by Tiffany Tsao
Benn wished he could have been there to witness the Reddening first hand instead of hearing about it from the older folks, and he fantasized about what it would have been like if he had arrived in this land earlier, if he could have seen with his own two eyes the colourless landscape becoming prosperous and vibrant and bright. Still, he also knew that the circumstances under which he had come here had been so fortuitous and impossible to replicate that he should just thank his lucky stars that he was here at all.
It wasn’t that life in the other world had been bad, exactly. His memories were hazy, and he recalled a redheaded mother who baked cakes and liked to sing, and a lean, ruddy-cheeked father who’d take him fishing sometimes. He recalled liking school and having some pretty good times with his mate, Pete P. (not to be confused with Pete S., who’d been a real wanker. It was funny what one remembered and one didn’t). Yet he also recalled that, for his entire life, he’d always felt out of place in some way, as if something had never been quite right.
Around the time it had happened, he’d been crazy about ancient civilizations: the Greeks and the Romans, the Egyptians and Mesopotamians, the Vikings and Visigoths, the Aztecs and Incas and Mayans. And to this day, he still remembered why. Reading about such things would relieve that feeling of not-rightness somehow, as if those were the times and places where he truly belonged. In fact, it had been a book about the Incas—a present from his nan for his eleventh birthday—that had been tucked under his arm that fateful night so many decades ago, when he’d crept out of his parents’ cabin to lean against the railings on the upper deck, to get some fresh air and look out at the sea. The South Pacific: that much he remembered, along with how big the ship had been, with hundreds of other passengers on board and fancy dress-up dinners every night. He also recalled what had been passing through his head when he vanished: “mopey thoughts,” his mum would have called them. Thoughts about how alone he felt and how he wished he were an Inca—not a commoner or a sacrificial victim, of course, but he reckoned being a warrior or noble would’ve been all right.
And that’s when he must have passed through the crack. One second he was pressing his forehead and chin against the railing that separated him from the ocean; the next he was thrashing about madly in a red sea in broad daylight. He must have been too surprised to swim, because everything went black after that. When he woke, he was flat on his back, staring up into the face of his future wife, _____. The rest was history. He became part of their community. When he was a little older, he got married and was almost immediately widowed. And a few years after that, when Yusuf arrived on their shores, emaciated and disillusioned and thoroughly astonished to find them there, he became Yusuf’s friend and ice cream–making partner.
Come to think of it, this was the very cliff where he had first spied the drifting raft bearing Yusuf’s unconscious, sun-stricken form. He remembered it as if it were yesterday: scrambling down the steep path to tell the others, then heading out in a boat with ____ and ___ ___ to save the man, just as he himself had been saved so many years ago. As with his own rescue, Yusuf’s had spawned wonderful things as well: a friendship so close it amounted to brotherhood; exhilarating years immersed in experimentation and invention, in cunning and subterfuge; and the ice cream, of course, the ice cream—so much of it, so many kinds, and cold to boot. What he wouldn’t give for a scoop of freezing-cold ice cream right now.
Benn shook his mind free of the tantalizing image and looked again at the water. This time, there was something almost mournful in his gaze. His rescue and Yusuf’s rescue: Could similar events ever happen again? To be completely honest, he wasn’t sure. They had been more naive back then, more trusting, blissfully unaware of the threat outsiders posed to their existence. But now they knew better. And the irony was that they owed this knowledge to Yusuf. It was Yusuf who had warned them against trusting others—more specifically, that fearsome, far-reaching organization he belonged to, the Quest. If someone were to ask Benn now whether his people should have saved Yusuf, or even his own younger self, Benn would have said no, they shouldn’t have, and shouldn’t ever again.
Benn, I have two strangers here. What should we do with them?
And if someone were to ask him that question, well, he wouldn’t know what course of action to take. He’d panic, most likely. Then he’d have no choice but to recommend drastic measures.
Hey, Benn! Here they are. What should we do with them?
Was that . . . Nutmeg? Benn whirled around. It was. And standing next to her were—
He unslung his club and emitted a warning cry. The Quest! They’re from the Quest!
Nutmeg sprang to Benn’s side and unsheathed the flint dagger at her waist. At the same time, Ann reached for her own knife, but her fingers closed around air.
Of course, she thought. Who would be stupid enough to let prisoners keep weapons?
“Don’t move!” ordered Nutmeg, brandishing her knife. Next to her, Benn held the smooth wooden club high, ready to strike.
“What’s going on?” cried Murgatroyd in alarm.
“I don’t know,” said Ann, adopting a fighter’s stance.
Neither of them had understood what Nutmeg or the man had said. They knew the squat, silver-haired man was probably the Benn whom Nutmeg had been taking them to see. But what had caused him to react the way he had, and what had caused Nutmeg to turn on them like this, they had no idea.
Then the man spoke. “Why are you here?” he asked. Like Nutmeg, he snorted before he asked the question, but he spoke more quickly, more fluidly than Nutmeg. And though his accent was similar, it was stronger and identifiably Known World in origin. Despite his surprise, Murgatroyd wondered where he’d heard the accent before.
“There’s a dangerous murderer on the loose,” said Ann, choosing her words carefully. “That’s whom we’re trying to find.”
Murgatroyd nodded energetically. “It’s true! We weren’t looking for you at all.”
It was Nutmeg’s turn to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me you were from the Quest?” She sounded angry, but also betrayed.
“Erh. We didn’t know we were s-supposed to?” stammered Murgatroyd. The man next to Nutmeg looked very menacing indeed—compact and meaty with a broad chest, thick neck, and square jaw. This appearance of stocky muscularity was further heightened by the clothes he wore—an unpatterned scarlet sarong and a buttonless jacket of the same hue with nothing underneath. Both articles of clothing were very tight and short.
“It’s not like saying so would have gotten us a warm welcome,” Ann observed coolly. Then she frowned. “How did you know we were from the Quest?”
There was an imperceptible pause before the man replied. “I’ve seen your friend before, many years ago.” He lowered his club. “Hello, Murgatroyd.”
Ann and Murgatroyd were speechless.
“Hah?” squeaked Murgatroyd. “When?”
“When Yusuf showed you our ice cream freezer. You don’t remember?”
The memories of that wonderful day so many years ago came flooding back to Murgatroyd. They were blurry, disordered, vague. He couldn’t remember exactly what had happened, much less the order it had happened in; he recalled nothing of what Uncle Yusuf and he had said to each other, if they had said anything at all. Yet at the same time, the memories were unbearably vivid: he could see in his mind’s eye the endless aisles stocked with nothing but tubs of ice cream; he could feel his ears tingling with cold and the goose bumps rippling across his limbs; he could even taste on his tongue and crunch with his teeth one of the flavours Uncle Yusuf had let him sample before they had returned to the Known World—the chocolate and coconut, the peaches and honey, the violets and fire.
He heard the man repeat the question. “You don’t remember?”
“Erh, no,” said Murgatroyd, then hastily corrected himself. “I mean, yes. I mean, I remember Uncle Yusuf. And the freezer. And the ice cream. But I don’t remember you.”
Unexpectedly the man threw his head
back and laughed. “Of course you don’t. You didn’t know I was there. Yusuf told me to stay out of sight. Reckoned meeting me might be too much for you to handle at first.”
“And how did you know Yusuf?” Ann asked, recovering from her confusion.
The man grinned. “Why, we made the ice cream together!”
This piece of information threw Ann into astonishment again. “It can’t be,” she murmured. “Are you saying Yusuf knew about you people? About this place?”
The man nodded and extended a hand. “I’m Benn.”
Ann hesitated before giving her name, but she did. “Ann,” she said, giving the hand a firm shake.
“Murgatroyd,” Murgatroyd chimed in. “Oh wait. You already know that.”
They heard someone snort. It was Nutmeg, dagger still at the ready. “Benn, what are you doing? They’re from the Quest! They’re dangerous!”
“No, we’re not!” protested Murgatroyd.
“Yes, you are,” insisted Nutmeg. “Yusuf warned us about you.”
Murgatroyd frowned. “No, no! You’ve got it all wrong! Yusuf was part of the Quest! He helped found it!”
“You’re right—he did,” Benn chimed in.
“See?” said Murgatroyd.
Benn continued. “And that’s how Yusuf knew what a threat the Quest was to our people.”
Murgatroyd’s jaw dropped. Even Ann was stunned. “What?” she asked.
Benn was silent for a moment—actually silent, not just communicating using silence. He seemed to be weighing what he was about to say, selecting the best words and arranging them just so. “Yusuf believed there were many good things about what the Quest did. And these he believed in with all his heart. But there were problems with the Quest as well. Serious problems. Yusuf thought it would be safest for us if the Quest didn’t know about our existence.”
Ann quickly did some calculations in her head. “But Yusuf started secretly making ice cream long before he retired, which means he was still part of the Quest when he was making the ice cream with you!”
Benn nodded. “I know. But the reason Yusuf stayed with the Quest for as long as he did was because he thought he could better protect us if he remained part of it.” Benn paused. “And as I said, Yusuf believed in the Quest for the most part. He just thought it was better for us to remain hidden, that’s all.”
Murgatroyd interjected. “When you said Uncle Yusuf thought the Quest had ‘serious problems,’ what did you mean?” Even as the question left his lips, he felt an apprehension overtake him. He wanted to know the answer, but at the same time, he dreaded hearing it.
Again, Benn chose his words carefully before speaking. “He was worried that the Quest would harm us.”
Ann and Murgatroyd were speechless.
“It’s n-not true,” stammered Murgatroyd finally. “It must be some mistake.”
“More like a lie,” Ann hissed, resuming her combative stance. “How dare you. Yusuf would never say such a thing.”
“And yet he did,” Benn said simply.
“It’s true,” affirmed Nutmeg. “It’s what he always told us: ‘Don’t let the Quest find you. It’s for the best.’”
“Liar!” Ann almost roared. But she restrained herself. “Why should we believe you?” she asked instead.
Benn thought for a moment. “Come with me,” he said at last. “I want to show you something.”
Murgatroyd began to follow Benn, but Ann put her hand on his shoulder. “You can show it to us here,” she said.
Benn sighed, nodded, and looked in Nutmeg’s direction.
Keep an eye on them, he said soundlessly, before descending the slope and disappearing out of sight.
“It’s all a mistake,” Murgatroyd tried to explain to Nutmeg in the meantime. “The Quest isn’t dangerous at all.”
“Then why did Yusuf say it was?”
Murgatroyd searched his mind for a possible explanation. “Maybe it wasn’t really him?”
Benn returned holding something in his hand. It was a translucent sheet made of the same material as Nutmeg’s notebook. He held it up to the sun so Ann and Murgatroyd could see what had been drawn on it. In the same rust-coloured pigment as the other sketches they had seen before was the spitting image of Yusuf.
“Where—?” asked Murgatroyd wonderingly before he was cut off by a silent exclamation from Nutmeg.
You kept it! she said happily to Benn before turning to Murgatroyd and Ann. “I drew it,” she explained. “When I was little.”
Ann and Murgatroyd had to admit it was Yusuf—beyond a shadow of a doubt. The prominent cheekbones. The delicate chin. The mole on his left eyebrow. The thin, wide lips, on the verge of breaking into a smile. And the eyes. Above all, the eyes. Enormous and luminous, sharp and flashing, bottomless, unfathomable.
As Ann gazed at the portrait, she wondered how a face could be at once so familiar and so unknown at once. He’d carried the secret of his ice cream making to his grave. And now, she was learning there had been other secrets as well: the existence of these people, and if they were to be believed, something bad about the Quest. She shook her head. No, it couldn’t be. Murgatroyd was right: it must have been a mistake. Something that was lost in translation . . .
Benn lowered the portrait. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it must be hard to learn all this about your friend. But remember, Yusuf was our friend too. And my best mate.”
Murgatroyd finally placed Benn’s accent. He’d heard it at the restaurant where he used to work, from the patrons who came from . . .
“Australia?” he ventured.
Benn smiled. “Very good. Now, why don’t we have a chat? My house is around the corner.”
Nutmeg couldn’t believe her ears.
Is this wise? she asked Benn. They’re from the Quest!
It’s fine, Benn reassured her. You can go. I’ll be all right. I promise.
The woman is dangerous, Nutmeg warned. There’s something inside her that hasn’t mended. Something broken. Not just her eye. I see it now.
Benn nodded. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.
Glancing over his shoulder frequently to make sure Ann and Murgatroyd were following him, Benn led them down the slope and along a grassy path to a domed structure much like the one Murgatroyd had woken up in, but larger, with several windows, and a domed extension jutting out from one side. Benn parted the pink curtain covering the entrance and let Ann and Murgatroyd look inside. There was a low curved table, as well as a fuzzy rug like the ones Murgatroyd had seen in the other house. There was also another item of furniture—a display cabinet with many objects inside it, curved like the table, but much wider, taking up half of the wall space.
Benn walked in and, still holding the curtain to one side, motioned for them to enter. They did, and he escorted them to the cabinet, which was paned top, front, and sides in the same translucent veined material as the notebook pages and Yusuf’s portrait.
“Chicken wing,” said Benn, as if they’d enquired out loud. “Amazing stuff. Flexible, but very strong.” Then to illustrate his point, he whipped out the portrait of Yusuf he had been carrying in the folds of his sarong and tried to pull it apart. Murgatroyd gasped, but when Benn let go, Yusuf’s picture sprang back to its original shape, no worse for wear. Benn unlatched a section of the display cabinet and placed the portrait inside between a coiled length of braided orange rope and a larger version of the flint dagger that Nutmeg had been carrying.
Ann’s and Murgatroyd’s eyes scanned the length of the cabinet and the other objects inside. There were several tools made of flint and wood, and various dishes and pots; some folded embroidered garments and a pair of tiny fur-lined moccasins; a notebook that looked a lot like Nutmeg’s but far thicker and heavier; and next to that, a very creased and tattered children’s book with an illustration of a gold statue on it and the title The Inca Empire: Children of the Sun.
“Is that from the Known World?” asked Murgatroyd, pointing at the children’s book.
Benn nodded. “I was holding it when I transferred.”
“And when was that?” asked Ann.
Benn smiled. “Oh, ages ago. I was just a boy.” He unlatched the section of the case where the book lay. “Last book I’ve ever read, besides this other one.” Reaching in, he pulled out the hide-bound tome next to it and handed it to Murgatroyd.
Even though it was thick, it was surprisingly light. Murgatroyd opened it, lifted the first page, and held it up against the central skylight.
Plain, it read, followed by a list and step-by-step instructions. Slowly and carefully (because that was the only way Murgatroyd knew how to read) he made his way through the list:
4 jars chicken milk
9 jars chicken cream
26 large egg yolks
5 blocks 2 pebbles granulated sea-palm sugar . . .
Murgatroyd felt his heart leap. He looked at Benn. “Is this—?”
Benn smiled. “Yusuf’s? Yes. And mine. It’s our recipe book.”
Quickly Murgatroyd turned to the second page and held that one up to the light as well. Vanilla. And the next one: Red Bean. And the next one: Yam. And the next one: Quiet.
