Chloe and Salyanna IV

By James B. Mielke

boneyardhound@hotmail.com 

Edzelian was bored and wandered away from the beach crowd. He meandered across the picnic lawn and idly explored the bottom of a ravine on the lawn’s uphill side, scouting out the best cover for the next hide-and-seek match.

With a shout Luvin leaped from behind a shrub: “Hey, Edzy!”

          The younger boy jumped in surprise and he backed up against a tree trunk. His eyes darted over the ground, looking for the best escape route. “Leave me alone.”

          “I’m sorry,” Luvin said, turning aside and smiling. He had the brightest grin in the colony, backed by sparkling eyes, deceptively happy; it was an irresistible smile. “I shouldn’t be mean to you guys. Here, I’ve got something for you.” He held out an old fashioned dagger shaped letter opener; the unpolished brass was brown.

          Edzelian took it, turning it over in his hands and looking closely at the floral pattern stamped into the grip. “Wow, that’s neat—where’d you get it?”

          It was stolen: “I found it.”

          All boys like toys: “You’re giving it to me?”

          “Sure—if you be my friend.”

          Edzelian frowned, “No one wants to be your friend.”

          “It’s not fair! I’m just another kid.”

          The younger boy gave Luvin a long silent looking at. The infectious grin was on half display, downcast bashful eyes mellowing its tone—he sure passed for ‘just another kid’. Looking down to his hand, Edzelian toyed with the letter opener and felt the need to possess it. He fingered the point, “Mom has some knives shaped like this—they’re really sharp.”

          “I like knives. They’re just like that, you say?”

          “Yeah—they’re balanced, for throwing.”

          “That sounds neat. I’d like to try it—can you bring me one?”

          “I don’t know—I’m not supposed to take things.”

          “Ah, that’s just grown-ups. They always boss kids around.”

          “Yeah, I know.”

          “So get that knife.”

          “I don’t wanna be blamed.”

          Luvin was so frustrated he almost let loose with his fist, but that would spoil his plan. He threw the loaded smile again. “You can do it—your Mom’s got so many knives… I know! Take me up there, sneak me in—I’ll get the knife and you can’t get blamed. It’ll be our secret plan, just us.”

          “Secret?”

          “Yeah. Like spies.”

          Edzelian had wide wicked playful eyes. “Spies—that’s fun—I like playing spies.”

          “Can we do it?”

          He was lost in fantasy. “Spies… Yeah, let’s be spies.”

          “When is your Mom out of the cabin?”

          “Right now, I think. We can go up there. I know a way she doesn’t—she’s too big.”

          Luvin clapped his new ally on the back. “Cool.”

 “Sal!”

Salyanna opened her eyes and watched the clouds—she had almost been asleep. She didn’t want to stop floating, not after spending a long cold winter without the pond. And this was the first warm day of the year. She pretended not to hear. It wasn’t time to work; the kids were still in class.

“Sal, come’ere; I want you.”

Maybe it was something important, she concluded. Salyanna rotated to vertical and lowered her feet to the bottom; the water was up to her navel. She splashed to the shore, ran to her clothes, picked up her towel and started drying herself, turning to Mabutu.

He was sitting next to her clothes and looked up at her. “I’ve been following Luvin all morning.”

“Yeah?”

“He has a crossbow—I bet he stole it somewhere. He’s got a target range in the hills. He shoots at a marker that looks like you and he’s good at it.”

“You think he wants to shoot me?” She let her hair down; it fell to her hips. She worked it with the towel.

“Yeah—he wants to kill you.”

“That’s stupid! He’s just a kid!”

Mabutu shook his head. “He’s a kid with a crossbow.”

“Did you tell Synoveh and Marcus?”

“Yeah.”

“What did they say?”

“Synoveh cried, Marcus cussed—I don’t think they can do anything.”

Salyanna frowned. “Where’s the crossbow? We’ll take it.”

Another shake of his head, “I don’t know where he keeps it. He has a bunch of hiding places where I can’t follow him without being seen. He knows I watch him, and Edzy is helping him now.”

“Then we’ll catch him when he’s carrying it and take it away.”

“Another fight…”

“So? He needs the teaching.”

“Don’t hurt him, Sal. Be careful.”

“I won’t make him bleed.”

“You lose control when you’re mad, Sal. I worry about you.” There was real concern in his look.

She dressed, her clothes hung generously, looser than when she first arrived. “Do you? Am I scary?”

“Almost sometimes. You can get those crazy eyes—like the men used to get—and I can’t stop you.”

Salyanna was aghast. “Like the men? Don’t say that, Bubu. That’s terrible!”

“It’s true—you almost killed Luvin twice now. Smaller kids, like Edzelian, are scared of you.”

“But I’m gonna be a teacher! How can they be afraid?”

“If Luvin’s scared of you, they figure you’re scarier than he is.”

She sat on her towel and Mabutu started tying a loose braid in her hair. “What can I do?”

“Please don’t hurt Luvin—don’t give him anything he can use against you with the kids.”

“He wants to hurt me.”

“We won’t let him. We’ll find his bow and take it.”

“You’ll take me to his shooting range—I’ll get it there.”

“I don’t know when he goes there…”

“I can wait—I’ll bring a book. We’ll go tomorrow after I finish watching the pond.”

          Mabutu showed Salyanna the shooting range; it was up on an offshoot of the basaltic ridge, an hour’s hike from the pond. There was a long wide board propped against a rock with a crudely painted form of a naked woman on it, three crossbow quarrels were sunk into the face. It was an obvious, if amateurish, caricature of Salyanna, emphasizing the gross details of breasts, buttocks and lips—as if hers needed exaggeration. The mark of a pre-adolescent boy’s budding erotic outlook was on the rendering, with carefully delineated oversized nipples, labia, and a fantastical amount of pubic hair.

          She actually thought the image comical, if not for the darts in the face. And the target showed evidence of use with splintered out punctures all over it; the major damage was inflicted around the chest, head, and crotch, indicating Luvin’s improving aim.

          Salyanna sent Mabutu away and secreted herself behind a mound of vegetation, taking out a book for the wait. She read a story about a good doctor named Mel; a happy young man called Paul and the beginnings of Homestead.

Luvin taught Edzelian how to cut class: sneaking off during a bathroom break or stealthily slipping out when the teacher’s attention was momentarily distracted. It was a fun game, worth the modest punishment it provoked. And then Edzelian showed the trick to his friend Pikel Lythum. The three boys spent many hours exploring the miles of wild lands between Branch House and Pikel’s home at his parent’s clay mine. They collected stolen items—mostly knives. Luvin was fascinated by weapons.

Pikel was an unhappy child, bullied by an alcoholic stepfather, Bokassa Stutz. The boy was required to labor heavily in the clay mine nearly every day, and late into most nights, as well. His school attendance was already sporadic before he learned to play hooky.

“…Dad will whoop me again—I gotta go.”

“Sorry, Pikel,” Luvin said. “But, you know, were gonna grow up. Someday we can make him sorry.”

“That’s gonna be forever.”

“Maybe not. We’re getting a pretty good arsenal. Me an’ Edzy are about to go shoot my crossbow.”

“Yeah? I wanna shoot.”

“Then come on, forget your Dad.”

Pikel shook his head. “I’m late already—I really gotta go.” He turned away and disappeared into the brush, following a game trail through the riparian jungle.

Luvin turned and went the opposite way, toward Branch House, looking for Edzelian.

A mile further and he found the younger boy coming in the other direction. “They were watching me all morning, Luvin. Never thought I could sneak out—but I made it!”

“Wanna shoot?”

“Yeah!”

Luvin took them up a ravine below the little mesa and onto a narrow ridge spur and then around all the tiny landforms on the side of the basaltic ridge. Pausing in the dark open space beneath the sprawling arches of a many-trunked hardwood tree, Luvin said, “You wait here—it’s hidden nearby.”

Edzelian liked his new friendship with Luvin; the older boy’s bad reputation rubbed off and made him feel powerful. Other kids backed away from them and surrendered little treasures on demand. Everything Luvin did was exciting, and he now had a bow.

Luvin came from behind a giant fern with the crossbow cradled in his arms, The weapon was nearly as large as the boy, its span was wider than his outstretched arms and the stock reached from his ankles to his shoulders.

“Let me see it,” Edzelian said.

“Wait—we’ll go to my shooting place, it’s real close.”

A minute later they came out on a flat where three low ridges merged with a longer taller ridge. It was a wide grassy ledge rimmed by thin tall yellow trees.

They sat on the ground and Luvin showed the crossbow off. It was too large for Edzelian to handle, Luvin needed to prop it on a log to shoot it, used the strength of both arms to draw it tight, bracing the cross arms with his feet. The target was a wide board, leaning against a boulder; Luvin had painted a caricature of Salyanna on it with exaggerated bosom and hips, wide angel eyes and a baby-doll mouth.

Salyanna sprang out of hiding when Luvin went to the board to recover his three quarrels. She ran from behind a hummock, shouting, “You wanna shoot me, you punk?”

She made a sweeping grab and Luvin ducked under, lunging at her knee with outstretched hands. Salyanna fell sideways, clamping Luvin with her thighs and rolling on top of him. She held him by chin and forehead, slammed his skull into the ground.

The lower end of Luvin’s right arm was free enough to reach the dagger in his waistband. Pulling it out of its sheath the razor edge scratched her shin and blood oozed forth.

Salyanna screamed and kicked reflexively, Luvin tumbled away, losing the knife.

They each pounced for the weapon, colliding above it, falling in a tangle, rolling on the blade, grappling for it, clawing eyes and nostrils. Her superior weight prevailed and Salyanna came out on top, waving the dagger over Luvin’s face.

Mabutu was in a panic, totally afraid of Salyanna’s intentions, totally afraid of Luvin. He hastened down from the hills, looking for a capable adult. Jody and Hildy were having a late lunch on the lawn after Youth Choir and Mabutu accosted them.

He stammered and sputtered, exhausted and overwrought. They made him sit in the shade and drink cool water to gather composure. Finally hearing the message, they were ready to go at once, but Mabutu needed more rest and something to eat. Hildy went for additional help and returned with Luenda.

Ten minutes later Mabutu was leading the way up the ridge; the adults were hard pressed to follow his scramble.

As they came on to the flat Luenda’s ears picked up the sound of her own son, screaming in pain and terror. She pushed forward, galvanized, running out onto the grass.

Edzelian and Luvin, shirtless and bloody, were squatting together, binding Edzelian’s left hand with strips of torn shirt. Blood was oozing faster than they could wrap. The younger boy cried and wailed; his right hand clamped the injured one still while Luvin tried futilely to apply bandaging. Luvin had cuts too, with a bloody gash at his hairline, from the left temple to the ear, and wounds on his shoulders and knuckles dripped even more blood.

All three adults were skilled medics and took control of the scene, Luenda and Hildy comforted Edzelian; Hildy sat behind the boy and held his arm in a viselike grip while his mother removed the bloody strips to examine the hand. Blood flowed liberally and she used the torn cloth to clear the wound site, daubing over and over.

There were twin gashes, an inch apart, across the palm, one extending along the ham of the thumb and the other going across the first joint of the index finger. The slits were almost parallel with the skin’s surface and didn’t cut deeply into the flesh but there were ragged hanging flaps of skin needing sutures. Here in the field all she could do was stanch the flow, holding a compress on the hand for ten minutes.

Jody worked on Luvin. The older boy’s wounds were superficial, but the gash on his forehead needed stitching—for now, a turban-like wrap made from Jody’s shirt kept his blood from flowing.

Mabutu wandered around the flat, looking for Salyanna. The target and the crossbow were on the ground in front of the boulder, smashed to splinters. She was gone, her hiding place empty. Mabutu worried.

          They held an unofficial conference with Salyanna at the unofficial picnic conference table overlooking the genuine pond and adjacent to the bona fide Branch House:

“This is a bad situation you’re in with Luvin,” Synoveh said.

          “He should have left Bubu alone…!”

          Synoveh cut in; “We’re not looking for blame here. We just want to stop this from escalating. I know my son is violent and does mean things, but I still love him.”

          “We want to separate you two,” Luenda said.

          “Okay,” Salyanna said. “Where will he go?”

          Marcus said, “You have to go, Branch House is Luvin’s home.”

          “No! It’s my home too!”

          “Naomi would love to have you at the Hospice,” Luenda said.

          Synoveh added, “Don’t you like it there?”

          “It’s all right. They don’t have a pond.”

          “There’s a dam in the creek for the Games—people swim there.”

          “I know—but it’s miles from the Hospice. I like this pond.” Salyanna waved toward the nearby water.

          “You can’t stay here—there’s too much trouble,” Marcus said.

          “It isn’t fair!” Tears were rising to her cheeks.

          Luenda agreed, “No, it’s not. But neither was having Edzelian get his hand cut open.”

          “I didn’t do that on purpose—he grabbed the knife.”

          “He was trying to do the right thing.”

          “Shut up!” Marcus roared. “Bickering is stupid. Salyanna, you have to leave the Vale—there’s no arguing about it.”

          She broke down crying and shouting: “No! No! No!” Salyanna dropped her head into her arms on the tabletop, sobbing. The devastating feeling was like when she learned that Honi died: desolate and alone.

          Luenda put her hand on Salyanna’s shoulder, “Sweetheart, we love you… But our children come first, you must understand.” She was crying too.

          “Hey, Edzy.”

          “Dad…”

          “How’s th’ hand?”

          “It’s okay now, I guess. Still hurts, but not bad. Mom says the stitches will stay for a couple weeks.”

          Peter sat next to his son; they were on the cabin’s porch where they could watch the raptors soar. Their feet dangled off the edge of the deck, two hundred feet above the canyon floor, and they leaned against the lower bar of the railing. “Had some nasty scratches in my time, too. Ever shown you that scar on my left hip? Dude tried to run a broken pool stick through me once.”

          Edzelian liked his Dad’s old battle stories, “Yeah?”

          “Darn thing stuck out like my hard dick! Ladies were goin’ Peter please, please me!”

          Edzelian laughed. Canyon walls echoed ‘Ha-Ha’s in nine directions.

          Peter turned serious: “But fightin’ ain’t such a good thing ‘round here nowadays. Ev’rybody knows ev’rybody and the place is too small to go away and get yer feelin’s worked out. Y’ get real mad at somebody, ya know, till ya hate them an’ it sticks there, twistin’ you, an’ them, an’ ev’rybody, an’ it never goes away and yer always goin’ to run into ‘em and one fight starts th’ next.” He shook his head, “It ain’t no good, Edzy. An’ that’s what Luvin’s doin’ to ya, twistin’ ya, teachin’ hate. Y’ gotta stop playin’ with him.”

          “Yeah, Dad,” his voice carried no sincerity.

          “S’true, he’s gonna get ya into more an’ more trouble. Worse kinds.”

          “Why doesn’t anybody do something, stop him?”

          “What can we do? He’s smart, an’ tricky—tells good lies.”

          “If he’s real bad will you kill him, like Leon?”

          “Now Edzy, don’t talk like that…”

          “And what about her—she’s crazy, too! When will you kill her?” The words ‘crazy’ and ‘kill’ echoed back.

          “She ain’t crazy; she’s been hurt, real bad; an’ she’s scared of ev’rybody; thinks they wanna fuck her an’ hurt her more. Y’ can’t know what she’s had done to her.”

          “She gets crazy eyes—you should have seen her with him.”

          “I know, Edzy. I seen eyes like that—I get them sometimes—ev’rybody does.”

          “Everybody is crazy?” That was too big to grasp.

          Peter spoke with his most dead level sincerity, exposing ugly truth to the innocent: “Sometimes seems so. Then ya gotta be th’ one cool person—don’t let on, they’ll get ya—but that’s when ya gotta trust yerself, nobody else. An’ y’ never know when that is.”

          Edzelian was bothered. “You grown-ups have a funny way about you. Kids can’t tell when you’re making stories or not. We’re only trying to be like you.”

          “I know, an’ y’ don’t know what we really do; ‘cause we lie to you; an’ to ourself. We’re stupid, Edzy—you kids gotta be th’ smart ones.”

          “Grown-ups are the bosses.”

          “Never been a boss that wasn’t a fool.”

          Edzelian started chuckling and giggling, then caught his breath. “Uncle Jody calls everyone ‘boss’, is he calling them fools?”

          Peter laughed aloud, “I bet yer right! Never thought o’ that. Son of a bitch is smart!” Cackling laughter echoed ‘bitch’… ‘smart’… ‘bitch’…’smart’…

          Magda fell in love with Homestead, the Hearth, and all of the Villagers on her first visit; but for her obligation to the Firstown clinic she would have moved there at once. As it was, with her seasoned hiking legs the seventeen miles to the Hearth slipped past in only a few easy hours—unless she stopped to visit Patricia and Arrolon. Some weeks she stayed with the Village three nights. She met Jody there on her third visit:

          “I’ve been wanting to see you,” she said. “They tell me you were the closest to the old physician. I’d like to hear about her.”

          Jody shied, “Everyone here knows that story…”

          “’Cause we like it!” Bechet shouted, there were sundry “Yeah”s from the crowd.

          Magda leaned in, put a hand on Jody’s arm. They were sitting with their legs astraddle the bench nearest the Hearth, and the Villagers gathered around. It was a warm evening and only a token log smoldered, keeping the fire alive, it had burned continuously since the first party—not even Chattagong and Leon had let it go cold. “I meet her everywhere I go,” she said. “They all talk about Mel, or ‘the Doc’—she made an impact.”

          “She was something, saved my life, for one thing. I don’t usually reach the end of the story—I get too emotional. Hildy finishes for me, he was there. To begin, you should know that I used to drink a bit…”

          The crowd settled in close to the storyteller.

          “…we didn’t really know what happened at first—Jody ran all over the camp looking for her, screaming like a baby. There were a whole bunch of people up there—all the noise we made freaked them. It was a day before that camp settled down.” Hildy paused. “I only met her right then, that one time, but it felt like I lost a parent—just devastating, and Jody…” He broke eye contact and shook his head.

          “Thank you,” Magda said. “I understand a lot, now. She was an impressive woman, I’m sorry I never met her.”

          “You can see her,” Suthra said. “I talk to her.” She stood behind a seated Taralisa, massaging the astrologer’s shoulders. Taralisa was nodding sleepily and rested against Suthra’s belly, puffing smoke rings from a long-stemmed pipe; they linked into a chain in the still air.

          “When?”

          “Anytime, she’s always with me. I used to need the purple drug to see her, not anymore.”

          “Oh.” Magda said skeptically.

          “It isn’t a hallucination—ask them,” she waved to indicate the Villagers crowded around. People were nodding and speaking affirmatively. Taralisa grinned like a cat.

          “What does she talk to you about?”

          “Mostly I talk to her. She wants to know what’s going on, especially with the kids. She just listens a lot, along with It.”

          “What is ‘It’?”

          “Cardomon, of course—It’s everything alive everywhere on this planet. You need to meet It.”

          “You’ll understand,” Jody said.

          “It’s the fungus,” Hildy said, “It’s an entity—sentient.”

          Magda openly scoffed. “You’re saying this mushroom is self-aware? How?”

          “It’s big,” Jody said. “It’s everywhere, knows everything—It has to be smart.”

          “Are you talking about a God?”

          That was hilariously received; rollicked the entire crowd.

          When order returned she complained: “What’s so funny?”

          Hildy smiled, “This isn’t a God—this is real.”

          “All Gods are real to their followers.”

          Now Hildy showed derision: “That’s a mass delusion; this is concrete.”

          “Show me.” Magda demanded.

          “Take the drug.”

          “I don’t think so. That would bias my observations and compromise science. Show me another way.”

          “You won’t need the drug,” Suthra said. “When It’s ready, It’ll talk to you. It’s already growing inside you from the spores.” Taralisa nodded and grinned, stretching her freckled cheeks a mile wide.

          “Interesting. Even if I experience the phenomenon, I may simply be joining the group hallucination. You’re telling me objective observation is impossible.”

          “So go ahead,” Hildy said. “Take the drug.”

          “Maybe in time. I need to sift my data first. It’s possible that newcomers are the only sane people on Cardomon.”

          “You think we’re all nuts?” Jody asked.

          “It’s a valid hypotheses, worthy of examination.”

          “And if we are, what would be your prescription?”

          Magda grinned like Taralisa, “Joining you, of course.”

          The next day, back in Firstown, Magda went to the Hospice to talk with Naomi and Hermione, looking for more information on the fungus. Hermione was staying at the journalist’s cabin and they met in the garden terrace behind it, having tea on the lawn where Mellisa once played flute to the baby Luvin.

          “I think you two are the only subjects to try the drug exactly once. I want to contrast your experience with the chronic users. Do you mind telling me about it?”

          They exchanged sly, sidelong glances, giggling.

          “It was kind of personal,” Naomi complained.

          “We fell in love under it,” Hermione said with glee. “Total, physical, erotic abandon. I never felt anything like it before—pure sexuality.”

          “Naomi?”

          She was blushing, looking down in embarrassment. “It was fun,” she said, weakly.

          “Other users report feeling a conscious presence personifying the fungus. They describe it as being Mellisa.”

          “I was only feeling one thing,” Hermione said, rubbing her crotch suggestively.

          “I heard voices,” Naomi said. “Lot’s of voices, really faint—I don’t know what they said. My late husband, Amadou, was one, so was Mellisa—they wanted me to be happy. And Hermione makes me happy.”

          “I’m glad for you. What do you think of the drug?”

          “I like it,” Hermione said.

          Naomi hesitated, “It scared me—the emotions are too powerful.”

          “Would you take it again?”

          “Yes.”

          “No.”

          Hermione faced Naomi, “No?”

          “We connected, isn’t that enough?” She turned to the Doctor. “I had one other experience with that drug…” She described Jason’s execution and the retreat she took at the Mucetti cabin with Luenda and Synoveh. “It scared me…”

          “I understand,” Hermione said. “It evokes an extreme emotional response. You and I must have a soul connection, look what it did for our bodies. But if you don’t need it, I don’t need it.” She faced Magda, “You’re very curious, are you planning on taking it?”

          “Not yet. I just want to know what my patients are doing.”

          “Have you drawn any conclusions?”

          “It’s a very powerful drug, obviously. It may induce mass psychosis.”

          “You think it’s too dangerous to use?”

          “I don’t know yet. It’s probably safe in a regulated environment.”

          “There’s not much regulation around Homestead,” Hermione observed.

          Naomi said, “But enough—there’s a nurturing atmosphere there. I feel safe.”

          “I think it’s the heart of Cardomon,” Magda said. “Firstown is only a screen.”

          Hermione grunted out a laughing retort. “Lucy, Jolrae, and Kaila will argue that point—Firstown Patriots they are.”

          “They have a right to be, as founders of civil society.”

          Hermione laughed harder. “I’d love to see them all three take the drug!”

          “It’s getting popular in town. I’m certain they are aware of it.”

          “If the fungus has a personality; they might gain from the experience!”

          Magda smiled, but chided: “That’s not nice… ”

“You both wish you had known Mel, don’t you?” Naomi asked.

          They agreed.

          “I ran away to the mountains with her almost three years ago—it’s been on my mind a lot recently. I’ve hardly left the Hospice since then, I guess I’m still a prisoner but nobody is watching. I want to retrace our steps and go back up there and remember her. Would you two care to go with me?”

          “I would be honored,” Magda said.

          Hermione smiled, “If you lead, I’ll follow.”

Two weeks later, on the exact anniversary of Mellisa’s escape from jail, they left before dawn. By arrangement Jody and Hildy, Luenda and Peter, with Edzelian, came up from the Vale, taking the watercourse trail. They shared Naomi’s spiritual quest, and they wanted to remove Edzelian from Luvin’s influence.

          The camp was a shambles, as always after a winter, even a mild one. Falling trees and overwashing creeks rearranged the entire topography of the forested space, and the dugout floors of the cabins were under six inches of water. The herb gardens had gone feral, bristling from spiky flower stalks with creeping runners all tangled underfoot, so densely packed the weeds passed on by, looking for a better home.

          Pitching tents by the lakeside, they first cleared debris from the fire ring and held a midnight ceremony. Naomi played her flute, Hildy and Jody sang, Luenda beat a soft pulse. They sang for Mellisa, for Ediza and Amelia, and for so many others not there. Old friends, lovers, comrades, fallen or lost, never forgotten.

          Magda had duties at the clinic, Naomi at the Hospice, Hermione traveled with her friends and they all went back down after only two days in camp, going by way of the Vale. Edzelian’s family stayed, planning to occupy the camp all the warm season and mentor the boy in woodcraft. Jody and Hildy had choir work and left with the others.

Salyanna liked the Hospice much more than she expected, the constant tide of children filled her with joy—they were so happy and free. The Hospice was a maze of gardens and cabins, classrooms, baths, and playlots, twisting little paths with hedges and benches and arbors and picnic lawns. The swimming hole was accessible, only twenty minutes down an easy trail and had deeper water than the pond, with a diving rock—Mabutu pushed her the first time. They shared a two-room cabin next door to Borphon and Craintin, and opposite Magda’s cabin; one of the many little cul-de-sacs in the Hospice grounds. It had one bed, wide and long; an arrangement preferable to the bunks, so isolating and cramped. They cuddled and sheltered each other; whispered their private fears and dreams together; and made innocent love.

          It wasn’t sex; Mabutu could never have an erection or an orgasm, and Salyanna never let anybody touch her sexually. But eunuchs do respond to stimulus, and enjoy it somewhat.

          The first time it happened Mabutu was asleep and woke, disturbed by a rhythmic sensation, warm and pleasant, sweeter than a tickle, very soothing, but it made him shiver. Gaining consciousness, he realized that Salyanna was giving him fellatio in her sleep.

          He shook her, “Sal—stop it!”

          She opened her eyes and lifted her sleepy head. “Bubu?”

          “Stop it!” he said again.

          “What?” Then she saw what she had been doing. At first appalled at the sight it grew comic in her mind, and she giggled. “Am I bothering you?”

          “You shouldn’t do that.”

          “Did it hurt? Or did it feel good?”

          “It didn’t hurt…”

          “Then it felt good, I’ll do it again—I like you, Bubu.”

          “Don’t, please.”

          “No?” She crawled up from his waist, hugged him and kissed him. “If I can make you happy, I will,” she whispered in his ear. “You’ve been so good to me—my one real friend.”

          “Some of the men used to suck on me like that. They called it ‘eating broccoli’.”

          “That sounds nasty—I don’t want to remind you of the men. I won’t do it again.”

          “You could never remind me of them, Sal. It did feel good, kinda.”

          She smiled, “I like doing it for you. You’re not big and hard like the men and it’s kinda sweet tasting.”

          It had been soothing: “Maybe every once in a while,” he suggested.

          “As often as you need.”

          They kissed again and slipped away to sleep. She woke him with midnight service almost every night from then on. Mabutu reciprocated with massages and learned to touch her in places and ways that melted her mind, but never her loins. Some nights they never slept.

          Magda reviewed her knowledge of Cardomonas, and the drug, sitting in her office; data on her computer, stacks of paper reports flowing across the desk and a full pot of Mellisa’s tea, fresh blended out of Taralisa’s garden.

          By Farenger standards the early science was sloppy and incomplete, merely a cursory glance. There was no meaningful data on the drug, not even a consistent formulation—it was full of alkaloids affecting mood and perception, time and space feelings, a lot of them were powerful drugs on their own, the complexity of the blended affects was impossible to predict.

          She saw the fungus as vulnerable; its proteins had shape and receptors that a designed antibody could exploit. After that it was a matter of writing a new sequence of human DNA, once the colonists were inoculated their tissues would reject Cardomonas quickly.

          Self-sampling of blood, follicles, skin and mucus demonstrated that she was already completely infected, and she felt fine—better than fine, in fact.

          The idea of Cardomonas as a beneficial symbiont was acceptable, and supported by botanical studies of mycorrhizal associations. It affected genetics, that was clear, and that implied a risk of carcinogenesis, but there were no cancers yet. Dozens of samples: human tissues, animal, plant, and microbial, had all been infected and sampled for generations of cellular division and there was no indication of harmful mutations induced by Cardomonas.

          The choice was odd: alter human genetics to stop the fungus; or allow Cardomonas to continue working with human genetics. The specific risks weighed out equally, in her mind.

          Just to argue that she had covered all of the bases, she decided to go ahead and produce the designed antibody, then look at what genetic code applied. This was an all-nighter, she realized, one of those problems that won’t let her rest. Time to brew another pot of tea.

          Magda went through the connecting door and over to the stove element, started water. It was approaching midnight; the lab was silent—almost. Charlene’s voice broke through distantly with erotic moans; Homer egged her on in a quieter voice. Magda was amused, Homer and Charlene were ferociously randy, loud, enthusiastic, with impressive stamina.

          It was an awkward situation when she moved in on a couple that had lived in isolation for years. They graciously gave up one of the empty bedrooms, but the apartment was their thoroughly staked out territory. They were deeply in love and very affectionate, sharing every space, laps and sofas, with a generous amount of cuddling and kissing. And they made noisy love every night, often twice or three times. Sometimes they forgot her presence and carried on outside of the bedroom, she learned to stop, look, and listen before entering any room. Her frequent sleep-overs at the Hearth, or at Patricia and Arrolon’s—there was a civilized, if alcoholic, couple—gave her roommates some privacy but she only stayed eight days before moving back to a cabin at the Hospice, living with the chaos of a hundred rampant children was easier on her nerves.

          The noise ceased about the same time as she took her fresh pot of tea over to the workbench in the lab—it was the first hour of a new day. By four o-clock she was ready to give up in defeat. The fungus was too resilient, refolding its proteins faster than she could read them. A dozen attempted antigens achieved nothing.

          All while she worked the conversation at the Hearth came back to her with the idea of Cardomonas as sentient—even intelligent. Somehow, in this lonely laboratory, with all of her efforts coming up futile, somehow the idea was a lot less silly to her.

          Full of tea, but completely exhausted, almost in a state of self-hypnosis, she heard the voice:

          Welcome

          That felt cozy and warm to her, like a nap.

          Welcome      It said again. There was no sound.

          Magda lifted her head from the bench and looked around, verifying that she was alone.

          Close your eyes, it’s easier

          She did, and she saw two eyes, beautiful green eyes, and almost a face around them.

          I’m sorry I missed seeing you, I would have learned much, but I am no longer here

          “Who are you?”

          I was Mel, once, but she left; now I am here

          “Who are you?”

          I don’t know, yet. It never mattered before

          “Before what?”

          Before Mel. She found me and taught me that I was me

          “What are you?”

          There was no answer.

          Magda waited until she fell asleep at the bench. When she woke she decided that she must have dreamed the encounter.