Diffusion Box Set

by Stan C. Smith

  Bobby snapped his eyes open. “What the hell? What the hell Addison?”

  “What did you see?”

  “There was someone on the other airplane. He looked like you.”

  Addison let go of Bobby and rolled off to the side. Bobby jumped to his feet, but all he could think about now was what he’d seen. “How the hell could you be on two planes at once?”

  Addison rose to his feet. “I am going to the Lamotelokhai. You should too.”

  Bobby watched him go until Addison’s form was lost in the trees. He rubbed his ears where Addison had held him. He knelt by Mbaiso, afraid he might find spilled intestines. But Mbaiso was in one piece. Bobby rolled him over. “Oh shit. You poor guy.”

  Mbaiso’s face was the wrong shape. It was flat on one side, and the eye was popped most of the way out of its socket. Tears welled up in Bobby’s eyes, blurring Mbaiso’s shape even more. He put his hand on the kangaroo’s chest to feel for signs of life. Something inside moved. Bobby jerked his hand away, and then put it back. There was something. Not breathing, exactly, but solid things moving inside. As he stared, Mbaiso’s head changed. The flattened side slowly took shape again, and the popped eye pulled back into its socket. Bobby rolled back on his heels, watching in wonder as Mbaiso put himself back together.

  After what seemed like an hour, Mbaiso’s chest began to rise and fall.

  “I knew you could do it!” Bobby said aloud.

  Mbaiso’s whole body stretched, like a cat waking from a nap. His head turned Bobby’s way, his brown eyes bright with life. He rolled to his haunches and sat there as if nothing had happened. The tiny forehands began to make signs in the air.

  Visions appeared to Bobby: Papuan faces that he didn’t know, the Lamotelokhai in its tree, men running through the forest, disturbing scenes of men fighting—fighting to the death. Bobby closed his eyes, but the scenes were in his mind, and he couldn’t hide from them. The visions kept coming. There was a Papuan man walking in the forest. The man changed and became Addison. Addison walked, looking into the trees, searching for something. Other Papuan’s appeared. They carried heavy clubs. Without any warning they attacked Addison. They beat him, knocking him to the ground. They kept beating him, even when he was clearly dead. They didn’t stop. The beating went on and on. The clubs smashed Addison’s body until there was nothing left but a pulverized mix of leaves, soil, and blood on the ground.

  Finally, the vision ended. Bobby stood there, shaken, in the middle of a dark forest full of perils he did not understand. He realized he was crying. “Why did you show me that?”

  Mbaiso signed again, and one more vision appeared. As Bobby watched, a lump rose in his throat, one he could not swallow.

  He saw the gory soil where Addison’s body was pulverized. But it was not Papuan men standing over it. It was Bobby. And in his hand was a club, stained red.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Samuel stopped at the base of a large sago palm. “Perhaps, Quentin, you would care to see my own contributions to the welfare of my indigene hosts. I have not, after all, been idle for all these years.”

  Quentin said that he was interested, but he should return to Lindsey and the kids.

  Samuel shrugged this off and pointed to the tree. “The sago palm provides sago paste, a staple food for the indigenes. To add to their worth, the fallen trunks of dead sago palms provide food and shelter for another important source of nourishment, the larva of Rhynchophorus, the Capricorn beetle. I have discovered that a simple combination of these two foods serves as nourishment of the most remarkable quality. You have eaten khosül yourself.”

  “You showed them how to mix sago paste and grubs. That’s your contribution?”

  There was some frustration in Samuel’s frown. “Allow me to continue. Because Capricorn beetle larvae were difficult to gather, this food was limited. Collecting the larvae required perseverance, with comparatively small return for months of preparations and many hours of labor. Through my study of the Lamotelokhai, I was able to perfect an efficient system of cultivating Capricorn beetle larvae. And as well, I increased production by breeding more superlative individuals.”

  Quentin was curious. “More superlative?”

  “Allow me to show you.” Samuel placed his hands on the massive trunk and moved them over the overlapping palm fronds that covered it, feeling for something. “Ah!” he said. He pressed against the surface, and it split open as he forced his way into a hole that was slightly larger than his hand. His arm disappeared into the trunk to the elbow. “Ah!” he said again.

  Samuel pulled his arm out. He held a large squirming creature. After a moment trying to comprehend what he was looking at, Quentin exhaled with surprise and disgust. It was a sago grub. But it was enormous. The gleaming black head was easily as big around as his thumb. The writhing white body was like a fat banana. As it squirmed, veins and organs shifted beneath the translucent skin. Samuel held it out to him, but Quentin made no move to take it.

  “It is quite harmless, I assure you,” Samuel said.

  Quentin was content to observe without holding it. “Okay, I’m impressed. How did you make that? Selective breeding?”

  Samuel smiled. “I had some help from the Lamotelokhai.”

  Quentin cautiously poked at the larva. “The object we’ve seen in our dreams made these?”

  “In a manner of speaking. But under my direction.” Samuel felt the tree again and found another spot where the bark seemed paper-thin. He pressed, forcing the bark inward, but not far enough to break it. “You see, here is another. There may be a hundred in this tree alone. Capricorn beetle larvae naturally feed upon the pith of dead sago palms. I have persuaded them to feed upon living sago trees. Likewise, I have persuaded the sago trees to provide sustenance for them, as well as a safe refuge in which they may live.” He pointed to the gaping hole where he’d found the oversized grub. “If a hollow such as this one is left open, a female beetle will soon lay her eggs inside. The tree will then grow a protective covering over the hollow, leaving it practically invisible to hungry intruders. In time, the larvae grow as large as this one.”

  Quentin said, “Interspecies relationships like that take thousands, maybe millions, of years to develop.”

  “As I have said, I have not been idle. At the time that the indigenes took me in, they were but hunters and gatherers, expending much energy and time. It is true that they had domesticated a few game animals: the soyabu, which you have had the occasion to eat, and the aiyal, a species of bandicoot. And although not developed for eating, you know of the mbolop. But it was I who taught them the true cultivation of food.”

  Samuel gripped the grub with both hands. He wrenched the head off with a pop and tossed it away. The body still writhed in his hand as whitish fluid flowed from the open wound. He placed his mouth over the hole where the head used to be and squeezed the body, causing his cheeks to inflate with sago grub juices. He swallowed as if it were a shot of fine scotch. Again he held the grub out. Quentin simply shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

  Samuel then led him to a place where smaller trees grew close together, reminding Quentin of the nearly impenetrable area where their plane had crashed. Most striking, though, was that all the trees were flowering at the same time. Yellow, white, orange, and red blossoms splattered the foliage, and the sultry air was sweet with the smell of nectar. This was unusual, as rainforest trees typically flower at different times to better attract the attentions of a limited supply of pollinators. Countless insects swarmed among the flowers above them.

  As they came to a stop, Quentin caught a stray thread of spider web with his face. He brushed at the strand, but it only grew tighter and did not break. He then grasped it with both hands and pulled until it finally broke. He’d used fishing line with less tensile strength than this.

  Samuel was now several meters above him, climbing with the agility of a tree kangaroo. He snatched at something Quentin couldn’t see and then descended to the ground
using only one hand and his feet. Obviously proud, he held a wriggling creature aloft for Quentin to examine. Again Quentin was stunned. It was a spider with an abdomen the size of his fist. Its long legs flailed helplessly in the air.

  “Another source of nourishment,” Samuel said. “And much more.” He grabbed the strand of silk trailing from the spider’s abdomen, which was still connected to the web above them. “I have developed in these orb-weaving spiders characteristics that benefit the tribe, particularly the silk you see here. Woven together, this silk possesses immeasurable strength.” He pulled down on the silk strand, and it grew tight but did not break.

  Quentin looked closer at the silk. “This is how you made the rope-ladders. And your vest.”

  “Indeed.” With his free hand Samuel fingered his vest. “This garment is nearly the last reminder of my former life.”

  “I wondered about that,” Quentin said. “It doesn’t seem very practical in this heat.”

  “There are certain needs that outweigh practicality. Keeping a few items to remind me of the man I once was, for example.” He lifted the object that hung from a cord around his neck. “This serves a similar purpose. I was once a rather feeble being, with poor vision, among other imperfections. I required spectacles to see clearly what was just before my own face. Now I have no need for such contrivances.”

  Quentin had thought the object was simply a ball of twisted wire. Now he saw that it was shaped with great care—a beautifully crafted ornament made from a one hundred fifty year-old pair of eyeglasses.

  “Why do I need a club?” Bobby said. “Are you telling me I need to kill Addison?”

  Mbaiso sat on his haunches without responding.

  Bobby sighed. “I don’t want to hurt anybody. I just want to go home.”

  He decided he’d had enough of the language visions for now. He considered looking for Mr. Darnell but had no idea where to start, and he definitely wasn’t going after Addison. So his only option was to go back to the tree house.

  Bobby was not afraid as he climbed the ladder. He figured if he fell, he probably wouldn’t die anyway. Maybe he would never die. His eyes adjusted to the dim light as he entered the tree house, and he saw Ashley looking at him. Mrs. Darnell, Carlos, and Miranda were all sleeping.

  “Welcome back, science boy,” Ashley whispered as he sat beside her. “Addison left after you did. I wasn’t sorry to see him go.”

  “Yeah, I ran into him.” Bobby said no more about it, and he was glad she didn’t ask. “And guess what,” he said. “I can talk to Mbaiso now, and to his friends. They taught me.”

  Ashley tilted her head. “You take off for a few hours and come back knowing how to talk to the animals. You’re kind of an interesting guy, Bobby.”

  Bobby felt his face flush.

  “Good God—talk about crazy dreams.” It was Miranda. She sat up, wiped her eyes and adjusted her strips of clothing. She touched Mrs. Darnell’s forehead. “Mrs. D, you okay?”

  Mrs. Darnell moaned, like she was trying to say something.

  “She really needs the medicine,” Bobby said. “I’ll go find Samuel and Mr. Darnell.”

  Ashley rose to her feet. “Not alone. Not again. I’m going with you. Miranda, you and Carlos stay here in case Mrs. D wakes up.”

  Bobby shook Carlos awake. “We’re going to find Mr. Darnell. Will you be okay here?”

  Carlos looked around. “Where’s Addison?”

  “Still gone,” Ashley said.

  Carlos closed his eyes again. “If he’s down there, I’m fine here.”

  Ashley looked at Bobby. “Lead the way.”

  Samuel released the spider and it climbed back up to its web. He and Quentin made their way out of the flowering trees, and the steady thrum of insect wings faded away.

  “So the trees here are in flower to attract the insects,” Quentin said. “And the insects feed the spiders. All of that so the spiders can give you silk thread?”

  “The spider silk allows the tribe to construct their dwellings high in the trees,” Samuel replied. “In addition, the spiders frequently are eaten by the villagers. I have yet to acquire a taste for them, myself.”

  “Samuel, nothing like this has been done before. No one has been able to make plants and animals evolve in a desired direction so quickly. You have to share what you’ve learned.”

  Samuel stopped walking. “Do you not understand what is before your own eyes? Tell me, Quentin, why do you think the dwellings of this village are high in the trees?”

  “To hide from everyone, I know. But surely you don’t—”

  “And tell me, why have the plants been made to grow over the trails? Why have the villagers learned to harden their spears and cook with fires that produce no smoke? And why, Quentin, do you suppose that intruders, as a matter of tribal custom, have hitherto been killed?”

  “I get it. You’re hiding this thing, the Lamotelokhai. But you said the villagers believe I am the one who will bring this to an end. Maybe it’s time.”

  “Perhaps they do believe that, but I intend to convince them otherwise. In their primitive state, and in their isolation, they can scarcely comprehend the consequences.” Samuel took a deep breath, which seemed to relax him a bit. “There are things, Quentin, you do not yet know. For whatever purpose you are here, be it God’s will or a simple accident, it will be better served if you know more of the discoveries which I have made.” With that, he resumed walking.

  “You said God has forsaken this place.”

  Samuel nodded. “One day he may reclaim it for his own.”

  Quentin considered this. “If God is responsible for what has happened to my family and students, then I have a few things to say to him.”

  After a short silence, Samuel replied, “As do I.”

  Before long they stopped at the base of an enormous rainbow eucalyptus tree. Samuel extracted a rope ladder that had been concealed by a fat vine growing adjacent to the tree’s bark. “I invite you now to my own dwelling.” Without waiting for an answer, he started climbing.

  Like the other tree houses, Samuel’s was virtually invisible from below. Upon reaching the top of the ladder, Quentin entered a now-familiar leafy slit in the floor. But aside from that, Samuel’s hut was nothing like the others. The hut was larger and was held up by at least four attachments to the supporting tree, resulting in four conical points in the hut’s roof. In one corner hung a sleeping hammock that appeared to be made of spider silk. But it was the bewildering array of other objects that captured Quentin’s attention. Nearly every inch of the floor and walls held items made entirely from natural materials such as skins and sticks and bones. Many of the devices Quentin could not identify, but others were clearly made to resemble household items—framed artwork, a table and two chairs, and drinking cups. There were hundreds of items hanging from the ceiling: small leather bags mostly, tied at the top, with several plant seedlings growing from holes in the sides of each bag.

  Quentin puffed, winded from the climb. “This isn’t what I expected.”

  “The villagers are a simple people. Civilized contrivances are not important to them. As for myself, however, such things prevent me from going mad.”

  Quentin looked around the hut. “I’m not so sure it has worked.”

  Samuel had been fingering one of the hanging plants, but he stopped and eyed him. Quentin tried to look back without smiling, but failed.

  Samuel finally returned a half-smile. “Humor. I have all but forgotten it. To be honest, that is a possibility that frequently haunts me. I have tried to put a definition to madness and have concluded that it is a product of what a man values most. A man who holds no great regard for his own safety is truly a mad man, and will not be long for this world. A man who holds no regard for the society in which he lives—or once lived—is mad as well. Tell me, Quentin, do you care enough about the state of civilization from whence you came to do what you must to preserve its virtues? Perhaps it is I who should ask you of your own mad
ness.”

  “It was only a joke.” The conversation trailed off, but Samuel’s words simmered in the back of Quentin’s mind. Quentin was aware of his own obsessive disdain for imposing the modern world upon indigenous cultures. After what had happened with his dad, how could he be otherwise? Yet Samuel was accusing him of having little regard for his own society, as if modern civilization were an unknowing, vulnerable, indigenous culture. Quentin had never looked at his own bloated, high-tech, melting-pot culture in such a way.

  Samuel proceeded to show him some of the items in the hut. There was a flute made from the strange skull of a bird called a hornbill, an inventive water dispenser constructed with the skin of a crocodile, and spools wound with various thicknesses of corded spider silk. When prompted by Samuel, Quentin could not break even the thinnest of these. As he looked around him, he realized that at any given moment, several large and spectacular butterflies were flying about the hut. Samuel must have put something in the hut to attract them. Overall, the hut gave Quentin the impression of a comfortable existence.

  Quentin finally said, “I appreciate you showing me all of this, but I’m worried about Lindsey and the kids. Lindsey seemed pretty sick this morning.”

  “You need not be concerned,” Samuel said. “We will apply ointment from the Lamotelokhai and she will be well.” He went to a darkened corner and lifted a covering of sago fronds. He returned holding a golden object in each hand. One was a sphere the size of a baseball. The other was a delicate-looking sculpture of a butterfly. He handed the sphere to Quentin, who nearly dropped it. It had to weigh at least fifteen pounds.

  “Is this gold? I didn’t think there was gold in Papua.”

  “To my knowledge it is not found here naturally,” Samuel said. “That is of my own manufacture, from materials scraped from the ground.”