Ezembe

by Jeffrey L. Morris

  “Well, you can discount the spleen; his leukocyte count is through the roof,” Pat said.

  “So his immune system is intact?”

  “Apparently so. He seems to be successfully fighting a Who’s Who of infections. The bad news is, he has quite a lot of infections.”

  “Antibiotics?” Karen asked.

  “We could try a broad spectrum. It might help fend off some of them, give him a chance to deal with the rest.”

  “We can’t just sit here, we have to do something. Do it, do it.”

  Pat analyzed James’ pocked face. “What are ya doin’ in there, kiddo?”

  James’ body was covered in black and blue marks. He shivered violently, and the sheets were drenched in sweat.

  Pat called the orderly over.

  “Yes, sah?”

  “I need some help here. What I need you to do is to help me cool this patient.”

  The orderly’s face shone in a gentle smile. “Yes, doctor, I can do this,” he said.

  “Excellent, excellent. Now, I don’t want to scare the buh-jaypers out of you or anything, but you dress up and you will need to be quarantined for a short time after your shift, do you understand, um...” Pat searched the orderly’s coat for a nametag.

  “It is Hyacinth, sah.”

  “Really? Okay, Hyacinth, just do that for me. And keep this place scrubbed down, okay?”

  “Yes, sah. I will, sah.” Hyacinth dropped his mop into its bucket, smiled at Pat with an assurance that Pat found a little unsettling, and then went to get ice.

  Pat checked James’ closed eyelids. The eyeballs danced. “He’s had R.E.M., anyhow,” he murmured. “Maybe he’s aware of this mess. That might be a good thing.”

  Karen’s nostrils flared. “Forget your damned experiments for tonight, would you, please? That’s probably what’s done this to him!”

  “But Karen,” Pat said as if she were a child, “this could be a good thing. I think...”

  “Don’t man-splain to me, you bastard!” She thumped his chest, then turned away and pulled her fingers through her hair.

  “Love, I’m only considering it in relation to some sort of game plan.”

  “I’m sorry, I...”

  “I know, love. Look, we are not going to lose this kid, all right?” He put his arm around her.

  Karen smiled weakly. “Thank you for saying that.”

  “No extra charge, love.”

  Thirty-three

  James was on multiple drips—antibiotics, saline, and the like, but they seemed to be doing little to help. Pat and Havard rushed to and from the lab with one sample after another, but James’ cornucopia of symptoms clouded any possible diagnoses. Some of the microbes were things Pat had never heard of, let alone seen.

  “Patrick,” Havard said, “in this voyage, I believe that young James is at the helm.”

  “He’s not a feckin’ yacht, Havard.”

  ~* * *~

  “Your friends are trying to help you.”

  “Yes, I can feel that, too.”

  “They do not understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “About you and I, and the way that we are.”

  “ I can make them,” James said.

  “Perhaps.”

  The process continued: the drums pounding, the rhythm relentless.

  “You told me that you’re the fifth of your line.”

  “Yes, that is correct. The first lived long ago. He was like you; he had no father to instruct him.”

  “And your father taught you?”

  “As I am teaching you now.”

  “By infecting me.”

  “Yes. This is the best way if the student’s body is robust enough, and yours certainly is. This is ancient knowledge. Many of the microbes serving you now no longer exist outside of me, and now, you. They are extinct. Within you, the information they carry becomes knowledge. This knowledge you may transform into wisdom, and this wisdom you must protect.”

  James nodded, figuratively speaking. A rudimentary understanding of what was happening to him was becoming clear.

  “Protect from what?”

  “Misuse.”

  “Misuse? It’s only information.”

  “Information such as this may be abused.”

  “But this can help people.”

  The figure’s brow furrowed. The corners of its mouth pulled the wooden lips taught across its teeth until they threatened to splinter. “And harm them,” it said, “You are a protector now, like me.”

  “Who are you? What is your name?”

  “I have had many names, James. There will be time for us later. For now, there are things I need to tell you. Things that you must learn.”

  “Okay, tell me. I’m listening.”

  “You will live a very long life.”

  Even this seemed unsurprising to James. “How long?”

  “That is hard to say. I myself have lived for almost six hundred years.”

  “Six hundred years? I’m going to live as long as that?”

  “You may. Your mutation is not precisely the same—they never are—but it is similar. So it is possible, even probable. You may live even longer. My father lived seven hundred and thirty-two years and his father approximately the same, and so on through my line, back to my great-great-grandfather, the first to be affected, and he lived to be four hundred and seventy-seven, or so tradition has it.”

  “And you have a son?”

  “I did have a son long ago, but he died.”

  “And he had this ‘gift’ also?”

  “He did.”

  The stony-faced figure stopped for a moment, and in spite of the fixed features, James sensed a sadness within.

  “Make no mistake about it, James, this is tremendous power. It is perhaps the most powerful force in existence. It is an extension of the birth of stars, of planets and moons. It is life itself, and life is brutal in its purpose.”

  ~* * *~

  Pat and Karen were at a loss. There was little they could do now. James’ body was doing things that no body should. Sores appeared on his lips and midriff, and would then vanish in under an hour. Contusions of all sizes and colors would appear, then evaporate—as if by magic. They could but look on, confused and dismayed.

  As soon as she’d heard, Peggy had jumped on a train. Karen, grateful for the distraction, picked her up at Thirtieth Street Station in Pat’s leaky old convertible. The women hugged for a minute under the dripping canvas, then Karen wiped the condensation from the windshield and drove. As they arrived at his room, James was being wheeled into the hallway, Pat and Havard trailing behind.

  “Pat! What the—?”

  “We’re taking him to surgery, Karen. Necrotizing fasciitis!”

  Karen slumped, and Havard grabbed her before she hit the floor.

  Peggy, in her blessed innocence, begged to be told what was going on.

  Karen choked out, “It’s a bacterium that kills cells. The only way we can stop it is to cut it out before it spreads.”

  Pat swore under his breath. A part of the skin on James’ shoulder was cracking and receding, exposing penny-sized pieces of muscle underneath.

  ~* * *~

  “I feel a little stressed,” said James.

  “Yes, your body is experiencing many things. You are fine.”

  “Where is my body?”

  “It is safe. Concentrate on what I am telling you for now.” The history lesson resumed. “The first of my line, a man named Zozimus, was apprentice to the most famous doctor in history: Hippocrates.”

  “The Hippocrates?”

  “Yes. Hippocrates had made significant advances on his own, but with Zozimus’ aid, his knowledge grew exponentially. Much of it has survived to this day.”

  “So your line goes back all those thousands of years?”

  “Yes, I believe I did tell you.” The figure’s voice was warm and solicitous, but powerful. The dancers drew closer now, spinning like dervishes. Their he
ads thrashed to the beat. Their microscopic companions swept around them in busy, determined swarms.

  “You must reproduce pretty late in life.”

  “You should say we, James. You are one of us, after all. Yes, we can reproduce all of our adult lives—almost to the end. Another advantage you have inherited, you see.” The mouth changed from an oval to a toothy, sanguineous smile. “Zozimus was not the last to use his knowledge to further medicine. His youngest son, Varro, my great-grandfather, produced the famed volume Res rustica, the book that identified the existence of microbes for the first time.”

  “So, I take it that all of your ancestors were involved in medicine?”

  “Not all, but most. Some were around the periphery for at least a part of their lives. Some influential, others not. I myself knew Girolamo Fracastoro as a young man. I also met Leonardo da Vinci. I am afraid I said more than I should have to both of those men. I have become more circumspect since those days.”

  “You knew Leonardo da Vinci?”

  “Yes, Leonardo and many others. You will meet many great people in your life as well, James.” He chuckled. “In fact, you already have.”

  The chunky slaps of the dancers’ feet became more strident.

  “For the benefit of all men,” James said, almost to himself.

  “Therein lies the rub, James. All living things have an equal claim, not just man. You must accept this, and I sense somehow that you do not.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. I can see it now. We climbed to the top. We have evolved above other life.”

  “No!” The word boomed like a cannon.

  “I can see it, in what you have taught me,” said James.

  “You misunderstand what you have learned. Tragically so. Humans are just another variation. Any virus has experienced as much evolution as you have.”

  “But we have progressed, they haven’t. They aren’t even alive.”

  “It is natural that you feel this way towards your own species,” the figure said impatiently, “but a human, a worm, a giraffe, a slug, a bacterium—they all fill an available niche, and that is all. However, humans have evolved as a social species. We feel strongly for our own. This is an instinct you must measure carefully. Used irresponsibly, this gift of ours is capable of damage beyond imagination: biochemical entanglements that would do far more harm than good.”

  “But I can see. I can see. This knowledge you have given me—”

  “I have given you nothing you would not have learned in the fullness of time. However, you require guidance.”

  “Then guide me.”

  “Just as an example, over the past few hundred years medicine has precipitated a consequential explosion in population. At the current rate, the human population could, in your lifetime, reach twenty trillion or more. And that is without the benefits you could bestow. The entire planet would become one single conurbation—nowhere to grow food, no wilderness, and no flora or fauna.”

  “Yes, but people can learn to manage what they have.”

  “Perhaps someday they will. But at this moment, most people cannot see past the ends of their noses. If they were to have access to this power, what do you suppose would happen?”

  “I can see what you mean, but—”

  “There are no buts about it—disaster.”

  “With what I know now, I could educate people. They would understand if I—”

  “Education is pointless. They would most certainly not understand. This is for you alone.”

  “You aren’t making any sense. Overpopulation could never get that out of hand. People would wise up long before we reached that situation,” James argued.

  “True, overpopulation at that level is impossible. Without disease, however, war and starvation will be the instruments by which numbers are curtailed. Look inside, James. Elimination through disease is the way a species is kept strong.”

  James saw some truth in this. “Okay, survival of the fittest.”

  The figure shook his head, an awkward thing for a creature made of wood. “You miss the point: medicine defeats natural selection. If a child who is genetically unfit to survive is saved by medicine, then he brings the mutation into the gene pool. At some point in the future, the human race will be almost entirely dependent on medicine to survive. The species would collapse.”

  “You are saying that we should leave the weak to die? That sounds incredibly heartless.”

  “Nature is not without cruelty. It is not realistic to expect otherwise.”

  “But being human means we look after the weak.”

  “That is very true, James. It is one of the things that made humans successful, but it may also be their downfall. Therein lies the dilemma.”

  “But we could engineer those defects out. Genetic engineering.”

  The face filled James’ consciousness. It bellowed like an angry father, “Nobody, not even those with our knowledge, is wise enough to do that!” An accusing finger pointed at James, trembling. After a moment, the figure resumed normal dimensions, and in a quieter tone, said, “Please, you must understand this.”

  The figure twisted itself around, and shouted something unintelligible to one of the dancers. An argument ensued between the two, but the language was not one James understood. It ended abruptly, and the figure turned to face him again.

  “There are other things you need to know about yourself: the things that set us apart from the rest of humanity. And we are, after all, still human. Firstly, women who are able to reproduce with us are uncommon. A mate must possess a certain amount of genetic accommodation in order to establish viable conception. However, those women who can bear our young are naturally attracted to us and we to them, which is fortuitous.”

  James wondered whimsically what sort of woman would be attracted to this large wooden figure with the enormous wooden penis. As the thought crossed his mind, he noticed a twinkle in the figure’s bloodstained eyes.

  “So we could be the start of a new generation of humans, with little or no need for medicine.”

  For once, the figure seemed pleased with one of James’ observations. It smiled again. “It will take millennia at our current rate of reproduction to even make a small dent in the population, but it is possible. If it is to be, then we are the seed, yes.”

  ~* * *~

  “Fuck me, he’s healing.” Pat’s eyes bugged out like the cartoon wolf on his tie. James’ sores were healing over before their eyes. His vitals were stable, if a bit extreme, but new symptoms were quickly replacing the old.

  Peggy, masked and covered with surgical garments, asked, “What’s going on? Can’t you do anything for him?”

  “We’re doctoring as fast as we can, love. He’s too slippery for us,” said Pat.

  Thirty-four

  Karen and Peggy slept in the small waiting room, with their arms around each other. On a sofa in the corner, Havard snored in fragmented blips, but wasn’t disturbing the ladies at all. Aside from fifteen-minute naps, none of them had slept in days.

  All thoughts of hiding James’ peculiarities from anyone in this little group had vanished. Pat filled Havard in, and Karen told Peggy the whole story.

  Peggy took it hard. “I knew he was weird about germs, but this is unbelievable. But what’s all this about? Why did all of this suddenly happen?”

  “I wish I knew,” Karen said, “but the good news is, there doesn’t seem to be anything we really need to do for him except keep him comfortable. His constitution is, well—”

  “But why is he sick? And all of those freaky diseases?”

  “We just don’t know.” Karen squeezed her hand. “He’s stable; maybe stable isn’t the word, but he’s steady enough and we can keep him comfortable, full of fluids, and so on.” She stretched a smile, and told Peggy what she told her patients when she couldn’t think of anything else to say: “I am confident.”

  “But you don’t have it? You said it’s genetic, right?”

  “From his father’s side.
We are sure of that. So I’m not affected, no.”

  “So he can pass it on?”

  “Well, this is a first, so we don’t know.” Karen held Peggy at arm’s length, and regarded her tear-stained face for a moment. “How far along are you?” she asked.

  Peggy began to sob, gently. “A little over three months.”

  “James?”

  She nodded.

  ~* * *~

  Unannounced, Bob had decided to visit the sick young man. Havard walked in on him as he tried to read the label on James’ IV, startling him. Bob rattled the IV stand, knocking it over. Havard grabbed it before it hit the floor.

  Pat had carefully neglected to give Bob any details whatsoever, and instructed Havard to do likewise. Havard agreed that Bob was best kept in the dark until it was absolutely necessary to say more.

  “Havard! How are you doing?” Bob stammered, as ran his fingernails through his hair.

  “I am wonderful, simply wonderful, Bob. So you have come to help young James. Good, good.”

  “Uh, yes, all hands on deck, eh, Doctor? A very perplexing case, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh yes, it is most unusual. Most unusual.”

  “Does the WHO database have anything like this in its files?”

  “No, no, the WHO would not have anything like this. This will make for some new entries, but that is for later, of course.”

  “Oh, of course! Young Mr. Weems’ health and well-being is paramount, I don’t need to tell you.”

  “Yes, yes,” Havard said absently as he examined James. There were some lesions, but they were healing perfectly: no scarring, no pockmarks. James’ eyes, ticking away under his lids an hour before, were now at rest. He looked better than he had in over two days.

  Pat returned from the gents and “taking a slash”, as he called it. He walked up to Bob as he strapped on his mask, and stood nose to nose with him on tiptoe. “Bob. Nice to see you. Something I can help you with?” he said, his lip pulled into a snarl.

  “I’m just checking on James here.”

  “Right. Thanks for that, Bob. I think we have it covered, okay? Thanks for stopping by.” Pat pushed in to the bed, bumping Bob aside.

  Havard pointed to a newly developed area of redness. “Look here, Patrick. Maculopapular rash.”