The Child Garden

crystals. They broke the light apart and reformed it, clutching it to themselves, pierced by the arrows, as if through the breast, dying for love.

Cherubim murdered, love dead. Dead love returned fourfold. Feel the blast. Consensus, this one is for you. Here it comes. Image in her mind, the feel of smooth green stem, brown thorns, slight scent, the chill, the odour of roses and birdshit in pondwater, and the geese overhead, Rolfa’s fur touching her just lightly on the arm, and the rose.

The memory caught the light, and was held by what it caught. The lens was gravity and gravity was thought and thought was the memory. Light was filtered through memory.

Her eyes were shut again. She opened them, and looked out through the window of the Bulge, and the window blinked, and when it cleared, there was an explosion of pink light that filled the window, pink light wobbling like a jelly, as if to fill the universe. Pink light falling in on itself, tumbling back into form, into focus.

Milena gave a kind of strangled shout. Rosa mundi. Rose of the World. There, over the Earth, filling heaven, and it was her rose. Do you see it, Rolfa? Do you know what it is, do you know what it means? A rose of light the size of the world. The rose of memory was also the rose of anger.

It is rising up over mountains like some new flowering sun. In other places below, at midday, it is misty, high up in blue sky, pale like a daylight moon, pink-white, its shadows the same blue as the sky around it. It will be a pink glow behind monsoons in the south, where I can see them sweeping in arcs over the coastline. And in the east, it will be setting like the sun, streaks of cloud across its face, which it will pinken. In some places, the sun will shine through it, as if the sun wore a collar. Or a crown. Half the world will look up and see it and wonder at the way it shines, and it is shining out of my head, out of memory.

The Earth that is humbled is yours, Consensus.

‘It’s big, Milena,’ said Mike Stone.

Milena smiled a crooked grin. ‘That is the general idea, Mike.’

‘Roses generally aren’t big,’ said Mike Stone.

‘No,’ murmered Milena, almost as silently as the Angel. The rose was huge and angry, and the curling-back petals looked like blubbery lips.

It’s a monster, she thought, like the Crabs.

It wasn’t supposed to be a rose of arrogance, hubris, or anger, it’s supposed to be a rose of love, and a rose of love is small, small enough to be held in someone’s hand. This was supposed to be a gift.

And then she thought: a gift to twenty-two billion people, both the adults and the children. A rose for each of them?

A rose for each of them.

‘Now!’ she whispered.

The rose dissolved. It broke apart scattering itself like the Cherubim. It fell like rain, as if a continent had crumbled into roses.

She who had learned to make the viruses still and who had read Plato at six, who could remember every detail of one hundred and forty-two productions, she could conceive of twenty-two billion roses. She held them in her mind. She held them in space as they fell, the numbers of the Cherubim ticking past like floors in an elevator.

Milena directed roses to the continents where there were people. To London, to Paris, to western China to Bordeaux, to the Andes mountains. She directed them into the shadow, out of the cube, where they melted away, like snowflakes. She could still imagine them falling, in her mind. These, she told the people below, are for you. She began to hear music in her head, music from the Comedy, from the end that was not funny but happy, great rolls and peals of music, drums and horns and cellos. Each note was familiar.

The light below was wrenched into sound. The great chorus filled the shallow sky of Earth. The tiny roses descended, small enough to be taken by hand, though the hands that tried to grasp the roses of light would pass through them. The roses fell out of clouds, they fell out of the sun, they passed through the roofs of synagogues and temples, ghost roses as immaterial as the love from which they were made.

The vision possessed her. The vision held her. Milena sat rapt and staring. The music hammered and roared its way to a conclusion, and the chorus sang.

The love that moves the sun and all the other stars.

She held all the roses still for a moment. They hovered wherever they were, in the core of mountains, in prisons, in the branches of trees, or just out of reach, in the air. Then she wiped them away.

‘Twenty two billion!’ she cried. She spun the seat around. ‘That’s more than the souls of the Consensus!’ The extra flowers had been for the UnRead. They had been for the children.

The Cherubim were howling with delight. They had been of use. Christian Soldier crowded round her, hungry for a direction, willing to turn the whole of its being over to the growing of roses, willing to become a garden of flowers, if that was what Milena wanted. The component parts of the Angel rolled across the wires like the heads of dandelions and met and then exploded in a shower of gravity, all the lines singing in glee. Somewhere, deep beneath the waves of Milena’s consciousness, something dark and monstrous heaved like a whale. The Consensus. Even its pleasure was like an iron weight.

But here in the world in which Milena lived, everything was dark and still. Beneath her, in the hold of the Bulge, racks of jelly wobbled like the map Angels were making of the universe. Spiralling through the jelly in smoky strands were cultures of viruses. Quarantined in space, away from dust and contamination, the codes of behaviour and memory grew out of the flesh of the Bulge.

Milena had been able to find a platform for the Comedy in a garden of viruses. Mike Stone tended it.

The rose of memory became the rose of confusion. It grew everywhere. The Bulge seemed to go mad, driven by desire. By breakfast the next day, rosa mundi covered the walls in identical copies of itself. There was a carpet of them on the floor and ceiling. They floated in a vase made of bone that the Christian fundamentalist spaceship had grown out of itself.

Opposite Milena, Mike Stone sat dawdling over his food. His face was suffused with love. Love made him look goofy.

‘Do you like Moby Dick? he asked.

It was early in their artificial day, and Milena had to pause to orientate herself to the question and to find an answer. ‘No,’ she replied.

‘I found the detailed descriptions of whaling techniques very interesting,’ he said. ‘From an engineering point of view.’

‘Do you think if I asked Chris to grow me a white whale, he might stop growing rose?’

‘I think it might overtax his capacity,’ Mike Stone said, his eyebrows knitted together. Was it possible that he was taking her seriously?

A long explanation of protein ceilings followed. The Bulge, was fed with amino acids from supply vessels and was fuelled by sunlight. Milena ate in silence and let Mike’s words wash over her. Some of it was new to her, outside her viruses, and she found that, in a hazy, early-morning kind of way, it interested her. She and Mike Stone had a similar appetite for details.

Mike Stone was a trained virologist. He told Christian Soldier which viruses were needed; he controlled and directed the mutations of its DNA. He directed it in orbit, he told it when to sleep. He could feel it shift and sigh with dreams that were half his. He provided it with a self.

‘We do everything together,’ Mike Stone looked tender and embarrassed. ‘He even worships with me every Sunday. He knows that he doesn’t have a soul, but he prays for mine. He feels that my soul is his soul. He wants to go with me when I the.’

‘Yuck,’ said Milena, over her scrambled eggs. It was bad enough having to suck them through a straw.

‘He wants to go with you, too, when you the, Milena,’ said Mike Stone. His face went even more solemn and sincere. ‘I want to go with you when you the, Milena.’

Oh ficken hell, thought Milena, succinctly.

‘I’d be your Christian Soldier, too, Milena.’

Ficken again.

‘I know you’re not a Postmillenairian Baptist and are therefore damned, but I pray for your soul, Milena, for the good that I know is in you.’