Ezembe

by Jeffrey L. Morris

  Hippocrates finished the job, gently ushered his limping patient from the room, and turned his attention to the boy. Pamphilos had closed his hand over Zozimus’ mouth to keep him quiet. The child had sunk his tiny teeth into the fleshy part of the student’s thumb.

  “What have we here?” Hippocrates asked.

  “I’m not sure, Master,” Pamphilos replied, stifling an urge to smack the urchin. “His mother is certain it is the Sacred Disease, but I disagree.”

  “Phwah,” the old man said. He walked up close to the young boy and looked into his clear, bright eyes. Pamphilos felt the child’s jaw relax, and pulled his hand well clear.

  “This is Zozimus.”

  Zozimus looked into the old man’s eyes, pointed timidly at the round, florid face, and became still.

  There was a popular belief that Hippocrates was descended from the gods themselves—Asclepius, or even Apollo himself. But the great man pooh-poohed this tattle. Still, when Pamphilos looked upon the full white beard that resembled the summer cumulus clouds, it was almost as if it flashed and rumbled. The master’s all-knowing eyes could lead anyone to believe that a spark of the divine might lie within after all.

  Hippocrates patted the freshly vacated examination table. “Well, Zozimus, I wonder if you would allow me to have a look at you?”

  “Nooo!” bellowed Zozimus. He resumed his kicking and wailing, and was as difficult to hold as a thrashing serpent.

  Pamphilos scolded, “Be still, you foolish boy. This is the great Hippocrates. He is trying to help you.”

  But Hippocrates hushed his student and took the boy’s hands. Zozimus quieted once again. The old man squatted on his haunches and inquired gently, “What is it that frightens you so?”

  Zozimus let out in great wet whimpers, “Them, the ones who would harm me.” He sniffed and pointed. “There, on your table. I can see them.”

  “Where?” said Pamphilos impatiently. “There is absolutely nothing there.”

  “There are. There are demons there.”

  “Nonsense! Stop this foolishness at once.”

  Hippocrates looked at the boy, and then at the table. He rubbed Zozimus’ cheek, nodded sagely, and said, “Take him to my office. Give him some anise to chew.”

  The old master went to his Apoteke, his lab, pulled down a jar of cedar chips, mashed a handful with mortar and pestle, then added a drop of vinegar and stirred it to a paste. He returned to the exam room and proceeded to wash the table with the mixture. After wiping the table dry, he called Pamphilos and his young patient back into the room.

  “Zozimus, where are those demons that would harm you? Can you see them still?” Hippocrates swept his hand over the table.

  “No, they are gone.”

  “Where have they gone?”

  “They are dead. All dead.”

  Three

  Sleep plunged James back into the jelly world. Again, he felt comfortable, warm, and perfectly at home. There was no up, no down, no edge, no boundary—no reference points at all. He swam through the goo effortlessly, but when he reached out to feel it, he could not see his own hand. When he looked down his body was nowhere to be seen, yet this also seemed natural and unsurprising. He felt a little foolish for even checking, as if he had been looking for his sunglasses and found them on top of his head. All that was visible were those curlicues, which morphed into small twinkles of light, like stars. One of the points would evaporate, and another appear in its place.

  And then the smell began—fish. Three-day-old fish at that. It strengthened, and with it came a vague feeling of dread.

  James woke with a start. Perspiration stood out on his forehead. Each short, sharp breath stung. The vile, pungent smell filled his nostrils, and all around him, on every surface, he could sense germs.

  In the morning, the rounds doctor came. James could see that the man was unclean. When he tried to examine James’ dressing, James pulled away.

  “I know it’s tender, but relax. This won’t hurt a bit.”

  James closed his eyes and braced himself, while the doctor felt his side near the wound. Each touch burned.

  “You’re a lucky man,” the doctor said as he shone his penlight into James’ pupils. “Around here, we call bikers ‘donors’. But you’ll live to fight another day.” He wiggled his finger to the side of James’ head. “Tell me when you can see this.”

  James smiled weakly, and played the finger game until the doctor was satisfied.

  “Keep up the good work, son. You’ll be out of here in no time,” the doctor said. He hung the chart carelessly on the end of the bed.

  While James had grown accustomed to his unique awareness of various miniscule fiends, they’d never before invaded his dreams. The anxiety he’d felt when the doctor was close was something he hadn’t experienced in many years. He was also aware of the large number of microbes on the floor, on the equipment, and on the staff. None of them were particularly nasty—not in his experience—but they made him edgy all the same. He reasoned that it must have been the dreams that had brought all of this on, so he determined that staying awake was the best course. In the past, sleep had always been a sanctuary from the noise these creatures made. Now sleep had become the enemy, and sooner or later, Morpheus was bound to win this contest of wills.

  James fought off sleep for hours—until his mother walked in, almost as filthy and germ-ridden as the hospital staff. She carried two cups of fresh coffee and some Danish.

  “Morning, Glory!” Karen popped the lids off the cups, and hunted for somewhere to place the pastry. “I thought you could do with a treat.”

  James was relieved to see her, but hoped she would keep her distance.

  Karen came to his side and ruffled his hair. “Have you slept?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. A little less of the mothering, please!” James snapped.

  “James? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Mother, really,” he said.

  Karen sat on the edge of his bed. He shrank from her.

  “You’re tired. You need your sleep.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. Did you sleep at all last night?”

  “Catnaps. Mom. Don’t make a big deal out of this. Please?”

  Karen parted her lips to speak, then stopped. She moved to the visitor’s chair and looked at her toes for a few moments, then said quietly, “Can I help?”

  James said nothing.

  Finally, Karen said softly, “I can’t do this again, James. Please don’t make me.”

  “Ah, Mom,” James said, “I’m not trying to make you do anything. I’m dealing with it, okay?”

  “You want me to give Dr. Wharton a call?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “He did help before, honey.”

  James bit his tongue.

  “Look, you are going to have to talk to someone.”

  “Just drop it, please. I can deal with it. Anyhow, it is not the same ‘problem’. I’m just having a bit of trouble sleeping, okay?”

  “How about a sedative?”

  James was beginning to feel his dreams percolating just below the surface, nudging him. He couldn’t stay awake forever. He had to do something. Every time his head nodded, he dipped back into that world. That fishy smell was sneaking in through the cracks that those tiny naps opened. A deep, deep, drug-induced coma might be just the thing.

  “Yeah, might be an idea, why not?” he said.

  ~* * *~

  It was a deep and beautiful sleep. The sedative quickly plunged James down, down—through the layers of his consciousness, down to its murky bottom, where he suckled oblivion for what seemed days, or even weeks. But as the sedative relaxed its grip, he floated upwards through the strata, and his mind re-entered that cusp of consciousness, the region of dreams. There was a dim light, and again, he was in a malodorous piscine limbo. Eyes twitched under heavy lids. Waking was escape and he tried desperately to surface, but couldn’t. Now he knew where that
smell originated: from some sort of germs. He didn’t know what sort or where they were hiding, but a vague memory of this particular aroma told him that it belonged to a vicious thing.

  Small movements crossed the periphery of James’ vision—those twinkles again. Again, when examined directly they’d instantly flake away, the way floaters vanish when one tries to spot them crawling across the vitreous humor of the eyeball. It was frustrating, but at the same time, a kind of instinct nagged him, telling him to relax. In a short while, his field of view expanded until he could see all around at once, and the twinkles sharpened, grew more numerous, then connected with one another, becoming a crosshatch of lines. The sheen of the goo filled the gaps and produced a glossy surface—like a tiled wall. But it wasn’t just like a tiled wall; it was a tiled wall, stretched out in all directions. An undulating landscape that folded back in on itself.

  Openings formed in the wall. James swam to one and peered inside. There was a hallway, also covered in glazed tile. It waved and wandered in spirals and loops, meeting others in an endless maze. He allowed himself to drift into the hall and, very carefully, moved deeper within. The smell was stronger here, much stronger.

  Another corridor off to the side led James still deeper, and the current swelled, as did the smell. One passage led to another, sometimes two, each with offshoots of its own. In no time he was hopelessly lost, but the scent kept him moving. Rounding a corner, he stumbled into a stream of translucent golden bubbles pouring through a gash in the wall. They scattered along the hallway, each of them ultimately fixing itself to the tile. Where one bubble would attach itself, others soon followed, their numbers increasing exponentially. These shimmering globes were nothing if not industrious: piles upon piles formed in long, glistening rows until they covered the tiles completely—a landscape of golden Christmas-tree ornaments. There was organization there, the way they worked. It reminded James of the way ants worked together, picking up crumbs at a picnic. All of this, too, was terribly familiar.

  James screamed and sat bolt upright. A nurse passing in the hallway dropped her paperwork and came running. The girl stopped short when she reached James’ bed. His face was painfully contorted, eyes impossibly wide and red, nostrils wildly flared. His bared lips curled tightly back on themselves. Blood trickled from his nose.

  “Are you all right?” the nurse stammered, though James clearly was not. He didn’t answer, only stared ahead, his eyes two deep, red wells. “Mr. Weems?” She moved closer and looked into his eyes.

  “I’ve got an infection,” James hissed.

  The nurse backed away, her hand over her mouth. “Okay, you just stay there. I’ll get someone for you.” She called for the resident. By the time he arrived, James’ features had returned to normal, though his skin was still blanched.

  “Well, Mr. Weems, you think you have an infection, eh? Where does it hurt?”

  “Um, I haven’t really got any pain. Not now, anyhow, but I felt some while I was sleeping. Somewhere around where you guys operated on me, I think.” James felt a little foolish now.

  “Hmm, right, then. Well, let’s have a look-see, shall we?” The doctor removed the dressing and inspected the wound. “Okay, any itching, anything like that?”

  “It hurts where you stitched it up, but not as bad as yesterday. Look, can you just give me some antibiotics or something?”

  The doctor pressed gently on James’ stomach. His hands were crawling with bacteria, and those bugs blared like a steam whistle.

  “Right, well, the nurse has taken your temperature. Ah, I see it is one-oh-two!”

  The nurse handed him James’ chart, and pointed out that 102 was his normal temperature.

  “Ah, I see, well. Unusual, unusual. I can find no sign of infection here at the moment,” the doctor said pensively, tapping his pen on the clipboard. “Not at the moment.” This doctor knew hypochondria when he saw it, or imagined he did. And of course doctors know how to deal with that. “I think we’ll just play it safe and administer a little something; is that okay?” He gave James a condescending look, and gave the nurse a ’scrip to take to the pharmacy while he refreshed the dressing. When she returned, he tapped out two capsules from a brown jar and gave them to James. He handed the jar back to the nurse and, as he turned to go, quietly said to her, “Two more every time he complains.” He turned and left the room, saying, “Good night, Mr. Weems; sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  Four

  James lay motionless. Drool spilled from the corner of his mouth. As before, he rapidly sank to the bottom and stayed there for what seemed a very long time. And as before, he floated up through the layers of consciousness until he was back in the tiled halls. The bubbles almost completely obscured the tiles now, and those tiles he could see were pulled free of the wall, broken and distorted. The grape-like bunches were everywhere and the smell of fish was overwhelming, like the alleyway of a cannery. His fear gave way to indignation. He hadn’t been treated at all; he’d been duped and drugged, palmed off. And now he was stuck in this place until he woke.

  James moved to have a closer look at the intruders. Most were latched onto the tiles by thread-thin, barely visible tubes coming from within their bodies. He discovered he could detect subtleties in the odors, patterns—like a song he was hearing for the first time, but had known for years. Then he heard voices, faint, in the distance. Feminine voices. They grew stronger, and were talking about—apartments?

  “How’s the hunting going, Emily?”

  The bubbles evaporated.

  “I found a little place in the Northeast, but the rent’s nuts.”

  The voices stopped. Their owners approached their charge.

  “Ah, hello there. How are you feeling?”

  “Hi. Not too bad, but I got a little itching in my gut.”

  “Oh-kay, let’s just have a look at you.” The one who was not Emily patted the bed, instructing James to sit on the edge. He obliged, and she pulled at the bandage while Emily stuck a digital thermometer in his ear. “Did you sleep well?” she asked

  “Yeah, I always do when I am doped up,” James replied. His sarcasm missed its mark.

  Emily checked the thermometer. “One-oh-four. Well, you are running a bit of a temperature. Does it hurt here?” She pressed gently around his wound.

  “Yeah, a little.” James had expected the stitching to itch, but there was a dull ache that went deep now.

  “The doctor will be in on rounds in about a half an hour, and he’ll have a look at you then, okie dokie?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Okie doke. Do you want some pain relief in the meantime?” The nurse smiled. Her eyes had small laugh lines, even though she was younger than James. She was pretty and a little flirty, and that made him feel better.

  “No, I’ll be fine. It doesn’t hurt too bad, really. I just don’t want it to get any worse.”

  “Good, it’s always wise to play it safe.” Emily smiled professionally and left.

  The rounds doctor was the one he had every morning. James didn’t know his name, and the doctor didn’t offer. “Morning, Mr. Weems. Did you sleep well?”

  “I slept, but not very well.”

  “Is that so? Well, it will be a little while before you’re feeling one hundred percent again. I shouldn’t worry.”

  “I am feeling a bit of pain here.” James circled the area with his finger, and hoped that this would red-flag his little visitors; get them a little attention.

  “Hmm, yes, you might be developing a bit of an infection there, son. I see nothing external, but all the same we’ll put you on an antibiotic and stop this in its tracks, eh?”

  James breathed out a quiet, “Thanks.”

  “We’re going to do a culture on it first, okay?” The doctor rubbed a swab over the area and pushed it into a vial, which he capped with a pop of his palm. Then he took a little blood.

  “We want to make sure we hit them with the right stuff, don’t we?” the doctor said, popping
the vial of blood into a bag. “I’m a bit surprised you haven’t fought this off yourself. I see you’ve never been sick before? Nothing? No infection of any kind?”

  James shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

  “Remarkable! I’ve never met anyone who hasn’t at least had a cold!”

  “Yeah, I’ve been lucky, I guess.”

  “Well, you must have a very robust immune system. Anyhow, we’ll give this bug a knock on the head and you’ll do the rest.”

  “Thanks, Doctor.”

  The bug was identified as Staphylococcus aureus—the common staph infection. Easily treated once not resistant to antibiotics. James was moved from his private room to a ward with three other men—each of them carrying a full manifest of noisy passengers.

  It should be mentioned that referring to these signals as “noise” is not a proper description of James’ experience. The sensation is impossible to describe, much as it is impossible to describe light to someone who has been born blind, or sound to the deaf. One can only use similes, and the irritation that noise brings to someone suffering from a headache is as good an analogy as any.

  When James did drift off, sleep produced another visit to his insides. The period of adjustment was short this time, and he established his bearings quickly. The smell was still there, but the scene was different. In the previous visits, the movements of the little golden globes had been more purposeful, the fishy stench more strident, blasting out a Wagnerian-style aria with staccato accents. Now it was milder, but a fresher, sharper smell was pulsing along beside it, razor-sharp. The sound and image that suggested was baleful, like that of a dog howling at the moon.

  The bubbles’ activities slowed noticeably. Their motions were vague, almost drunken, and their numbers decreased. The olfactory howls waned, and their tone dropped to a mournful timbre. Again, the rhythm changed as the number of globes shrank, and that rhythm suggested another image, the image a thought and the thought a word.

  That word was tube.

  When James woke, the sun was streaming into the ward and he felt refreshed—almost as if nothing had happened. The itching around the injury was hardly noticeable, and his wound had vanished, stitching and all. Though he felt much better, his increased sensitivity to microbes remained. He could detect rampaging herds of the things at up to twenty paces.