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.
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