Book of Cures (A Thomas McAlister Adventure 2)

by Hunt Kingsbury

  “What about the genetic option you mentioned?”

  “Homologous recombination.”

  “Homo-what?”

  “It’s precision genetic engineering. Basically, two enzymes fix sections of broken DNA. They scissor out the broken section and replace it with a new chunk of DNA. No one knows how it works, but it happens occasionally in Petri dishes.”

  “Could that cure someone?”

  “Absolutely. Defective genes and gene mutations play a primary role in some of the worst diseases that exist today: heart disease, diabetes, immune system disorders, and birth defects.”

  “Each of us carries around about half a dozen defective genes. The vast majority of us will never know it because we carry two copies of each gene; one from our mother, and one from our father. If a damaged gene is recessive, or non-dominant, its counterpart will carry out the necessary tasks. If the same two recessive genes are damaged, you’re in for trouble.”

  “I see.”

  “Queen Victoria carried a defective gene for hemophilia. Minor cuts and bruises that would do little to harm most people can prove fatal to hemophiliacs. Through her, hemophilia was transmitted to the royal families of Russia, Spain, and Prussia.”

  “So that’s how Alexei Romanov had hemophilia?”

  “Yes, and hemophilia was the reason Czarina Alexandra originally consulted Rasputin.”

  McAlister nodded. He was dying to get to Lhasa. There were so many unanswered questions about where he planned to dig for the Blue Beryl. He couldn’t will the plane to go any faster, so when the flight attendant came by, McAlister ordered red wine for himself and Bertram, and got out his copy of a three-hundred-year-old map of the Potala Palace. He knew it like the back of his hand. Nevertheless, he studied it again.

  Bertram reached over for a toast. “We’re on the way.”

  McAlister touched the rim of his glass to Bertram’s and said, “It’s been seven hours since Taylor became sick and they told me he had four days to live. That doesn’t leave us much time.”

  He took a drink of his wine and the flight attendant moved to the man sitting behind McAlister, a well-dressed Scottish man with a near-walrus mustache and a Harris tweed cap who was sketching something.

  “And what can I get you to drink, sir?”

  “I’ll have whatever they’re having.” He gestured toward McAlister and Bertram.

  “I’ll be right back with it. Interesting drawing--are those elephant tusks?”

  The Clone looked down at the page and then back up at the attentive flight attendant. “No,” He said, “They’re spider fangs. This hole here at the tip is how they deliver the venom that kills people.”

  The answer caught her by surprise. She composed herself, swallowed, smiled and said, “Oh. Well, they’re very . . . life-like. I’ll be right back with your drink.”

  She walked away quickly, wishing he’d said they were elephant tusks.

  Chapter 18

  After a bumpy flight during which they got little sleep, McAlister and Bertram rented a 1970s model Toyota Land Cruiser at the airport and began the one-hour drive south to Dr. Li’s clinic.

  Five minutes outside of Lhasa, the road morphed from pothole-ridden dirt strip to washed-out gulley.

  The Land Cruiser had no operable shocks or springs, and the seat cushion was compressed to a sixteenth of an inch. Each rut they hit sent a solid jolt up their spines.

  At first they tried to balance pain against speed, but eventually pain won and they were reduced to a slow, engine-whining crawl with occasional jerky turns left or right to avoid the biggest, most painful-looking obstacles.

  Had both men not been wholly consumed with the few feet of road immediately in front of them, they might have noticed the purple-tinted Himalayan Mountains, or the acres and acres of yellow lousewort flowers that blanketed the valley on each side of the road.

  Buddhist stupas dotted the countryside like beautiful white wedding cakes set atop grassy green and brown plateaus. Saffron-robed monks walked and chanted quietly in their courtyards.

  What they did see from time to time was the occasional Tibetan skor mi, or pilgrim, traveling in one direction or another, inevitably spinning their prayer wheels as they walked. But McAlister’s sole focus was on pain minimization; he had neither the time nor the desire to study indigenous landscape or dress.

  A drive that should have taken one hour took two, but finally they spotted the clinic they thought was Dr. Li’s. It was on top of a shallow, round plateau that rose from the valley like a huge jelly bean placed on top of a flat surface. The majestic Himalayas were a hazy, surreal backdrop.

  In the United States, where every structure had to be categorized for tax purposes, the clinic would’ve been called a Quonset hut. It was a large rectangular shack made of corrugated tin, with a clapboard roof topped by dirt, and plants growing in the dirt.

  A long line of people snaked back from the door and down part of the hill, giving the impression, from a distance, of a rectangular lollipop with a curved stick.

  As the two men neared the clinic, the road became smooth, their dispositions improved, and conversation was again possible.

  Halfway up the hill, fifty yards from the entrance to the clinic, the road ended. They parked and walked up to the front of the line, receiving wide-eyed stares from Tibetans who were not used to seeing Westerners.

  McAlister asked Dr. Bertram if he was able to read the sign. He wasn’t, but it was clear they’d come to the right place. The eyes of many of the people waiting in line had the milky translucence of the blind. There were others who had walking sticks, and still others whose faces were completely bandaged.

  A few were so badly disfigured that Thomas wondered if there was any hospital in the United States that could help them, let alone a local Tibetan working out of a Quonset hut on a plateau in the middle of a valley.

  A small roped gate held the line twenty feet from the front of the clinic. Thomas and Dr. Bertram passed by the line and entered through the front door. The room was surprisingly dark. Once McAlister’s eyes adjusted, he saw the interior was one large, sparsely furnished room.

  In the center of the room there were four people: a doctor, presumably Dr. Li; his assistant, a young Tibetan girl in a white shirt; a middle-aged man sitting at a table; and a woman standing behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders.

  To their left, in the back of the room, there were neat bales of dried plant leaves. On the right was a beautiful cherry desk with two wooden chairs in front of it. As McAlister and Bertram entered, Dr. Li, who was leaning over the patient, looked up, smiled, and motioned them over to this desk. Not wanting to disrupt his practice, they immediately sat down at the desk. The only light in the room was provided by a half-shaded oil lamp on the table in the middle of the room.

  When Dr. Li finished, the patient stood and was guided out of the clinic by his companion. They left through a small door in the rear of the building. The young assistant guided the next patient into the room.

  She was an older woman with chocolate skin and deep smile lines bracketing her mouth. Her eyes were closed. A younger woman guided her in and helped her to the chair in the middle of the room.

  The younger woman briefly conversed with the doctor, motioning toward the old woman as she spoke. He nodded and smiled politely as if he’d heard the same set of symptoms described countless times. When she was done talking, the younger woman reached into her pocket and handed the doctor an object. Thomas could not see what it was. The assistant took it, walked to the back of the room, and put it in a chest next to the bales of dried plants.

  The doctor began the evaluation. He held his hand in front of the patient, palm facing her face, and shined a flashlight directly at his palm. He then spoke to the patient. She shook her head. He spoke again and at his command she opened her eyes wide.

  Even from where he sat Thomas could see that her pupils and irises were white. Dr. Li turned the light off. He backed up a step, held up
one finger, shined the light on it, and asked the old woman the same question as before. She shook her head as before.

  Dr. Li nodded and then leaned down in front of the patient. He put his hand gently on her shoulder and spoke to her.

  When he finished speaking, he and his assistant quickly went to work at the table. Dr. Li added water to various bowls that were already laid out on the table and began mixing the contents. His assistant filled the bowl of a long-stemmed pipe with the mixture of substances.

  After thirty seconds his assistant had the pipe lit and was gently wafting plumes of smoke toward the patient. Dr. Li filled a separate wooden bowl with a mixture and fed the woman small bites. After five bites, Dr. Li went back to the table and began applying the remainder of the paste to a long green leaf, all the while the assistant enveloped the patient in plumes of gray smoke.

  Li came back and, using a standard tongue depressor, began applying the mixture from the leaf onto the old woman’s eyes. When they were coated, he put the leaf over her eyes and secured it by tying a white handkerchief around her head. Thomas noticed a large stack of white handkerchiefs on the table.

  When he was done and the leaf was securely tied to the woman’s head, he once again spoke to her. She nodded, rose, and was slowly led out of the back of the building.

  When another old woman, this one in a magnificent green and orange dress, began to enter with a young woman the doctor held up his hand and motioned to them to step back out. His assistant went to the door and spoke to the rest of the people in line.

  As the doctor walked over, Thomas could smell the smoke from the lunch fires waft through the door of the building. Many of the people in line had set up small camps while waiting their turn.

  The doctor extended his hand and Thomas asked, “Do you speak English?”

  The doctor smiled and motioned for them to sit. “Yes, quite fluently. D o you know Tibetan?”

  “No, I’m sorry I don’t. I wish I did. My name is Dr. Thomas McAlister, and this is Dr. Bertram.” Bertram and the doctor shook hands. “I’m an archeologist and Egyptologist, and Dr. Bertram is a professor of Tibetan culture and medicine. He works in New York, at New York University.”

  “Nice to meet you. And you, Mr. McAlister, where do you work?”

  “I work for myself.”

  The man nodded. “I am Dr. Wen Li. This is my clinic. As you observed, I help people who have vision problems.”

  The doctor reclined in his chair and his assistant brought him tea. “Can I offer you gentlemen a cup of tea? You must have had a hard drive if you came down from Lhasa. It’s easier to walk. Faster too.”

  McAlister smiled. “I’d love a cup, Dr. Li.” Dr Bertram nodded as well.

  “I don’t get American visitors very often. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Thomas glanced at Dr. Bertram and began. “Sir, I’ll speak frankly, if I may?”

  “By all means. You’ve come a long way.”

  “For a while now I’ve been researching an ancient Tibetan document called the Blue Beryl. Have you heard of it?”

  The doctor smiled and nodded. “Yes.”

  “A close friend of mine knows a Chinese man who told him that you were using a page from the Blue Beryl to heal the blind. We came here to see if you are really healing the blind by using the page, and if you are, if you could be of any help to us as we try to find the rest of the book.”

  The doctor gazed intently at Thomas and then took a long look at Dr. Bertram. “It’s no secret what I’m doing here, but not many people ask how I do it.”

  McAlister nodded and said, “Doctor, anything you tell us will be in the strictest confidence. Kept completely confidential. I can absolutely guarantee that.” McAlister looked at Bertram, who nodded his assent.

  Dr. Li mused, “You know, there has never been any media coverage or anything even close. I’ve often wondered why word never got out, why it never spread farther than Lhasa or a few other regional cities. Then again, the people I treat are local and this is a third-world country. Not much about what goes on in the rest of the world makes it in, and not much of what goes on here makes it out.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe word has spread and people don’t believe it, or think it’s mysticism. The people who come to see me are grateful, but secretive. This, I believe, is as it should be. The cures described in the Beryl were developed by the ancient doctors in this region for the people of this region. In my case, the people benefit. I do this for free. I have very few expenses, and the gifts I receive more than compensate.

  “The answer is yes, I am using a page taken from the Blue Beryl a long, long time ago.”

  Dr. Li paused, then continued, “It works. It works very well. The woman you saw just a minute ago with glaucoma was completely blind. The tobacco smoke will begin helping her immediately, the wrap will help her over the next two to three days, and the pap that she ingested will take over from there. She will likely have her sight back at some point in the future.”

  “But how do you know? How do you know she will have her sight back?”

  The doctor smiled and said, “Because it happens every time.”

  “But how can that be? How does it work? Does it work on everyone?”

  “It only works if the patient possesses all the basic optical components. The medication will not cause someone who has lost an eyeball, or severely damaged the optic nerve, to regenerate a new one. It will only repair what is broken; it will not replace missing parts.” He paused. “Though I have seen a few severed optic nerves reconnect themselves after treatment, without surgery.”

  “How does it happen?” Thomas asked again.

  “I am what you, in America, would call a shaman or a bush doctor. I’m not a certified physician and I have no laboratory here. I have never studied how the cure works. It’s not a miracle, though. It is clear that the medicine elicits some sort of chemical reaction. Whether the immune system is at work, or the cells are changed, I cannot say. I only know it works.”

  Dr. Bertram spoke up for the first time. “Doctor, if the page from the Beryl works so well, why do you not share it with the rest of the world? Why do you not tell other doctors and healers? Isn’t it your duty to spread the wealth? I mean, it’s free, right?”

  Dr. Li smiled and took another sip of his tea. “Yours is a typical American question that is based on your culture’s desire to solve problems--to conquer and spread your ideology, no matter what the cost. All an American knows is forward movement. You do not understand the concept of moving laterally.”

  Dr. Li’s level gaze held Bertram. “Dr. Bertram, nothing is free, and you should know better. In America and other large cities, even the most basic human elements--air and water--are being sold back to the inhabitants. Be sensible. What do you think would happen if I advertised what I had?”

  “I don’t know,” Bertram answered. “I suppose a lot of people around the world who are blind would get treated and be able to see again.”

  Dr. Li chuckled and shook his head. “No. I’ll tell you exactly what would happen. I would no longer have my cure. A large pharmaceutical company would come here, reverse-engineer the formula, put an international patent on it and call it theirs.

  “Then they’d file a claim against me with the FDA, or worse, the World Health Organization, because they would claim my formula is a drug, not a supplement. They would raid my clinic, shut me down, and likely send me to jail for patent infringement. Yes?

  “It would become about money, power and control. Not only would they take the formula away from me, they’d probably take me away too. They’d steal the formula and only sell it to those who could afford to buy it – the rich. Everyone else, like my people here, would be denied.”

  He paused and motioned around the room. “Anyone can come here. All are welcome. There is nothing like that in America. Nothing, and there never will be. There is always an agenda. Today in America, free clinics are used for tax write-offs, money laundering, or pol
itical tools. It’s all about money there. Both you men are old enough to know that.”

  McAlister had hardly expected to run across a cynic, especially an hour outside Lhasa in Tibet, and he’d rarely encountered such an informed one.

  He couldn’t argue; what the man said was exactly right. “Doctor, I understand your point of view. You’ll get no argument, and I’ll promise you that neither I nor Dr. Bertram will spread the news back in the United States about what you’re doing here, if you don’t want us to. Dr. Bertram was naturally curious, but that has nothing to do with why we’re here.”

  Dr. Li nodded, but said nothing.

  “My objective here is to find the rest of the Blue Beryl. I was hoping you could help me do that, starting with telling me how you acquired the page you have.”

  “I’ll share what I know with you, but don’t expect much. It is widely held that the Beryl was destroyed years ago, during one of the Chinese offensives. It was kept in Lhasa, at the Potala Palace, in a room called the Hall of Scriptures.

  “It was said to be there in 1751, when the Chinese invaded and sacked the palace. The wing that held the Blue Beryl--the Red Palace--was burned. No one has seen the original Blue Beryl since.”

  McAlister already knew all of this. “How did you get the page from which you work?”

  “Members of my family have always been healers. Long ago, a medical book was purchased in the market in Lhasa. When my father died, I inherited all of his material possessions. The page I have was stuffed inside one of the medical textbooks, just a single page. It has a color drawing of the anatomy of the human eyes on one side, and the prescription for curing blindness on the other.”

  “What comprises the prescription?”

  “Primarily I use plants indigenous to Tibet, Tibet, and Bhutan. A few of them are very rare, and frankly, I’m not even sure if they can be found in the wild any longer. There is one particularly hard-to-find species that only reproduces every twelve years. I have a large garden where I continually grow the plants needed. They must be harvested, dried, and stored.”