d wanted to be bitten,” Clarkson said.
Paddington watched the false town roll past. Even the few people on the street were fake: their faces hid beneath thick white make-up, black mascara, and dyed-black hair. Permanently scowling.
They parked the jeeps outside the town hall. It was one of the only modern buildings they’d seen, with walls painted in bright white and many large windows. When everyone was on foot, Beck led them around the back of the building into a sort of public park, the only one they’d seen so far and not very big. At the centre of it was a single lemon tree. It looked old. A few withered, unappetising fruit hung on its twisted branches.
“What’s this?” Mitchell asked, his voice carrying the same unease that filled Paddington’s gut.
“This,” Beck said, “is the Tree.”
“He just pronounced a capital letter, didn’t he?” Skylar asked.
“Yep,” Clarkson said.
The rest were silent. Truman looked like he was trying to set his jaw even further into dutiful resolve. McGregor rushed toward it and knelt at the base.
Paddington was a tad confused; maybe it was the lingering hypothermia. “Why did you show us this?” he asked.
“You wanted to see all the important places,” Beck said. “This is one of them. This is prime real estate. Every other garden, park, or open space has been turned into car parks or apartments, but they left this absolutely untouched. Immaculate. This place must mean something. I don’t know what, but… but… But you all look like you do.”
Mitchell sighed. “At least it’s a bloody tree this time.”
Paddington wandered forward, keeping his eyes on it. He wasn’t sure what he expected it to do, but he didn’t want to give it the chance. There was something… alluring and dangerous about it. An unspoken promise. “What reason did they give for not tearing it down?”
“They didn’t,” Beck said, following Paddington. “Technically this is private land. People are allowed to come and go as they please, but this all belongs to—”
“The count,” Paddington finished. “Which means that this Tree is the real thing.”
“If it’s so important,” Truman said, “why let anyone in to see it?”
“Because he’s a Believer. And he believes that everyone should be able to see this… wonder.” The Tree looked pretty well the same all around. The only thing of note was a small worn plaque at the base, which McGregor was now translating with a look of intense concentration.
“But it’s out in the open here,” Beck said. “Anyone could have defaced it.”
Paddington spotted the police-issue firearm on Beck’s hip. “You’ve got a gun. Shoot it.”
“What? Why?”
Paddington pulled the weapon out of Beck’s holster and placed it in his hand. “Just one shot.”
“No.”
“One bullet. You won’t do any harm.”
“I know.”
“Then shoot it.”
“It’s pointless.”
“Then do it!” Paddington shouted.
“Why?”
Paddington stopped right in front of him. “Because I don’t think you can.”
“Of course I won’t; it’s destruction of prop—”
“Not won’t. Can’t. There’s something about this place, isn’t there? Something everyone knows but no one says. No one comes here for picnics. No one picks that fruit and takes it home to make a nice slice. You revere this place. No one told you to, but you do.”
Mitchell rolled his eyes and shouldered his rifle. “I’ll shoot it.”
“Stand down!” Truman said. “We get the point. It’s the real thing.”
“Based on what evidence, sir?” Mitchell asked. “That no one’s ever defaced a tree that they have no reason to deface?”
“And because it’s a trap,” Paddington said.
Mitchell’s rifle was at his eye, safety off, before the others had even registered Paddington’s words. When no one shouted megalomaniacally at them, Paddington added, “Not right now. This town, this Tree, the attacks: it was all to draw me here.”
“You?” Beck asked.
“Adonis drank their blood, made it as obvious as he could, so you’d investigate and call me.”
“God complex much?” Skylar asked.
“You should try working for him,” Clarkson said.
“Am I wrong?” Paddington asked Clarkson.
“No. It’s how he thinks. Adonis wouldn’t come out and say it; that’s not sporting. He’d leave clues and riddles. See if we’re smart enough to escape his trap.”
Truman nodded Treeward, where McGregor was shifting his weight from foot to foot, waiting for his chance to speak. “What’s the trap, doc?” Truman asked.
“It’s the prophecy,” he started.
“Prophecy?” Beck said, with entirely reasonable scepticism. “You were serious, at the nest, when you mentioned that? What sort of prophecy?”
“The kind that ends the world, probably,” Clarkson said casually. “Doom and gloom. Death and nonsense. The usual.”
While Beck took a moment to digest that, Truman said, “Short version: there’s three Gods and throughout history they’ve laid down prophecies, always in pairs, each contradicting the other. One always succeeds.”
“That implies that free will is, at best, a binary choice,” Beck said. “Do I pick door number one or door number two? Fulfil prophecy one or prophecy two?”
“There may not even be that for most of us,” McGregor said. “Only those in the prophecies have the power to alter which future comes to pass, so unless the prophecy mentions us, nothing we do will alter the outcome. On that basis… no, technically we don’t have any free will.”
“We’re just puppets?” Truman asked. Evidently he’d never thought about it like this before. Paddington had; thought about it a lot, mostly after the last prophecy and in a thank-goodness-I-didn’t-think-about-that-at-the-time way. A person would go mad trying to understand the Three-God.
“Partly,” McGregor said. “We can’t affect anything related to the prophecies, at least. We couldn’t kill Paddington, for example, because this prophecy needs him alive.”
Mitchell rolled his eyes and shouldered his rifle. “I’ll kill him.”
“Stand down,” Truman said again. “We’re also not shooting him because he’s our friend.”
“Or is that just a mechanism of the Three-God?” Clarkson said. He pointed a shaky hand toward the heavy-clouded sky. “I can see giant hands working the strings!”
“Can we leave the metaphysics for later in the day?” Skylar asked. “Or not at all?”
“Agreed.” Truman took a deep breath. “Doctor, lay it on us.”
McGregor cleared his throat and read:
By his brother’s victori
es embittered,
The demon takes his life
And claims it as his own.
Death he spreads across the globe.