by Tiffany Tsao
Now, recent events had caused the seed to sprout. All the questions Mildred had been asking about the Quest’s history—its founding, its development—were partly to blame, but she knew the real culprit was her bodily decline. Ann had been more right than she knew when she had joked about the One getting soft. And the One had been more serious than Ann knew when she had remarked that she was caving in. For her whole life, the One had kept her emotions behind a high-walled dam. She had released them at will, at appropriate times, in appropriate amounts. She had withheld them from her assessments of people, places, and situations, to prevent them from colouring her judgement—and she couldn’t have been happier with the whole arrangement. However, with the accelerated deterioration of her body, the walls of the dam had begun to crumble, the contents behind to trickle and spurt through. And though she tried her best to patch up the leaks, there was no changing the fact that the dam was beyond any real repair.
Now feelings began to seep into her recollections of the past. As dry and dispassionate as she kept her answers to Mildred’s questions—how she had met Yusuf and how they had met Hector; where the idea for the Quest had come from; how she had discovered the existence of the More Known World—in reality, her remembrances were moistened, sometimes soaked, with sentiment. It was thus with the desiccated memories of her late and former friend as well—they were now undeniably damp. The hard case around the bladed seed had softened. The edge of a pale seedling had poked through, and now the seedling was pushing steadily through the soil of her inner being, sawing its way upwards and outwards to sunlight and freedom.
We were wrong, it whispered in Yusuf’s voice—in the same sorrowful tone he had used during that fateful quarrel so many years ago.
Yes, but we fixed it, she hissed inwardly, as she had back then.
The inevitable reply: It can’t be fixed. There will be consequences.
Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, Yusuf, look how much good we’re doing.
It doesn’t cancel out.
“Yes, it does.”
As these last words tumbled from her lips, her eyes flew open at the shock of hearing them uttered out loud. She looked around the room—at the four-poster bed and the bovquito-suede curtains, at the fur-upholstered window seat and the chest of drawers whose colour reminded her of the violet-red skins of the mangosteens she ate as a child. The solidity of these furnishings calmed her, and she shoved the irrational guilt that had broken loose inside her back into its container and shut the lid. There.
“We did fix it,” she murmured serenely, assuredly, restored to her proper senses once more.
A sharp rap on the door startled her, though she recalled almost immediately who it probably was. Slowly, painfully, she rose to her feet, slung her travel bag across her shoulders, and opened the door.
“Ann said you were ready?” Mildred asked.
“Yes,” the One replied. “Let’s go.”
While Ann had been talking to the One upstairs, Murgatroyd had been downstairs with Mildred, enjoying a pint of bloom, though enjoying wasn’t quite the right word. It wasn’t that Murgatroyd didn’t like the tangy, creamy drink—he did. And it wasn’t that Murgatroyd didn’t like Mildred’s company—he did, or rather, he suspected he would have if it weren’t for the thing that was preventing him from considering this an enjoyable time. The same thing, he strongly suspected, was also preventing Mildred from considering this an enjoyable time, and her annoyance at it had an inevitable effect on what would otherwise have been an enjoyable conversation about, well, something. As things were, it wasn’t an enjoyable conversation so much as a prolonged attempt at enjoyable conversation. Or to be more precise, a prolonged attempt at enjoyable conversation in a crowded yet completely silent room, with everybody else giving them surly stares, and with Mildred muttering every now and then sentences like, “I hate this place,” “I hate these people,” and “I’m so glad I’m finally getting out of here,” which seemed to only deepen the silence and intensify the glares of those around them.
“Do you ever miss your parents?” Mildred asked, making yet another attempt at banter. “Despite all the horrible things they did to you?”
In other conditions, Mildred’s voice would have been a barely audible murmur. Under the present circumstances, her voice seemed to boom and echo from the rafters, broadcasting Murgatroyd’s personal history to everyone.
“Erh, w-well . . . ,” he stammered, turning red. He had never known silence could be so distracting. “How did you, erh . . .”
“Know? Everyone does,” Mildred declared, or rather, seemed to declare. “Everyone on the Quest, that is. You’re famous.”
“No, lah,” Murgatroyd said, ears burning.
“Seriously, you are,” said Mildred. “Everyone wonders how you were able to retain so much of your oddfittingness after being in the Known World for so long. You were supposed to have extraordinary abilities.”
“I was?” squeaked Murgatroyd with pleasure, trying to ignore the black looks from the table next door.
“You were,” Mildred affirmed. “They all think it’s a shame.”
“A shame that what?”
“That you don’t.”
“Oh.”
The silence engulfed them once more. Mildred took a long draught of her bloom. “I hate this place,” she muttered.
“Erh. What about you?” asked Murgatroyd, making a valiant attempt to revive their exchange. “You’re a Sumfit, aren’t you? How come you left the Known World?”
Everyone’s ears seemed to prick up as Mildred’s face darkened. “I’ll tell you some other time.”
“Oh,” said Murgatroyd. He sipped his bloom.
Mildred shrugged. Seconds passed. “I can’t wait to leave,” Mildred confided for the fifth time that night to everyone in the room. “I don’t feel like myself here.”
“Who do you feel like?” asked Murgatroyd, confused.
“It’s an expression.”
“Oh. Right.”
Murgatroyd felt someone’s hand on his shoulder. It was Ann.
“The One’s ready,” she said, addressing Mildred and pulling up a chair.
Mildred’s eyes lit up. “Thank you,” she said cordially. Then she seemed to remember something. “If you still want to talk to the guy who found Nimali, he’s over there.” She pointed in the direction of the bar. “The one in the purple fur coat.”
Ann turned to look at him, along with everyone else. The man in the purple coat scowled.
“Good luck,” said Mildred, turning to leave.
“Mildred, I’m sorry,” blurted Ann.
That was all she needed to say. Mildred smiled. “It’s all right,” she said. Then she dashed up the stairs and was gone.
“What did the One want to talk to you about?” asked Murgatroyd.
“She’s asked us to find the killer,” said Ann.
Murgatroyd’s eyes widened, partly out of fear. “Really? When do we start?”
“Now.”
“Couldn’t it get dangerous?”
“What a ridiculous question,” scoffed Ann. “Of course it could.”
“Aren’t you scared?”
Ann paused to reflect. “No,” she finally concluded. “Not particularly.”
Murgatroyd stared at her. “How can you not be?”
Ann shrugged.
Murgatroyd shook his head wonderingly. “I’m scared,” he admitted.
They were both silent for a while. “You know,” said Ann reluctantly. “The One did say you didn’t have to come with me. I said you’d probably be safer with me, but she doesn’t think so.”
Murgatroyd thought about this. “No, I want to come with you.”
Ann nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you,” she reaffirmed.
“It’s not that,” said Murgatroyd. “You shouldn’t go alone. You said it yourself. It’s dangerous.”
Ann was very moved, and to demonstrate her appreciation, she frowned at him in the warmest and gentle
st of all possible manners before rising to her feet with the intention of leaving. “I’m going to talk to the man who found the body,” she said.
“Erh, I was thinking of going outside to take a look at the market,” said Murgatroyd. “Want to join me when you’re done?”
“No,” said Ann. “You go ahead. I have some documents to read.”
Then Ann sprinted away, for upon hearing from across the room that Ann intended to interrogate him, the man in the purple fur coat had downed the rest of his bloom and bolted for the front door.
Murgatroyd finished the rest of his own bloom and sighed.
“I’ll show you.”
He jumped. The words had come from behind him. Spinning around in his seat, he found himself face-to-face with the tavern owner’s son.
“Erh. Say again?”
“I’ll show you,” the boy repeated inaudibly before belatedly adding, “the market.”
“Oh. Right.”
The boy pointed to himself. “Garamond.”
“Murgatroyd,” said Murgatroyd.
“I know.”
Unbeknownst to Murgatroyd, Garamond had been observing him and Ann since their arrival. From these observations, Garamond had concluded that Murgatroyd was what his father would call “a decent chap.” Without another word, the boy disappeared and reappeared just as quickly with two shaggy coats—a small one evidently his own, and a larger one for Murgatroyd.
“Borrow,” he explained as he held it out to Murgatroyd, who slipped it on over his T-shirt, and together they stepped through the back door and were greeted by a blast of cold air—not freezing, but brisk enough for Murgatroyd to appreciate Garamond’s generosity in lending him somebody’s coat. He looked down at his flip-flops and wondered if it was too late to ask if he could borrow a pair of socks.
“Fire,” said Garamond, pointing towards the centre of the market, where the stalls and crowds seemed to be the thickest.
Murgatroyd thought this was a good idea, and together they plunged into the throng.
It was warm among all the people, and as they drew closer to the bonfire, it grew warmer still. The flames were the highest Murgatroyd had ever seen. They towered over the marketgoers’ heads and sent dark curls of smoke billowing into the sky. Around this source of warmth, the market tents stood in such densely packed concentric circles that people were forced to walk single file down each curved row—an arrangement that imposed a surprising orderliness on the night’s proceedings. If one wanted to visit a stall in any given row, one walked slowly in the same direction as everyone else past all the tents until one came to the desired destination, whereupon one slipped into the vendor’s tent and browsed or placed one’s order. If the tent was full, one remained in circulation until there was room. To change rows, one waited to reach the single wide path that led into and out of the market, cutting straight through all the circles to its bonfire heart. Once there, one could move with greater freedom, pick another row, and start circulating all over again.
The market wasn’t quiet, exactly; there was a band of musicians playing and the fire roaring and crackling behind them. There was the sizzle of food in various stages of grilling and sauté, and the thunk of cleaver against wood and cask against crate. There were grunts aplenty to express displeasure at someone holding up a row or trying to squeeze into an overly full tent. There were babies crying. But the market was peculiarly devoid, to Murgatroyd’s ears, of words. There were no shouts or chatter or banter—no vendors’ cries or conversational hum. And even though the other sounds, the music especially, were loud indeed, it seemed as if someone had pressed a button on a remote control and put the scene on partial mute.
Murgatroyd was happy to follow Garamond’s lead. Occasionally the boy pointed out where they should go, or else tugged at Murgatroyd’s coat sleeve to indicate a change in direction. For the most part, he walked ahead, assuming Murgatroyd would follow. They stopped first at a tent that sold jams and pickles. Garamond pointed at some sample jars on a table, and the vendor retrieved a long thin metal scoop from a water-filled jar, shook it dry, and dipped it into the orange substance Garamond had indicated. Then, with deft precision, she deposited a blob on Garamond’s waiting index finger and Murgatroyd’s hastily produced palm. Murgatroyd licked the substance, and a jolt of sour electricity ran through his tongue. It felt like biting into a razor, and the metallic warmth that permeated his mouth afterwards made Murgatroyd feel as if his gums were bleeding. Quickly his tongue darted around his mouth in search of the wound, but there was none.
“What is it?” asked Murgatroyd.
“Blood blood orange,” said Garamond, tickled at Murgatroyd’s reaction.
“Blood orange?”
Garamond shook his head. “Blood blood orange,” he repeated again, before pointing to the hand-drawn label: a rough sketch of a pockmarked, thorny sphere with a stem and leaf.
Either in approval or disapproval, Murgatroyd’s stomach growled.
“Sorry,” said Murgatroyd sheepishly.
Garamond frowned, then abruptly left the tent, leaving it up to Murgatroyd to scramble after him. In his movements, the boy was astonishingly systematic, seeming to know exactly which vendors he wanted to visit and how most efficiently to do so. They ducked into what appeared to be a baker’s shop, where they purchased two bruised pastries that looked like they were recovering from an accident. Then they shifted three rows out and placed a wordless order at a steam-filled tent. They swooped into another vendor’s, five tents down, for a small burlap sack of warm spiral-shaped nuts. Then they shifted one row in and picked up a hunk of hard magenta cheese. All these Garamond paid for with little scraps of cloth stamped with some sort of wax seal and whisked away into seemingly innumerable pockets beneath his coat, except for the last item, which was what he had ordered earlier at the steam-filled tent. It was a cloth-draped wooden slab bearing ten liquid-filled gems, each one the size of a kaffir lime.
“Soup rubies,” explained Garamond, holding them under Murgatroyd’s nose. Indeed they were—tiny purses whose skins reminded him of red stained glass, but soft and leathery. Inside each of them was a plump island of minced meat in a pool of what appeared to be liquefied gemstones. For these, Garamond handed over an alarmingly large wad of stamped cloth scraps.
They were just about to leave the tent when Murgatroyd felt a tingle in his ears. It seemed Garamond did too, for the boy turned around, cast an apologetic grin in the direction of the scrawny girl who had evidently been the source of the tingle, and fished around in his pockets with his free hand. He pulled out another scrap, placed it in the girl’s waiting palm, and generated a soundless tingle of his own.
“What was that?” Murgatroyd asked.
“One short,” Garamond muttered.
“No, I mean that thing you two did. What was that?”
Garamond looked guilty. “Nothing,” he mumbled, before exiting and slipping once again into the stream of marketgoers outside.
Garamond led Murgatroyd to the clearing by the edge of the bonfire, where the musicians were playing and where other people sat on the grass or on mats with their food and drink. Once Garamond had established Murgatroyd in a spot and surrounded him with the various foods they had just bought, he vanished and reappeared almost just as quickly with an earthenware jug.
“Water,” he said. They both began to eat.
“Erh, thanks for dinner,” said Murgatroyd, tearing into his pastry and chasing it with a bite of cheese. “I can pay you back,” he added once he had swallowed.
Garamond shook his head and smiled shyly.
“What were those things you paid with?” Murgatroyd asked.
Garamond took one out to show him. The cloth was just a bit of rag, but stamped into the wax was a crest with a grazing bovquito above a pair of disembodied hands. The image looked familiar, and Murgatroyd recalled where he had seen it—on the signboard outside the Bovquito Arms.
“Each one is worth one pint of bloom,” murmured Gara
mond, pointing to the chit, then panting a little as if trying to catch his breath. It was the most Murgatroyd had heard him say in one go.
“Hands?” asked Murgatroyd, pointing at the seal again.
“Arms. Dad’s joke. Bovquitoes don’t have any.”
Garamond demonstrated how the soup rubies should be eaten—pinched between thumb and forefinger and placed into one’s mouth whole. Murgatroyd followed suit. They didn’t taste as good as he thought they would. Like iron, he thought. But once swallowed, each one left him immensely satisfied, as if he’d eaten an entire tureen of hearty stew. He barely managed to finish his share.
“Full,” said Murgatroyd when Garamond offered him the sack of nuts. He was unconsciously beginning to mimic Garamond’s spare speech.
Garamond was insistent. “Warm,” he said.
Murgatroyd took a spiral, blew on it, and popped it into his mouth. It burst, and a torrent of molten lava gushed out and scalded his tongue.
He screamed—at which the musicians stopped playing and everyone turned to stare.
“Erh, sorry,” said Murgatroyd, flushing as red as the grass. After a few seconds, activity began to resume.
Garamond corrected himself—“Hot”—and offered Murgatroyd a swig from the jug of water.
They sat there for a while, enjoying the music. The silence now enveloping them was entirely different from the silence Murgatroyd had experienced earlier when he was sitting inside with Mildred. It was partly because of the music, of course, but it was as if something had changed within Murgatroyd as well, shifting, rendering him able to appreciate the wordlessness of his surroundings as Garamond and the other Fleetowners did. There was a comforting, accepting quality to it. No one was saying anything, because nothing needed to be said, not now, not ever.
The music ended to a great wave of no applause, and as the musicians were leaving the stage, an adolescent boy suddenly sprang up in front and raced to take their spot. To Murgatroyd’s surprise, several people booed and hissed. Some even threw things at him—rinds of cheese, nut-shell fragments, a squishy fruit that exploded upon contact with the boy’s shin. Yet at the same time, several others in the audience began emitting a version of what Garamond and that girl had done back in the soup ruby tent. Murgatroyd couldn’t even comprehend it, much less describe it: a type of sound that was also, emphatically, the very opposite of sound. It was so quiet and indistinguishable that it was unmistakably a loud roar of enthusiasm. It was deafening because one felt precisely as if one were stone deaf. Murgatroyd glanced over at Garamond and realized that he too was contributing to the mass tingle, which seemed to be having an encouraging effect on the would-be performer, who began closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. The deafening nonsound subsided. Then the adolescent too emitted a tingle—a preamble or opening of some sort. There was no stopping him now. The booers and hissers rose to their feet in disgust and began walking away. Murgatroyd noticed that those who departed were markedly older than those who stayed. The clearing was now populated entirely by children, teenagers, and youngish adults who had grown very still, entranced by the performance before them.
