Ezembe

by Jeffrey L. Morris

Havard continued, matter-of-factly, “What you have now learned is laid over a scientific template: your Western education. Though, of course, it is only a fledgling understanding you have. This is very different from an individual from this traditional background. Theirs is a world of saints, demons, and ritual, but that culture has been molded by experience. Many of their beliefs are mired in ignorance, of course, but one must not throw out the baby with the bathwater, eh?” He leaned forward and said, “It was not so long ago it was like that in the West. For many, it still is. And who is to say the so-called primitive types are not correct?” Puff puff. “The notions may be strange to us, but they do understand how this thing works, what it is. These tribes identify the gift as a spirit, a spirit they have named Ezembe or Okonisho Oribo, depending on the region. Around the world there are other names, but it is all the same experience.

  “In a harsh environment, the survival of a tribe as an entity is not a given, as it has become for the West. Disease and other difficulties frequently threaten entire regions. When natural selection is pushed to its limit, any advantage or disadvantage can dramatically affect a chance of survival. In this situation, the kind of medicine a gifted one like yourself offers can be more of a disadvantage. Meted out unwisely, the individual treated would benefit, but the group as a whole suffers. A people may flourish in the care of a disciplined doctor, but perish at the hands of a fool. Do you see?”

  “Sure. You told me all about it the other night: overpopulation and all that sort of stuff.”

  “That is among the smallest of the dangers, James. The larger difficulty is subverting the process of evolution. The Africans understand the balance in an intuitive way we in the West seem to have forgotten.”

  “So you’re saying that a guy wearing a mask and shaking a rattle is a better doctor than one who uses a needle and drugs?”

  “No, I am not suggesting anything of the sort. I am saying they have, through millennia, have learned the measure of this instrument. You see?”

  “Well, it makes sense in a way, but my interpretation is different. I see evolution and all life as a struggle.”

  “Yes, of course, that is what it is.”

  “And that struggle is what achieves that ‘balance’ you speak of.”

  Havard shook his head and said, “Yes, yes, James, you are correct. But disease is our partner in life, not our enemy. The suffering it brings is short-term. Disease stalks us as a lion stalks a herd of antelope. It removes the weak and strengthens the gene pool.”

  James sighed deeply, and idly rubbed the toe of his shoe against the leg of the table. “I suppose so,” he said like a scolded child.

  “This is not to say you cannot use your talents, my boy. There are many avenues open to you still.”

  “What, sitting on it, like you do? A big fat library?”

  “No. You could be a general practitioner. Serve a small community—minding that you exercise a certain reserve.”

  James absently ran his finger in the froth at the bottom of the cup, and licked it thoughtfully off the tip. Havard raised two fingers to the waiter.

  “Okay, so we learned how to use tools and fire and make chemicals and cars and medicines, but nature gave us the intelligence to do that, just as it has given me my gift. We should use it.”

  “You are not entirely wrong, James. Good, this is good that you feel so strongly.”

  James was left momentarily stumped. “I thought you were opposed to my position?” he said.

  “Yes, that is correct, James; I am absolutely opposed. That does not mean I cannot appreciate your point of view, and enjoy your devotion to your passion. Passion is a wonderful thing. It reveals truth.”

  “Oh, okay, thank you.” James basked in the approval, but remained confused, a feeling exacerbated by another feeling that he should not be.

  “In the fullness of time, you would come to see I am correct, but it would take too long, I am afraid.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I have reached you too late in your life. For example, the Nigerian boys I mentioned—they were both indoctrinated before puberty. I was also indoctrinated at a young age. If it is done much past this point in the life of the person affected, the result may be someone who will use the gift in an immature and unwise manner.”

  “Says who?” James said, defiantly.

  “Experience tells me this, James. When I discovered you, it was essential that I observe the environment in which your gift was being nurtured.” Havard looked around at the University buildings nearby. “In this place at this time, your gift would soon be exploited in hundreds of ways, and in the long term, none of them beneficial to anyone or anything.”

  The waiter placed the cups down: click, clack.

  A flash crossed James brain, igniting a storm within. “You don’t know me, or what I might or might not do,” he nearly shouted.

  “Unfortunately, I do. Both by my association with you, which has been my pleasure, by the way, and also from personal experience. My own son. It cost him his life.”

  “I’m sorry. Really I am. When was this?”

  Havard waved his hand and choked the words, “Many, many years ago. Early nineteenth century.”

  “How?”

  “I killed him, James.”

  “You? You killed him? You killed your own son?”

  Havard’s hand, the pipe carelessly held within, dropped to his knee. “I know, you think me a monster.”

  “What do you think? You kill your own kid? That’s, that’s fucking insane.”

  “I am not insane. And it does sadden me that you cannot understand. Truth be told, I am not at peace with it even to this day. If there had been another way, if I could only have talked him around. If, if, if. But there was a softness in Robert—that was my boy’s name, Robert Eland—that caused him to lose sight of the bigger picture. We all suffer from that from time to time, naturally. I called it a ‘crime’, but of course it was no such thing. If it was anything, it was simply tragic: for him, for me, for the people he loved and wished to help. But sentiment is a pet no doctor can afford to keep.”

  “A child is not a puppy.”

  Havard’s eyes fell to the pipe. He took a box of matches from his vest pocket, and lit one with a practiced but half-hearted flourish.

  “Robert had become friendly with another physician, brilliant in a way that would have made him a household name today had his work succeeded. In the year 1822, this man came to understand that the introduction of certain types of innocuous virus into an organism could curtail bacterial infection. This is a therapy that would be considered advanced even today. Robert did not assist him openly—he knew the rules. But he was interested in this man’s progress, and fascinated by his earnest scientific process. So, I must admit, was I, but I kept my distance. My son provided no overt support, no information, nor clue. But simply conversing with this man on the subject, even simply listening to him, was enough to move him forward. It would have been a catastrophe.”

  James slurped some coffee, his cup shaking. The rising storm inside raged on, and in this relic of a man before him, he saw his own future. “So now you’re like this James Bond villain or something?” he spat.

  Havard laughed roundly. “That is a good one, James. But no, I am not.”

  “Excuse me,” James said, “that is exactly what you’re like! Those guys are always spouting off about some shit like you are now. How you will ‘make the world a better place’ because the ‘politicians are too weak’ or ‘people aren’t wise enough to decide for themselves,’ or some crap. Who, exactly, died and made you boss?”

  “You are angry, James. You speak what you feel, and that is admirable. Yes, you believe this to be megalomania. I can assure you it is not. And this is not a Hollywood movie; this is life. If I had only been able to show you through my eyes, you would understand.”

  James struck out again, with no clear aim. “Maybe you’re just past it. Senile. Have you considered that? Maybe in th
is day and age, you’re just a dinosaur with your medieval crap.”

  “Yes, yes, I know you feel like this, James. Hyacinth told me this when you woke two days ago.”

  Confusion quenched James’ building head of steam. “Who the hell is Hyacinth?” he said.

  “One of the African brothers I mentioned to you earlier. I befriended both of them some years ago.”

  “They were here? In Philly?”

  “Oh, yes. You needed a proper education if we were going to do this at all. Much of the information you received was from Hyacinth and his brother, Joseph. Theirs is a very pure stream, an ancient one.”

  “And who gave you permission to do all that to me, while we’re on the subject?”

  Havard sighed. “You must understand. You were already educating yourself, with Patrick’s assistance. In this circumstance, things would have ended very badly for you, for everyone. I was merely a guide. Do you object now? Do you wish it had not happened?” He leveled his gaze at James and slit his eyes. “Would you give the knowledge back?”

  “No, of course not. I’m glad it happened,” James replied, somewhat sheepishly.

  “I am as well, James. The brothers helped lay down a much richer base. To begin the process, all I had to do was get near you for a short time, when we were on the boat, and then the boys assisted me in the hospital. The transfer of knowledge was automatic from that point. You are aware of the process, in any case. You could pass this on to your son.”

  “If I were to have one.”

  “Yes, of course.” Havard nodded.

  “So what is this? Is this where you threaten to kill me unless I change my mind? Subscribe to your point of view?”

  “No, James. I will not do that. I wish it were that I could persuade you, but you will not change your point of view. Hyacinth saw that immediately.” Havard shrugged. “He has that advantage over me.”

  James digested this for a few moments, then a grim realization descended on him.

  “Those Nigerian guys, did they try to kill me last night?” He snapped to his feet. The chair went flying. “They did, didn’t they? And you told them to.”

  “No, they decided to do that themselves. And it cost them dearly. They crashed their car in that idiotic pursuit, and Hyacinth was killed. In fact, I prevented them from killing you in the hospital. I knew you would need some time. I hoped that that would make a difference.”

  James’ heart was racing. He broke into a sweat. “They couldn’t have given me a chance, at least? Just one look and they decide to snuff me?”

  “I agree, James. I believed they were too hasty. Please, sit down.” James picked up his chair, banged it on the pavement, and sat. Havard continued, “You have seen how much information can be moved by a scent on a breeze. In the African tradition, a person like yourself is trouble, and they are very quick to deal with them. Their people have a way of driving witches, as they call our kind there, into the open and eliminating them at the same time. It is crude, but effective. They use the bean of a local plant, a bean called the ‘Calabar bean’. It grows only in the region where people like you and I flourish, the Niger Delta. When the local people find a rogue individual, one that does not know his place, has not been educated in the use of his gift, they test him by forcing these beans into him. The beans contain a powerful alkaloid. They can be fatal to almost anyone, but most people simply vomit them up and so are cleared of witchcraft, although many innocent people die this way.”

  “Sounds a bit idiotic. We gave up all that crap with witches centuries ago.”

  “That is true, we did give all of that crap up, every bit of it. And it might seem idiotic, but the thing is, that bean is always fatal to a ‘witch’. It may kill an innocent person, but it will always kill someone of our physiology.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. They’re doing it out of fear. It’s just superstition.”

  “They do it from experience. I tell you again, they know the dangers. Their ‘superstitions’ are based on observation. People in the Middle East avoid pork on religious grounds, yes?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “This is because it was observed that eating pork is dangerous. So, to prevent an uneducated population from poisoning themselves, a religious law was made. You see, James, religion and superstition go hand in hand with a passing nod to science. If you look at us, we are really not so different in the West. People in the West do many things out of fear and superstition. Here in America as much as any other place, if not more.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Your arguments need work, Dr. Troelson,” James said bitterly. “You’re running back to the Dark Ages.”

  “Well, you could be right, but your point is moot, I am afraid. You have ingested enough of that bean to kill several witches.”

  James’ eyes fell to his empty mug, his mouth agape. He had been too caught up in the argument to notice before, but his world was vibrating now. His muscles twitched. He was having difficulty breathing.

  “There is no antidote, not for you in any case. Your body is no longer maintaining equilibrium with the microbes you have accumulated. One might say they are ending their contract with you.”

  The waiter came to pick up the mugs, and James recognized him as the man wielding the gun the previous evening. Joseph cleared the cups. “I am sorry, my brother. Ezembe na-wah-oh.” He put his hand on James’ shoulder.

  “What? What the fuck? What are you trying to tell me?”

  Havard translated, “Ezembe na-wah-oh: so it goes with Ezembe.”

  “Forgive me, my brother.” Joseph turned and walked away.

  Havard scratched his knuckles and gazed at the rooftops, avoiding the sight of James trembling in his seat. “You have some time: not much, but some. If you want to say something, perhaps a message for your mother or your young lady?”

  A student at the next table noticed James slide out of his chair, and ran to help, shouting, “Call nine-one-one, man!”

  “Well, James, anything you wish to say?” Havard said calmly.

  The convulsions were stronger now. James’ eyes widened. Deep red lines bordered his eyeballs, and he began to weep blood. His lips curled like shriveling petals, and he sprayed spittle and blood at Havard through clenched teeth.

  Havard stood to his full height and said, “I understand. I will think of something to say to them for you. They must be considered in this desperate hour.”

  James stuck his fingers down his throat and began to retch. Havard tipped his head and winked. “A clever move, James.”

  “I think he’s choking. Anyone know the Heimlich maneuver?” yelled the helpful man. He waved and said to Havard. “Hey, man, can’t you see your friend is in trouble?”

  “Yes, of course. I will go to find a phone.”

  A second man came to the rescue. He hoisted James to his feet. James was still trying to get his fingers down his throat as the man pulled his shoulders back and began heaving on his chest.

  James felt his spine numb. One by one, the electrical ember in each of his nerve cells dimmed until, finally, his breath left him.

  Havard walked the cracked paving, stopped at the corner, and looking over his shoulder, saluted. Then he rounded the corner and was gone.

  Thirty-eight

  An entry from the personal ledger of Dr. Havard Troelson

  Over the last two centuries or so, I have often wondered what, if anything, the Greek god Chronos might have felt about eating his own children. Or, for that matter, any of those Greek deities or semi-deities who killed each other willy-nilly. Did they feel remorse? Did they feel vindicated by a sense of duty?

  They probably felt nothing. They were gods, after all, and as such, above the pitiable woes and guilt of common folk. I sincerely doubt they would have been very pleasant individuals in any case. Hippocrates’ greatest service to humanity was to strike the lot of them from our consciousness.

  After James gasped his last, my preference would have been to get on a boat right there and t
hen. I did not. I would liked to have let wind fill canvas and ride over wave and out of sight of all of this, but I remained in Philadelphia and attended James’ service. Of course, there was no body at the service. When the Medical Examiner couldn’t determine a cause of death, Doctor Scholl convinced him to first isolate, then incinerate James’ body in the interest of public health. I myself wasn’t present for the post-mortem, but Hyacinth’s similarly grotesque corpse was in that same morgue, and that had sparked speculation that the city was at the center of some mystery outbreak. This outraged Pat. He marched straight to the M.E.’s offices and, directly to his face, called him a quack. The examiner was only being prudent, of course, but he needn’t have worried. When one of our kind dies, the microscopic cast of trillions within perishes also, which of course makes James’ story all the more tragic.

  I would have sailed away if I could. I would have found a solid craft, and sailed across the gray Atlantic and into the blue Mediterranean. I am an old man. I deserve a retirement. But that would have been churlish.

  I comforted Karen, and even helped with arrangements. I also bedded her before I left. Then, six weeks after my return to Copenhagen, she came to visit me and stayed with me on St. Ingrid. She remained for over a month.

  Pat blamed himself, at least partially, though he had no cause. In the months that followed, his behavior became increasingly erratic, until eventually he was removed from his position and fell into a bottle of Irish whiskey. Later, when his self-esteem sank to zero, he abased himself with common Scotch, and within a year was placed in a facility where he was eventually diagnosed as being affected by an unusual strain of T. gondii—assumed to be a mutant strain from his own lab. But no trace of that strain was found anywhere outside of Pat himself. In fact, this was an extinct variety of the beast, an ancestor of his precious pets that presently resides only within myself.

  Of all the distasteful things I have done in my life, what I was forced to do to this man remains one of my greatest regrets.

  Perhaps James was right when he characterized me as a movie villain. Perhaps those figments of Mr. Fleming’s imagination started out with high ideals, and simply degenerated into common thugs. But I’m far too old to be concerned with those sorts of moral judgments. I’m a doctor. Doctors do what doctors must.