Because green priests, like her friend Collin, could hear the language of the worldforest, they spoke to the trees and to one another through the telink network. How she envied them. But the trees had found Arita wanting…
Arita had not become close with the other researchers here, though she was friendly enough with a few of them. At dinner, they ate a vegetable stir fry that Pellieri prepared with native edibles; they discussed their own work, Tarker and Orfino played another intense game of squares and disks. Arita was welcome to join them, and no one seemed interested that she was the daughter of King Peter and Queen Estarra—which was good, but Arita felt alone, thinking about her brother. By now, Reyn should be headed off to Earth, where he might be able to find the medical experts he needed.
Far from the worldforest, Arita gazed into the tangled thicket and watched the Whistlers stir in directions that had nothing to do with the breezes. The gabble of noises rose, then quieted. Before the complete hush, the murmur sounded like words.
For several days, Arita took images of other Eljiid flora, trying to develop a basic understanding of the world’s plant types. Spiny succulents were the dominant forms in Eljiid’s rocky, arid environment, and she catalogued more than forty types. But she was not satisfied with just imaging and recording—she wanted to understand the worldforest and the verdani mind, and she hoped the Whistlers might give her some clue.
Most of all, Arita wanted to understand why the trees had rejected her.
If the Whistlers were sentient, Arita wanted to touch them in the same way that a green priest touched the worldtrees. If there was a hope of her understanding, of connecting, she had to become part of the Whistler forest. That was why she had come to Eljiid in the first place.
She had seen the white boils on Bolam’s face and arms, his eyes puffed shut, his face a grimace of agony, his throat closed off so he could not breathe. No one had performed an autopsy; everyone could see where he had scratched himself on the spines, and the extreme physical reaction was obvious.
But Arita wasn’t so sure. She used delicate tools to take samples of the Whistler thorns, testing the intensity of the alkaloid poison. The camp researchers had been curious about the strange cacti for a long time, but no one had done a thorough study. If the Whistlers were as toxic as Bolam’s death suggested, Arita was surprised no one else had died from a similar scratch. In fact, two structural engineers studying Klikiss architecture in the abandoned city confessed that they had tangled with Whistler thorns while climbing around the old buildings, but they had suffered only brief nausea and dizziness.
When Arita ran chemical tests on the thorns, she did find an alkaloid component, but the properties should have been hallucinogenic rather than poisonous. Maybe Bolam had an allergic reaction that had resulted in anaphylactic shock.
She distilled the alkaloid toxin, diluted it, and cautiously smeared a drop on her skin. She waited, but observed no reaction. Growing more daring, Arita added the toxin in successively higher concentrations. Only at full strength did her skin show a slight redness—not at all like Bolam’s reaction. The Whistlers couldn’t be as toxic as she had thought.
One evening in the gathering dusk, the Whistlers kept talking, humming, singing—and she wanted to understand. Leaving her warm rock, Arita walked into the thicket like a dancer, weaving her way, careful not to let the spines scratch her.
The cacti stirred, and a low hooting sound rose and fell. They were talking, she knew it. The Whistlers had a kind of sentience that might be part of the worldforest mind, or a separate entity of its own. Or maybe they were just cacti that made strange sounds when breezes blew through them.
She thought of Collin, how he could touch any worldtree, even a little treeling in a pot, and become part of an immense tapestry of thoughts and knowledge—a tapestry that excluded her.
Arita drew a deep breath, trying to forget the disappointment of that day. Without letting herself think, she reached out and grasped the nearest Whistler branch.
She felt the thin stab of the needles, a dozen pricks as the spines penetrated her skin. She thought she heard the whispering grow louder, and she closed her eyes, trying to let her mind flow into the plant network. She wanted to share with the Whistlers, tell them her passions, understand the interlinked community that spread beyond any individual plant, any individual person.
Her hands burned. The alkaloid secreted by the spines was in her bloodstream. Her pulse raced from more than just excitement and fear. Her thoughts grew sharper, more colorful, more intense. Her chest heaved like a set of bellows. Suddenly the night air felt hot. Her thoughts ricocheted in all directions, but she refused to release the Whistler. She gripped even tighter.
A trickle of blood ran down her hands, red and warm and now swirling with mysterious Whistler chemicals. Arita knew it was not a poison that would kill her. She wanted to join the Whistlers, to float among them and understand what they had to say.
Instead, she saw herself from more than two years ago—younger, energetic, optimistic. She’d spent years as an acolyte reading aloud to the worldtrees as a good Theron child should, tending them, following the instructions of the green priests. While Prince Reyn was being groomed as the next King of the Confederation, their parents endorsed her desire to take the green—there was no more essential Theron activity, and they were proud of her.
She and Collin planned to be green priests together. Though they were young, they both felt the attraction growing, a romance blossoming between two young people who belonged with each other. Arita imagined that someday she and Collin would be like her aunt Celli and uncle Solimar—green priests who had been together for two decades and now tended their own floating worldtrees at the Roamer complex of Fireheart Station.
Nervous about the green priest testing, Arita and Collin had gone into unexplored parts of the forest, running together for a time. But the test was a private thing. Each person had to endure his or her own rite to become a green priest, had to accept the verdani mind, surrender to the call of the forest. They would sink deep and then emerge transformed, green-skinned and forever different.
Arita remembered the wonder as the thickets stirred around her, worldtree fronds bending down, vines reaching up. Leaves stroked her naked legs, creepers wrapped around her ankles, her waist. Arita struggled at first, but then allowed it to happen. The living sentient forest enfolded her, and she could feel the powerful presence of the verdani mind, a brain composed of millions of trees connected through a quantum root system.
Arita’s heart pounded—she couldn’t breathe. She gasped even now as she stood among the Whistlers. Maybe it was the effect of the alkaloid poison, or just the reawakened painful memory that she had to live all over again…
Sleeping in the cocoon of foliage, young Arita had felt the grandeur of the forest, the millennia of experiences stored in an infinite number of thoughts. As a green priest, she would be able to access all of it. She could touch any tree, think about anything she wanted, talk to anyone else connected through telink. She felt the verdani in her mind, prying, changing, shifting. Arita opened herself up, surrendering utterly.
But her head pounded. Pain shot through her. It grew more intense, building to a crescendo—
Until the forest rejected her.
The vines had recoiled and released her. The worldtree fronds backed away and left Arita on her knees gasping and confused. She stumbled out of the thicket, and when she looked down at her arms, she saw only her normal tan flesh, not the fresh green of a transformed priest. Arita realized she had failed. Although something had changed in her mind, she would not be a green priest.