by Tiffany Tsao
“When he came to us he was in a bad state physically. He hadn’t been eating, and I don’t think he’d been drinking any water either. But there was something else wrong with him too. Something inside.” Benn pounded his chest. “With his heart. After we hauled him off the raft, he even tried to fight us off. Told us to leave him alone. Told us he wanted to die.”
Murgatroyd’s eyes grew round. “How come?” he asked.
Benn shrugged. “I don’t know. But we couldn’t do what he wanted—that goes without saying. I think that’s why it took so long for him to make a full recovery. His heart needed time to heal.”
“How long did he stay here?”
“I don’t know. A long time.”
“Years?”
Benn squinted, as if doing so would help him recall a mode of measuring time he had long since left behind. “Not many years. But perhaps it was a few. No wait, maybe it was one year.”
Ann sighed. It was hopeless. “And his heart healed during that time?”
Her words tumbled out with more sarcasm than Ann had intended, surprising even her. Benn didn’t seem to notice.
“Yes, it did. Or I’d like to think it did. And while he was recovering, we became very close. Like brothers. He stayed with me, you know. My wife and child had just died, and I was grateful for the company. This is where he slept.”
As Benn pointed to the floor where Murgatroyd was standing, Murgatroyd broke into the widest, toothiest grin imaginable. “Uncle Yusuf slept here,” he murmured happily.
“We used to talk a lot at night. About the past. About the future. About what next. A lot about what next. With my family gone, I didn’t know what to do. And given how he felt about the Quest, Yusuf didn’t know what to do either.”
What Benn had said earlier came flooding back to Murgatroyd: Uncle Yusuf’s belief that there were things seriously wrong with the Quest; Uncle Yusuf telling the Originals that the Quest might harm them if they didn’t stay hidden. How overjoyed he had been just seconds earlier to hear Benn’s stories of Uncle Yusuf! And now, how shaken, how stricken with horror he felt.
Ann asked what Murgatroyd didn’t dare. “You mean, how Yusuf felt about the Quest’s ‘problems’? The ones you mentioned earlier?”
“Yes,” replied Benn.
“What sort of problems were they?”
“Ethical ones. That’s all he ever said. Sorry to be vague, but Yusuf never went into any detail either. He said time and time again that he thought it would be safest if the Quest didn’t find out about us. He was afraid how the Quest would react.”
“But you also said,” observed Ann, “that whatever these problems were, Yusuf still thought the Quest was good as a whole.”
Benn nodded vigorously. “He did. Very much so. And he also thought that the problems were mostly in the past—that the attempts he and the One had made to fix them had helped. But he also feared that it was too late to fix anything, that the damage was done.”
Privately Ann noted Benn’s mention of the One and wondered what else Benn knew about the Quest. She was about to ask another question, but Murgatroyd had finally worked up the gumption to speak, blurting, “What fixing? What damage? What do you mean?”
Benn held out his palms apologetically. “Again, I’m sorry. I only know what Yusuf told me. Believe me. I wish I knew.”
“So why ice cream?” asked Ann, returning to the gist of her original question.
“Atonement.”
Ann frowned.
“Say again?” asked Murgatroyd.
Benn obliged. “Atonement. Yusuf wanted to atone for the Quest’s problems. He thought that by creating something that was completely good, that couldn’t possibly cause harm, he could make up for the damage he had done with the Quest, the other thing he had helped create.”
“Ice cream?” Ann asked with a frown.
“Ice cream,” Murgatroyd murmured, understanding perfectly.
“Ice cream,” Benn affirmed. “He remembered his days as an ice cream vendor back in the Known World, before he founded the Quest. And he remembered how happy ice cream made everyone, what joy it spread. It was perfect.”
Ann didn’t cease frowning. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “How can you make up for damage in one area by doing something good in another?”
“I think it makes sense,” piped Murgatroyd.
“Yusuf would have agreed with you both,” said Benn, “at different times. Most of the time he was happy with the solution he’d found. But once in a while, he had his doubts.”
“You still make ice cream?” asked Murgatroyd.
“Yes,” said Benn, “but it’s not the same. I try not to leave the Territory these days—I don’t want to risk being discovered, so the ingredients I have to work with are limited. I’ll make some for you to try while you’re here. You’ll see what I mean.”
“Nutmeg gave us some already,” said Ann.
“And what did you think?” asked Benn.
“Delicious!” exclaimed Murgatroyd. “But it was melted. I bet it would have tasted even better if it had still been frozen.”
Benn shook his head. “That’s how it always is. Melted. Soupy. That’s why we used to make everything in the Great Freezer. It never gets cold enough here, not even at night. It spoils quickly too, since we don’t have refrigerators.”
“Oh,” said Murgatroyd, sounding more disappointed than he intended.
“Why did you help Yusuf?” asked Ann suddenly, as if the question had just occurred to her. “It wasn’t any of your business. Why get involved?”
Benn looked at her as if the answer couldn’t be more obvious. “For fun, of course.”
“Fun?” She sounded incredulous.
“Yes, fun! Who wouldn’t jump at the chance? To invent fantastic flavours of ice cream? To travel the More Known World in search of exotic ingredients? To make so many people happy? It was splendid. More than that. It was . . .” Benn searched for the right word.
“Beyond splendid?” suggested Murgatroyd.
Benn glowed. “Exactly,” he said. And Murgatroyd glowed back.
Ann coughed. “Just now you mentioned you’d make some ice cream for us ‘while we were here.’ What did you mean?”
“Just that. I’d like you to stay. For a few days at least.”
Ann was wary. “You’d like us to stay?” she repeated.
“Yes. We obviously don’t want you to tell the Quest about us, but we can’t keep you here against your will. Or rather, we could try, but you’re obviously very clever.” (Benn addressed only Ann when he said this last sentence.) “You’d escape eventually. The smartest thing would be to kill you both . . .”
Murgatroyd’s eyes widened and Ann’s muscles tensed.
“. . . But we don’t want to do that.”
Murgatroyd breathed a sigh of relief. Ann remained on her guard.
“So instead, I make two requests. First, that you stay here for a while, of your own free will, to get to know us better—to understand what you may be destroying if you tell the rest of the Quest about our existence. I think you will come to appreciate the Originals almost as much as I have if you give it time. Second, once you report back to the Quest, I ask that you keep our whereabouts a secret, the same way Yusuf did when he was alive.”
“But there really must be some mistake,” Murgatroyd insisted. “The Quest isn’t dangerous. I’m sure they, I mean, we, wouldn’t try to harm you.”
Benn shrugged. “Possibly. But I trust Yusuf’s judgement, and I’m not willing to take any chances.”
“What if we don’t comply with your requests?” Ann asked, a note of defiance in her voice.
Benn looked at her. “Then I’ll recommend to the other elders that we move to a different Territory to delay the Quest’s discovery of us. When Yusuf was alive, he and I did some scouting, in case it came to this. I have a few suitable places in mind.” He turned his gaze on Murgatroyd. “But the Originals have lived here for many generations.
And it’s hard to start over again in a new place with different climate and terrain and plants and animals. This is our home. We’d rather stay.”
Both Ann and Murgatroyd were silent.
Benn gestured for them to follow him and headed to the entrance. “The sun will set soon. I’ll introduce you to the other elders. Then we’ll find Nutmeg and get you settled in for the night.”
CHAPTER 12
“Are we really going to stay for a few days, like Benn wants?”
The sound of Murgatroyd’s voice drifted through the darkness from where he was sleeping on the opposite side of the room. Nutmeg had invited them to stay at her house for the next few nights.
“We might as well,” yawned Ann, not because she was bored, but because she was exhausted. It had been a long day.
She lowered her voice, even though Nutmeg wasn’t there—she was outside “glimpsing,” whatever that was. “Immediate escape is impossible, anyway. We can’t make any direct transfers from here; there’s a large portion of the route we don’t know, since we were blindfolded. We’d have to either find a way to transfer from this island itself to another Territory or take a boat back to where we were on the mainland. Both of those will take time.”
“Oh,” said Murgatroyd. He never failed to be impressed at Ann’s thoroughness of thought. “Well, I’m happy we’re staying. I want to get to know the Originals, like Benn said. They seem nice.”
What Murgatroyd meant more specifically was that Nutmeg and Benn seemed nice. He wasn’t in a position to say whether any of the other Originals were or not, though he was always inclined to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Benn had introduced them to several people earlier that evening, including the other elders, who gave Benn the authority to handle the situation as he thought best. None of them spoke English as well as Benn and Nutmeg did, if at all, and everyone had kept their distance, eyeing Ann and Murgatroyd with great suspicion. He supposed it was understandable since Yusuf had warned them so much about the threats posed by the Quest and its representatives, but their unfriendliness still made him sad.
A thought popped into Murgatroyd’s head. “Maybe they’ll change their minds about the Quest once they get to know us better! Benn seems to trust us more, now that we’ve spent so much time talking with him.”
“True,” said Ann. “Too bad I’m not sure if I trust him.”
Murgatroyd gasped. “Really? But he was Uncle Yusuf’s best friend! Why not?”
“Do you remember why we went in search of the lake?”
It took a few seconds for Murgatroyd to realize what Ann was implying. “We were looking for the person who killed Nimali and the others . . . but you don’t think—”
Ann’s voice cut him off. “How can I not think it! Who are we looking for? An Oddfit strong enough to transfer a human body all the way from Jamaica-Fallacy to Cambodia-Abscond. An Oddfit who wants to kill Questians for some reason. Like it or not, Benn fits the profile perfectly. He’s an Oddfit, he was strong enough to transfer that ice cream churner from the Great Freezer in one piece, and he wants to protect his people from the threat he believes the Quest poses to their existence.”
“But if he killed the others, then why not us? And why kill the others at all? They weren’t anywhere near Cambodia-Abscond!”
“Exactly,” said Ann.
Murgatroyd was confused. “Erh, what?”
“Exactly,” she repeated. “All good questions. And why would he transfer Nimali’s body to Flee Town if he wanted to detract attention away from this area? And write ‘Flee Town’ on her hand? That’s what made us stay in this Territory in the first place.”
“Erh. But I thought you thought Benn was the killer.”
“I’m playing devil’s advocate.”
“Hah?”
“I’m considering both sides.”
“Both sides?”
Ann sighed. “Of the argument.”
“Oh,” said Murgatroyd. There was a pause. “What argument?” he asked timidly.
“Of whether Benn is the killer or not.”
“Oh.” Another pause. “Did you decide?”
“No, not yet!” growled Ann. She was usually more patient with Murgatroyd, but she really was very tired. And the prospect of yet another restless night—part stirring every now and then to make sure Murgatroyd was still safe, part dreaming about her unhappy past—only made her feel even more irritable.
“Sorry,” Murgatroyd squeaked.
Ann grunted. “It’s not your fault,” she muttered unconvincingly. She knew she should probably say something more to make Murgatroyd feel better, but minutes passed and she didn’t.
“Have you decided now?”
“No!”
“Well, I don’t think he’s the killer,” declared Murgatroyd. “He was Yusuf’s best friend.”
Ann wondered how he could be so naive. She contemplated listing again her reasons for suspecting that Benn was the person they were looking for, but instead, she held her peace. The rustling from Murgatroyd’s side of the room gradually stopped, and his breathing became slower and heavier until it turned into peaceful snores. Evidently he had been very tired too. Only now that he’d fallen asleep, and there was nothing left for her but to do so as well, did Ann regret not prolonging their conversation. The dreams would visit her again tonight; she was sure of it. And even though she could shrug them off easily enough during the day, at night they became large and menacing, with fangs.
Resistance was useless. Even her resolve to stay awake until Nutmeg came in did her no good. The chicken pelts piled above and below her were far too soft and warm. Her eyelids closed. Her muscles went slack. And she sank, deeper and deeper, into the shadowy netherworld of slumber.
When she opened her eyes, she was staring at . . . What was it? The shed skin of a morbidly obese python? The petrified casing of a giant sausage? Ten-year-old An An peered at the explanation next to the display case. GIANT MEGACOLON, read the heading. The lines beneath went on to explain that the nine-foot-long organ had been removed from a man with an intestinal disease that prevented him from passing waste properly. He was found dead at the age of twenty-nine on a toilet, trying in vain to poop. The excrement they removed from his colon weighed a total of forty pounds.
The Mütter Museum in Philadelphia. That’s where she was. It was the last museum she had visited before joining the Quest. And if it hadn’t been for that visit, the One would never have found her.
“Take all the time you want, An An,” a voice whispered in her ear. “And tonight you can pick where we eat for dinner. Any kind of food. Winner’s choice.”
An An turned, and her face brushed against her mother’s hair-sprayed mane, soft and brittle all at once, like cotton candy. Her mother gazed at her, eyes bright, lips curved upwards in a gentle smile. Mama had never looked so beautiful. But then again, Mama had never looked so happy.
“I knew it would happen someday,” her mother gushed, still keeping her face level with her daughter’s. “I knew all our hard work would pay off, my Junior Miss Peaches and Crème!”
“Ma, I won third place. For talent.”
“This year. Next year, you’ll win the crown.”
An An shifted uneasily. “Ma . . .”
But her mother was off and running. “This is just the beginning, my darling. In another few years we won’t even need to bother with these crummy small-time competitions. Next stop, the big league! Next stop, Princess Liberty USA! Next stop, Miss America Junior Preteen! We’ve broken through, An An. There’s no stopping us now.”
Her mother gave her a fierce peck on the cheek. “I’m going to the toilet. Do you need to go?”
An An shook her head.
Her mother frowned. “Are you sure? Don’t tell me you need to go later. The toilets might not be as clean.”
“I’m sure. You go. I’ll wait here.”
Her mother looked reluctant, but rose to leave. “Don’t talk to any strangers,” she cautioned over her shoulder. �
�I’ll be back soon.”
Then, for the first time since yesterday’s pageant, An An had some much-needed time to herself.
She took a deep breath and tried to focus on her surroundings—the brass chandeliers and the wraparound balcony overhead where more exhibits were housed, the burgundy carpeting and the handsome exhibition cases built of chestnut wood and glass. The decor exuded a comforting air of authority and order, of all in the world not only being right, but pinpointable, describable, categorizable. It was this about museums that she loved most: “Fear not,” they seemed to say, patting her reassuringly on the head. “Everything has its proper place. Everything. Mummified cats. Public library blueprints from 1926. The first factory-produced wooden spool ever to come out of Iowa. A tennis ball with some famous guy’s signature on it. And you. Even you.”
This was the hope that museums usually provided An An, and the Mütter, with its elegant nineteenth-century finishings, would have undoubtedly provided it as well if not for the sheer grotesqueness of the medical oddities on display that loomed larger than life, that seemed to exceed the rooms that housed them. The monstrous colon and the plaster cast of the Siamese twins; the jars of unborn babies with four pairs of arms, or limbs growing out of their stomachs, or brains developing outside their skulls; the skeletons of the giant and the dwarf, and of the man whose muscles and organs had begun to harden into bone—the exhibits expanded their borders and enlarged their territories, refusing to be satisfied with the cramped quarters allotted to them by the universe, even in death behind glass.
An An was horrified and fascinated all at once. She hadn’t been expecting anything of the sort. “A museum of medical history”—that was how the hotel receptionist had described it, and An An had been anticipating nothing but surgical instruments and bottles of ancient pills. Her mind was still in tumult over the surprising events of yesterday, and her unconscious desire had been for a space not only orderly and authoritative, but impersonal, aloof, unemotional, and nonhuman. So she had exerted her victor’s privileges and chosen, instead of the art museum and Liberty Bell also suggested by the receptionist, this place, this spot where she was standing now, utterly unprepared for how human it would be—intensely so, overwhelmingly so, literally so.
