by Tiffany Tsao
“—people in the Worlds are capable of retaining information about the More Known World. I know. What is that fraction exactly?”
“Efforts at random sampling suggest one in one hundred and fifty.”
“There are about six-point-six billion people in the world. That means, theoretically, a total of forty-four million people should be able to learn about the More Known World.” Mildred smiled. “I know percentagewise, it’s small, but in absolute terms, it’s hardly a number to sneer at.”
Always one to appreciate excellent argumentation, the One smiled as well. “A valid point. And I suppose, if it’s done right . . .”
Mildred watched the One in astonishment. It was clear that the older woman had picked up the essential principles of how the website would work just from the few words that had passed between them. In the lineaments of the One’s face, she could see the great mind extending itself like a rapidly growing tree, forming branches and buds, sending out roots, tracing the paths that were logical extensions of Mildred’s plan, but that Mildred herself had not foreseen.
The One turned her large dark eyes on Mildred. “The only thing is . . .”
Mildred could see the One was now wandering in some worrisome potential future where she herself could not go.
“The only thing is what?” Mildred asked after a while.
The One shook her head. “Unlikely. Highly improbable,” she muttered. “And besides, people must know! There’s so much more!”
She turned her gaze back to Mildred. And even though Mildred was fairly sure what the One’s decision would be, her heart gave an uncertain flutter.
“I give my consent,” said the One, to the younger woman’s relief. “Tell me what you need. Within reason.”
At that moment, the Other careened back into their midst, clutching the trembling creature in one hand and patting it enthusiastically with the other. “I agree with the One,” he proclaimed.
“You always agree with me,” the One said. She sounded mildly disapproving.
The Other shrugged. “Can’t be bothered to think for myself. Cuts into exploring time. Are we done yet?”
Mildred had been too thrilled to follow the remainder of the conversation. And even now—marinating in that blood-drenched land, the smell of metal assailing her nostrils, her annoyance at the citizens of Flee Town still raising her hackles—she could smile at the memory of how it all started. This was the most exciting, most challenging, most rewarding venture she’d ever embarked on. The chance of a lifetime. And the funny thing was that Greg was partly to thank for it. She smiled again, charitably this time. Closing her eyes, she prayed sincerely to whoever was in charge of the universe that, somewhere out there, Greg was very miserable indeed.
“You’re quiet today,” noted the One. “Usually you’re badgering me with questions.”
Mildred shrugged. “I thought I’d give both of us a break. You’ll just have to put off dying, won’t you?”
It was the kind of joke that Mildred wouldn’t have dared to make even a few months ago, but she had spent a lot of time in the One’s company recently and had a good sense of what would amuse her and what wouldn’t. Intelligent impudence fell into the former category. Practical jokes and puns fell into the latter.
The One gave a mock scowl. “Maybe I’ll die right now. Just to make your job that much harder.”
Mildred was silent for some time before she finally spoke. “Please don’t. We’ve barely scratched the surface. There’s still a lot you need to pass on.”
They were quiet. And as Mildred tactfully turned away and looked towards the horizon, the One coughed, produced a black handkerchief from the folds of her shawl, and spat into it discreetly.
“I don’t know what you’re going to do with everything I tell you,” said the One. “If you include even a tenth of it on the website, you’ll put people to sleep.”
“It won’t all go on the website verbatim,” said Mildred. “But what I learn from you is important. The Quest’s history, its founding, all the things you’ve seen and experienced, everything you’ve discovered and developed—they’ll inform the website’s content and form in both tangible and intangible ways. At least, that’s my intention. And website aside, your knowledge and experiences should be preserved for posterity in the Compendium. Before—” Mildred faltered, but finished. “. . . It’s too late.”
The One pursed her lips. “But it’s too rushed. You following me all the time, pestering me with incessant questions. These are hardly ideal conditions under which to communicate knowledge.” She paused. “Still, given the circumstances, I suppose it can’t be helped.”
“Hospital,” said someone. A child’s voice.
For the second time that day, Mildred started in surprise. She looked up. Standing before them was Henry’s son. She didn’t dislike the Flee Town children as she did Henry and the rest of the adults, but they did baffle her. Even though they were as quiet as their parents, their silence was different somehow: less shifty, less sullen. Their movements differed too—nimble and rustling, like the wind.
“Thank you, Garamond,” the One said, rising to her feet with some effort.
“What is it?” Mildred asked her.
“Hospital,” the One repeated unhelpfully. Then she added, “Ann and Murgatroyd must have arrived.”
At last, thought Mildred. She looked to Garamond for confirmation, but he had already disappeared.
“Hurry up!” called the One. She too had left the porch and was hobbling briskly away towards the centre of town.
CHAPTER 4
Murgatroyd had been inside a hospital only four times in his life.
The first was when he was born. He remembered nothing of it.
The second was when he was six and his mother took him to the children’s ward at Singapore General Hospital, where she had signed up as a volunteer to read the patients stories. Murgatroyd had the time of his life. It was the first time he’d ever played with other children.
But all good things, as his mother never tired of reminding him, had to come to an end, and soon it was time to go.
When Murgatroyd and his mother had left the ward, she turned to him.
“That was fun, wasn’t it?” she said.
Little Murgatroyd nodded vigorously.
“Shall we do it again sometime soon?” she asked.
Murgatroyd almost leapt for joy.
“Oh, but wait,” his mother said. “We mightn’t be able to after all.”
Murgatroyd’s heart sank. “Why not?” he asked timidly.
“They all have terminal illnesses, my darling. Soon they will die.”
The third time Murgatroyd had been to a hospital was after the school found out he hadn’t been immunized against anything, and told his parents that he would have to get his shots if he were to continue his studies. Murgatroyd remembered his parents being very annoyed and the injections being very painful.
The fourth time was when his best friend, Kay Huat, had broken both arms while paragliding. The accident coincided with Kay Huat’s Russian literature–loving phase, and Murgatroyd sat by his friend’s bedside for several days, holding War and Peace open for him and turning the pages.
From these visits, Murgatroyd had come to associate hospitals with multistoreyed towers and long, confusing corridors—with white linoleum, plastic curtains, and the smell of antiseptic. Flee Town Hospital had nothing of the kind.
From the outside, there was little to distinguish it from any of the other buildings in the settlement. There was a wooden sign proclaiming FLEE TOWN HOSPITAL in incongruously ornate script. There were two extensions jutting out from either side like awkward stubby wings—slightly newer looking and hence most likely added after the construction of the main building. But apart from these features, the hospital could have easily been any of the large houses or shops or other buildings he and Ann had passed on their way into town, cobbled together from bloodwood planks of various reds, oranges, and pinks.
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The waiting room on the other side of the front door was unlike any Murgatroyd had ever encountered either, piled high with burgundy cushions and lined in shaggy mottled pelts and velour. Ann told Murgatroyd to stay there while she went out again to get them something to eat, and it was only after several minutes of sitting that he realized he was not alone. Nestled among the cushions and fur were a young man with his left leg encased in a dirty cast and a middle-aged woman pressing a bloody cloth to a wound on her cheek. Both were stone silent and stared blankly ahead.
A young man wearing a blood-stained apron—a doctor or nurse, Murgatroyd supposed—appeared and stomped his foot twice to get their attention. Immediately the woman stood up, spilling a few drops from the blood-soaked rag, and Murgatroyd guessed why the pillows were of that colour: the bloodstains would probably be undetectable when they dried. Then the man and woman disappeared without a sound.
Scooting closer to the young man with a broken leg, Murgatroyd attempted to strike up a conversation. “What happened?” he asked, pointing to the cast.
The man said nothing and looked uncomfortable.
“You look uncomfortable,” noted Murgatroyd. “Your leg must hurt.”
The man began fingering the large gold pendant around his neck.
“Erh, nice necklace,” Murgatroyd persisted, feeling his ears go red and his Singaporean patterns of speech returning. “Looks very ex. I mean, erh, must be very expen-seeve one. Erh, I mean . . .”
The man turned pale. He scrambled to his feet as fast as his physical condition would allow. Right then, Ann entered and quickly deduced what was going on.
“Apologies. He’s new,” she said.
The man sat back down and scowled.
“Don’t make conversation,” muttered Ann. “It’s not done here.” Then she pressed something into Murgatroyd’s hands: two porous slabs of cherry-coloured bread, and between them, a slice of pink rubber and a squishy fuchsia paste.
“Cheese and sour cream on red rye,” said Ann. “It’s a local staple. This one is for you. I ate mine on the way over.”
Murgatroyd took a bite. It wasn’t bad. He wolfed the rest of it down.
“Does the One know we’re here?” he mumbled, spraying flecks of soggy cheese and bread in her direction.
“I asked one of the children outside to tell her.”
Suddenly a look of panic crossed his face. “Why are we meeting at a hospital? Is the One all right?”
“The body is here.”
“‘The body’? You mean Nimali?”
Ann nodded. “This is where they probably did the autopsy. It’s the logical place to meet.”
Murgatroyd felt his knees go weak as he recalled in full why they were there: the murder, third in a series that was sending fear pulsing through the Questian community like ripples through a pond. The victims had some things in common. They were all Oddfit Questians, they were all exploring uncharted or relatively new Territories when their bodies had been discovered, and they had all met their ends in the same brutal way. But beyond these similarities, there was no discernible pattern. It was perplexing, not to mention terrifying. In fact, if Murgatroyd was honest with himself, a small part of him was grateful that he was still an apprentice. The prospect of going on expeditions alone while a mysterious killer was on the loose terrified him, and though he hadn’t told Ann, he’d spent the time he had gotten lost on the way back from China-Plummet in a state of constant fear, which he had only barely suppressed by keeping his pocket knife at the ready the entire time.
“Why would anyone want to kill Questians?” murmured Murgatroyd.
“We don’t know,” Ann answered. “I suspect the One wants us to find out.”
Ann’s guess didn’t surprise Murgatroyd too much. As the One’s former protégé and one of the most capable individuals on the Quest, Ann was often called on for assistance with unusual situations, including the matter of Murgatroyd’s recruitment. What did surprise him was the completely ordinary way in which Ann said this, as if the One had asked for help with something mundane—something that didn’t involve someone getting murdered.
And not just any someone either, Murgatroyd remembered with a start.
“Nimali was your abodemate!” Murgatroyd blurted.
Ann gave him a faintly quizzical look, and he faltered.
“Wasn’t she?” he asked.
“Yes. But why do you ask?”
“N-No reason,” he stammered. “It’s just, erh . . . She must have lived with you for her whole apprenticeship period.”
“Yes,” answered Ann.
“So you must have known her well.”
Ann reflected. “I suppose,” she said, and then she opened her mouth again, as if she were about to say more. But then she didn’t, and Murgatroyd couldn’t help but feel aghast.
New recruits were always assigned to live with a more senior Questian—a safety measure that was introduced in the late 1950s, shortly after the very first recruit, Martin Camberwell, was “briefly misplaced” only moments after being installed in an abode of his very own in a lesser-known Territory so lesser known that Martin’s mentor, the Other, promptly forgot where it was. Martin was recovered several days later, in reasonable health all things considered, but very anxious.
Murgatroyd himself was currently sharing an abode with a Oddfit Questian from Senegal named Pierre whom he had grown very fond of, and who he liked to imagine had grown fond enough of him to be at least somewhat dejected if he were to be informed of Murgatroyd’s sudden and violent demise. He for one would certainly be sad if Pierre were to die, and even now he was assailed by a whole host of pleasant memories associated with his abodemate, who was both extraordinarily hospitable and extraordinarily tidy. When Murgatroyd had first shown up on Pierre’s doorstep, he had received a warm welcome in the form of a hug and head-to-toe misting of disinfectant. Whenever Pierre offered Murgatroyd a slice of freshly baked cake, he always held a small broom and dustpan in one hand to sweep up the inevitable crumbs. One morning, Murgatroyd woke up to find he had been made into his bed, the pillow under his head fluffed and straightened, and the blanket drawn up over his entire being like a burial shroud. Murgatroyd wondered if similar memories of Nimali were going through Ann’s mind now. They must be, he reflected.
Ann yawned and flicked a piece of lint off her long green skirt.
Time passed slowly. The man in the apron returned and again stomped twice, and the man in the cast followed him to the back of the hospital. Ann occupied herself by doing push-ups and unravelling the corner of the rug. Murgatroyd began counting cushions.
He had just reached forty-two when the front door opened and the One hobbled in, followed by an Asian woman whom Murgatroyd didn’t recognize.
“How was China-Plummet?” asked the One. Her question was directed at Ann, but she gave Murgatroyd a nod of greeting as well.
“Foggy,” said Ann. “Is the Other here?”
The One shook her head. “You know him. He wanted to get back to exploring. Have you seen the body?”
“We were waiting for you.”
The One frowned. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“I didn’t see the point of hurrying,” replied Ann coolly, even though she was somewhat surprised at the One’s annoyance.
The One gazed at her former protégé with a complex emotion that Murgatroyd couldn’t quite place. Like disappointment. But also affection. But also worry.
“Didn’t you?” she muttered before a fit of coughing descended on her. She held her handkerchief to her mouth until it subsided. “Well, you’ll see it now. Where’s Chester?”
Even before she asked this last question, she had left the room and was now making her way down the corridor towards the rear of the hospital, where Chester was presumably to be found.
“Mildred,” the One’s companion said, extending her hand in introduction.
“Murgatroyd,” said Murgatroyd, shaking it.
“Mildred,” Ann
repeated, in lieu of her own name. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Good things, I hope,” said Mildred with a grin.
“Very,” said Ann, but without warmth. Mildred’s smile vanished.
“Yes!” chirruped Murgatroyd. “I heard you’re going to make a website!”
“It’s true.” Mildred beamed. “The logistics have been more complicated than I’d hoped, but I’ve managed to assemble a team of IT-savvy Sumfits who should be able to pull it off.”
“How?” asked Murgatroyd wonderingly. “Internet doesn’t work in the More Known World.”
“The team’s based in the Known World. We communicate by mobile phone.” She held up a sleek silver Nokia. “I work from the clearing next to the Compendium.”
Murgatroyd knew what clearing she meant. Although mobile phones did work in the More Known World, there were very few places one could get reception. Ann’s abode was one of them (except for the rare occasions when the floating wooden block she called home drifted from its usual spot). The clearing near the Compendium in Bolivia-Aspersion was another, and consequently, several mobile phones had been stationed there permanently in a tarp-covered bucket to receive calls from people responding to leaflets and ads. Sometimes someone actually answered them. Every few weeks, when someone remembered, they were brought to the Known World to be recharged.
“So what are you doing here?” Ann asked. Her tone was innocent, but the question was pointed nonetheless.
Something inside Mildred tensed. She looked Ann in the eye. “The One has decided to impart everything she knows to me.” She paused to let this information sink in before she continued. “I’m writing it all down so I can refer to it if the website isn’t finished by the time she . . . goes.”
“So you’re following her everywhere now?” Ann remarked placidly. “Must be hard work for a Sumfit.”
Mildred rolled up a sleeve to expose a skeletal arm, streaked with what looked like blue lightning. Murgatroyd gasped. Mildred gazed thoughtfully at it, as if she were admiring a network of rivers on a map. “You could say that,” she said with a light shrug. “But these days, she doesn’t travel as much as she used to. In a way, it’s a good thing you took your time in coming. It’s given me some time to recuperate. The One didn’t want to miss your arrival.” She turned to Murgatroyd and said in a friendly, confidential aside, “Don’t worry. The other arm looks much better.”
