by Scott Hunter
“Here, let me plait it for you. It’ll keep you cool.” Ruth sat next to the girl and began to work on the thick, dark tresses, wondering how much to tell her. “You have beautiful hair. I imagine your father is proud of you.”
“I don’t see my daddy much.”
“Oh? Does that make you sad?”
“Sometimes. My mummy has a new boyfriend, though. He’s my daddy now.”
“Well, that’s nice. But your daddy will always be your daddy. I expect he misses you a lot.” Ruth’s hands worked dexterously, twisting and looping. “Is your daddy a nice man?”
“Yes. But he gets a bit impatient sometimes. Mummy says that’s because he’s very clever.” Natasha brightened. “He said he was going to take me swimming.” She turned to Ruth and the confusion showed in her face. “But I don’t know when – maybe he came to see me and I wasn’t there.” Now her face crumpled altogether. “And my mummy doesn’t know where I am. I want to see her. Please.”
“Oh, Natasha.” Ruth held the girl and rubbed her heaving shoulders gently. “I’m so sorry. You weren’t meant to be here. I don’t know why he –”
“You know.” Kadesh was standing at the chamber entrance. “You know very well why.”
Ruth felt Natasha jump in fear, and hugged her protectively to her breast. She raised her chin defiantly. “Why prolong this any further? Let the girl go. At least let her speak to her mother.”
Kadesh stroked Natasha’s hair. “Not until I have what I want.”
Ruth felt the girl stiffen in her arms. But I want you. Can’t you see that? Despite everything, I still want you. She held her head up proudly. “Is that what this is all about? About you, and what you want? Since when has that ever been the right way? We are not made for self, Kadesh; we are made to watch and to protect. Nothing else.”
Kadesh’s eyes blazed in the filtered twilight. “His family perpetrated the evil. His family shall pay.”
“But it’s not just that, is it, Kadesh? It’s her. I know it’s her.” Ruth felt her self-control slipping away. She had already said too much, but she couldn’t stop. Natasha was trembling, curled up on the bed. Ruth stood between Natasha and the man she loved. “What about me? We were promised to each other.” Ruth held up her hand. “What am I to do? Will you cast me off like an old cloak?”
“It is my business to act as I see fit.” He caught her arm and held it tightly. “Do not question me again, Ruth.” He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway, his lean frame casting a pencil-thin shadow in the pale light. “Come to the central chamber at sunset. There is a disciplinary matter to attend to.” In a moment Kadesh was gone, leaving the faintest trace of incense hanging in the still air of the chamber.
Ruth let her breath out in a half sob, taking comfort from the child’s warm body. She had been taken from despair to elation and back in the space of an afternoon; the resultant confusion of feelings left her with nothing but a growing sense of emptiness and dread. “My sweet, my sweet,” she muttered, rocking Natasha slowly back and forth. “What will become of us? What will become of us both?”
That night, Ruth dreamt the dreams of a child. Her mother cradled her, whispered words of love. They moved silently through the familiar passages but their path ahead was strewn with flowers and the scents were those of high summer and celebration. Her mother smiled and set her down. A great gathering rose up to welcome them into the central chamber and her heart gave a small lurch when she saw him waiting. How handsome he looked, dressed in robes of white with his dark hair tied loosely back against the brown skin of his neck. She was a woman now, her steps assured and confident. She joined her love at the centre of the chamber and felt her mother’s blessing settle upon them like a gentle rain. The assembled ranks opened their mouths in silent song and she felt the thrill of destiny running through her veins. She turned to look into his eyes, but he was gone. The girl, Natasha, stood before her, her face unsmiling, accusing. A voice in her head spoke clearly: Why are you letting him do this? Look at me; I am only eight years old. . .
Ruth woke with a start. She heard the sounds of gentle breathing from the bed of down and silk she had fashioned for Natasha, and her feet carried her automatically to where the girl lay. As she looked at the girl’s sleeping face the images of her dream fell away from her like fragments of translucent glass. She returned to her bed and found it cold and comfortless, eventually drifting into a half slumber as the first sounds of prayer issued forth along the tunnels and pathways of her home. High above the dawn sun sent probing fingers of light across the ancient sand, highlighting the criss-crossing of vapour trails in an otherwise unbroken sky.
Chapter 11
“Occam’s razor?” I know it – I’ve heard that somewhere...” Dracup tugged at his beard with irritation. “It’s a methodology, isn’t it? The best way to approach a problem?”
“Correct,” Sara said. “Agreed, Farrell?”
“You’re right. It’s a logical principle,” Farrell nodded. “Basically it goes something like this – ‘don’t make more assumptions than the minimum needed.’”
“In other words, you ‘shave off’ any concepts or variables that are not needed to explain or get to the bottom of what you’re trying to figure out,” Sara said.
“Good.” Dracup looked at Farrell. “So come on then. Apply that to two sevens and a sundial.”
“Well, how about ‘find the angle on the sundial for seven and take seven paces in that direction.’”
Sara gestured in a comme ci, comme ça fashion. “Could be.”
“And then what?” Dracup shrugged. “Dig a hole?” It seemed simplistic, but then that was the point Occam had tried to get over with his ‘razor’. Dracup rubbed his eyes wearily.
“Depends where the seven paces takes you, I guess,” Farrell offered. ‘If it’s diggable, dig there. Just hope it ain’t concrete.”
Dracup sighed. He was just going to have to find out by trial and error. “Right. That’s settled then. Tonight we do some midnight excavating.”
“Simon?” Sara said quietly. “Can we have a word?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“In private.”
“Oh.” He looked at Farrell apologetically. “Excuse us a moment.”
The American waved a dismissive hand. “No problem. Just pretend I’m not here.”
In the kitchen, Sara leaned on the draining board and folded her arms. “Simon, I’m really sorry. I have to go back south. Something’s come up. It’s nothing awful – don’t look at me like that.”
Dracup’s first reaction was cautious relief. “Anything I can do?”
Sara laughed softly. “You’ve enough on your plate without my problems as well. Don’t look so crestfallen.” She moved towards him and put her arms around his waist. “It’s just some domestic bother. I’ll sort it out, but I have to deal with it straight away.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
She tilted her head to one side and sighed. “Compared to your problems it’s nothing. Maria wants me to vet the new girl before she signs up.”
“Your new flatmate?” He knew she’d had issues with her landlady before – the Spanish owner of her rented house. Still, this was a bit sudden. He gave her a tight smile. “When do you need to leave?”
“Asap really. If you drop me at the airport I can be back home tonight.”
“That urgent?”
She shrugged. “I’m really sorry. You know what Maria’s like. She wants to see me first thing tomorrow.” She tapped him lightly on the nose. “But keep me in touch – I can still use my brain in transit.”
Dracup felt a strange foreboding. “Right. Sure. I’ll call the airport.”
Two hours later Dracup returned to Forest Avenue with a heavy heart. She had held him tightly in the departure lounge; her lips had spoken the expected words – “See you soon” – but Dracup worried that her eyes had said something else.
Potzner was thinking about his wife, enduring her post-lunchti
me chemo. He wanted to call; to tell her that their dreams had come true, that he had the answer to her condition. Here, just take this, my darling – our guys have come up with something to regenerate your damaged cells; the cancer cells will be destroyed and replaced. And your new cells will be better than before. Stronger. Longer lasting. You’ve never seen anything like this. Trust me. Everything’s going to be fine. We’re going to live forever, you and me. Imagine that! We’re going to live forever.
He rubbed his eyes and stretched back in his chair. The afternoon had sped past like a runaway automobile. And had ended a write-off. How did he feel? Disappointed. Despairing. Desperate? The phone rang. He sighed deeply and snatched the buzzing receiver from its cradle.
“Yeah? Oh, Mr Dracup. How’s it going?” Potzner listened carefully. “Yep. Right. Okay, that sounds very promising. I kind of had a feeling that old Theodore had a trick or two up his sleeve. How’s Farrell shaping up?” Potzner gave a sardonic grin as he listened to Dracup’s reply. Farrell had an IQ of 158 and had scored the top results in his training year – in fact his had been the highest mark obtained in the Department’s rigorous logic and numeracy tests since 1969. All packaged up in a baseball star’s physique. Even Potzner thought he was too good to be true.
“He does what? Yeah, I know. But then he’ll come out with something that’ll blow you away – what’s that? Sevens?” Potzner gave a short laugh. “Yeah, just like that.”
Potzner’s PC beeped as a new email arrived. He glanced at it briefly. It was from Art Keegan, head of Molecular Biology. He knew what it would say; he’d been expecting it. He opened his drawer and extracted his A4 notepad. “Well, Mr Dracup, I wish I had some encouraging news from this end, but the fact is I don’t. What I do have is a translation of the cuneiform verses from the diagram. You want to hear them?” Potzner smiled wryly. “Yeah, I know. They don’t make a lot of sense on their own. Here they are, for what it’s worth:
“From holy resting place to rest upon the water –
But Noah, the faithful son –
Once more in the earth you will find peace –
From whence you came –
Between the rivers –’
“That’s all we’ve got so far.” He paused, listening to the precise enunciation of the Englishman’s voice. “Okay. Well, tread carefully – I don’t need the police after you on top of everything else. Farrell will take care of any problems.” Potzner wondered briefly whether he should share the flickering electronic information with Dracup, then quickly decided against it. There was nothing to be gained from confirming that the Department’s hopes were resting on the conundrums of a deceased, mentally unstable geologist and his grandson’s determination to find a missing daughter. Potzner hoped the daughter was still alive, but had his doubts. He didn’t share that thought with Dracup either. He signed off and stared at the screen.
Hi Jim –
Project: RED EARTH – Status: Highly sensitive
As requested, here is an update on exactly where we are with the research – or rather, where we got to before the ‘problem’. I’ll try and keep this as simple as possible. You’ll be aware that the study of chromosomes and cell regeneration/division has been central to this research program, particularly with regard to telometric longevity and length.
Telomeres, as I’ve outlined before, are effectively the ‘tip’ of any given chromosome, and we became convinced that the composition and length of these tips was the key to understanding the ageing process with its associated links to health in old age and the human life span. Now, a cell’s normal life is around 50 divisions, and tests on a cross-section of human subjects have shown that cells that have stopped dividing have much shorter telomeres.
Telomeres become shorter with time because unlike the rest of a chromosome, they don't replicate during cell division. The shortening of these tips acts like a sort of clock, which ultimately causes the cell to slow down and stop working. There has been some experimentation with an enzyme called telomerase that slows the erosion of these telomeres – and lab experiments with this enzyme have met with some success, although I wouldn’t personally consider these to be spectacular. What it did tell us – or what we understood from the results of these experiments – is that we were on the right research track.
The right track. Potzner ran a hand through his greying crew cut. So close. So near to a breakthrough. How could it have happened? Just as he was coming to terms with the possibility of salvation, just as he had begun to dare to hope... His fists bunched and he read on.
Then came the Red Earth material – well, you remember how we found the telometric loop anomalies – it proved the point. These were super telomeres like we’d never seen before in any subject. There appeared to be no degeneration or shortening of telometric strands despite the obvious age of the material. I can now say conclusively that the age of the subject was in excess of 500 years – possibly older – at the time of death. Death was caused not by ‘normal’ cell senescence but by something else. What that is right now I can’t say – I’d need more tissue samples to reach a conclusion as the original material is breaking down rapidly, which is no surprise given that we had to perform an invasive operation just to get through the resin block. Incidentally, we are still unsure of the composition of this outer coating – whatever it is, it’s not something we’ve seen before and its preservative qualities are nothing less than astonishing. Nevertheless, the small sample we retained also seems to be degenerating too fast for us to save.
In summary, Jim, I’m real sorry – I know what this means to you, believe me, but I can’t proceed without fresh material derived from the source.
Do let me know if you need any more information at this stage.
Kind rgds
Art Keegan,
Head Dept. Molec. Biology
Mob: 07720 8732567
Potzner looked at the solitary photograph on his desk. It was a fun shot, taken before Abigail had become housebound. They were in an amusement arcade and Abi had just won the jackpot. Some passing trucker had offered to take their photo to mark the occasion. She looked so… so carefree. So happy. He picked up the frame and etched a kiss onto her celluloid cheek, then placed the photograph carefully back in its usual position. Everything’s going to be fine. We’re going to live forever, you and me, babe. Imagine that! We’re going to live forever...
He held his head in his hands and wept.
Dracup peered cautiously over the low wall. It didn’t give him much cover, but at least the sky was moonless and the expanse of the garden lay in comforting shadow. He stepped forward gingerly into the open. Immediately he felt exposed and foolish. What was he doing in a stranger’s garden in the middle of the night? And yet, it was not an unfamiliar landscape. He had been here long ago, in another life. How old had he been? Eight or nine? A pang of grief stabbed home. Natasha’s age. The thought gave him a fresh focus, and he peered into the darkness, searching for the marker he prayed was still in position. The sundial. If it had gone, leaving no reference point... No! There was something, a broken contour on the flatness of the grass.
He edged carefully up the lawn, keeping to the borders and fearful that some hidden security light would flood the garden and leave him stranded in its glare like a fly in a spider’s web. Dracup risked a glance to where Farrell stood guard at the gate. It was hard to pick the agent out, but then Dracup discerned a movement against the whitewash of the house. A second later a torch flashed once. All okay. They had simply walked up the drive, Dracup conscious of the weight of the shovel in his hand, Farrell striding ahead confidently. Business as usual for him.
The house was in darkness, with only a single light showing upstairs, candle-like behind the small window – probably the bathroom. The place was comfortably asleep. And so it should be, Dracup thought. It’s 3.30 in the morning. He held his breath as he moved slowly forward towards the object. He realized he was grinding his teeth, as he used to in his parents’ home when
he wanted to creep down the old staircase without alerting the grown-ups to his presence; he imagined the noise of his teeth rubbing together would obscure any noise issuing from his own movements. Dracup shook his head. Nuts. You’ve always been a bit nuts. Now the stillness had a volume all of its own which seemed more unsettling.
Something rustled in the hedgerow and he dropped to his haunches, crouching low. He waited thirty seconds. Nothing jumped out at him. No lights flicked on. Keep moving. He took a breath and went forward again. Sara would be home by now, fast asleep in her own bed. Or maybe not. Maybe she’s somewhere else altogether. He shook his head, unable to sustain the thought. He felt diminished without her, as if some central process inside him had been shut down.
Enough. Concentrate. He reached the object and squatted next to it, running his hands over the stone column. Relief washed through him. The sundial still presided over the garden, a solid connection between now and the past. He traced the Roman numerals. Five, six, seven. Dracup looked to see the direction of the angle created by the VII. He measured seven reasonable paces from the dial and found himself by the herbaceous border. With some misgivings and considerable sympathy for the owners he began to dig. The noise jarred his senses, and he worked the shovel as cautiously as he could into the stiff earth, keeping one eye nervously on the Farrell corner of the property.
