by Tiffany Tsao
“Why did you leave the Quest?” she asked before saying goodbye.
That was when Yusuf had given that reply: “I want to focus on something else now. Something that can’t be found by covering more ground.”
Now, nearly twenty years later, in a wholly different Territory, Ann was not only hearing those cryptic words yet again, but discovering their original source.
“That’s what you said to Yusuf?” murmured Ann.
“I know!” said Nutmeg. “I can’t believe it myself. It’s awfully profound, don’t you think?”
“And you were talking about glimpsing?”
Nutmeg looked thoughtfully at the twig she had been drawing. “I must have been.”
“But what did that have to do with Yusuf? Did he . . . do any glimpsing as well?” Ann found it strange that she was asking Nutmeg for information about Yusuf—Yusuf bin Hassim, whom the Quest, or at least her own mentor, should have known everything about, but whom, they kept discovering, they knew nothing about at all.
“No,” said Nutmeg, “Yusuf didn’t glimpse. But he always said that he found what I said useful.”
“How so?”
Nutmeg squinted in her effort to retrieve the memory. “He said perhaps it was the secret to making everything better. Even more so than ice cream.”
The vagueness of Nutmeg’s language was positively infuriating. “What does that even mean?” asked Ann. “What ‘it’? What ‘everything’?”
Nutmeg looked apologetic. “I don’t know either.”
“Well, describe what you see when you focus on the things you glimpse. You said it was like something opening up, didn’t you? A fog clearing?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Nutmeg looked troubled.
“And?” Ann persisted. “What do you see?”
Up to this point, Nutmeg had been avoiding Ann’s gaze, setting her eyes instead on her notebook and drawing tools, on the twig, on the ground beneath them and the distant horizon over which the sun was just beginning to break. But now she turned to Ann and stared. And as she did, Ann felt a sudden chill—as if she’d been swabbed with rubbing alcohol and the thin film of liquid was evaporating from her skin, as if someone had opened a window in her body to let in sunlight and air. It intensified. Ann felt as if all the layers of her—tissue and bone and the invisible habitations of her soul—were being peeled back, one after another, leaving her completely open, completely exposed. She was a peony in fullest bloom. She was a pomegranate sliced in half. She was a fish flopping under the open sky.
And then it stopped, leaving Ann gasping for breath.
“Pain,” said Nutmeg.
Ann looked up in a daze. “What?” she managed to pant.
“You asked me what I see when I focus. That’s what I see. Pain. Everywhere, in everything.”
“But how . . . ?”
“I don’t know, but I do.”
Unsteadily Ann rose to her feet. She had recovered enough now to be angry at what the other woman had done to her, and she felt exposed, violated.
“How dare you,” she hissed, her cheeks burning with shame. “How dare you do that to me!”
“I’m sorry,” said Nutmeg, startled. “I thought you wanted me to show you what I do when I glimpse.”
Ann folded her arms to stop them from quivering. “And doing that helps you see things as they really are?” The question wasn’t so much a request for information as a sneer, but Nutmeg answered anyway.
“Yes. Pain indicates that something isn’t how it’s supposed to be. That’s when we feel pain, isn’t it? When something is wrong? In the absence of things going right?”
Ann didn’t respond.
“So,” Nutmeg continued uneasily, “pain creates an outline of sorts, so you can glimpse how something is meant to be. Or, to put it another way, you can figure out its true form from the way in which suffering has warped it and made it diverge from that form. And if you keep that form—that truth—in mind when you draw something or someone, that’s when the drawings speak to real life.”
Ann was still silent. Tentatively Nutmeg reached out her hand and placed it on Ann’s shoulder. “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean for it to feel that way. I think it might have had to do with how much pain you have in you. I didn’t know—”
“I’m going to wake up Murgatroyd,” said Ann coldly, brushing the hand away. She took a shaky step in the direction of the house, then another, gaining speed and stability as she went. How dare she, she thought again as she walked. The nerve. But once she was at a sufficient remove from Nutmeg, her pace began to slow, and the detached rationality she took so much pride in began to assert itself once more. She began to wonder, why in the worlds was she so upset?
The most obvious answer was that she was embarrassed—at having a near-total stranger see (or claim to see) the surfeit of suffering she apparently harboured inside her; at having someone she barely knew assert that she had peered into the depths of her being and discovered the truth of what she was. It was like having someone come up to you and say they’d seen you taking a bath. Who wouldn’t be utterly mortified?
But there was yet another reason for her outrage, and the more she assessed the way she felt, pulling it off like a leech, scrutinizing it against the backdrop of the pale early-morning sky, the more she was able to articulate what that reason was.
It was this: How long she had carried Yusuf’s words with her, everywhere she went. How they had haunted her all these years, trailing after her like a stray dog following a little girl home, through the remnants of her childhood, through adolescence and young adulthood, all the way to the present. They had kindled a wonder in her at the marvellous workings of the Worlds, instilled a strong sense that no matter how much of the universe was discovered and charted and documented for posterity, there would always be something else that eluded these efforts—a Mystery with a capital M that was behind everything, beginning and end, infinitely complex and beyond description. It was something she always remained keenly aware of during all her expeditions in the More Known World. Something that often compelled her, whenever she did venture back into the Known World, to sit in churches and meditate on its existence. Something that couldn’t be found by covering more ground.
Not five minutes ago, the very originator of those words had revealed herself to Ann. Not only that, she had revealed to Ann what that “something” was. And Ann had eagerly taken the bait, only to be caught and flung even further than ever away from understanding not only the significance of that something, but anything at all. That was the mysterious something? Pain? That pain was everywhere? What did Yusuf mean by wanting to focus on it? What did it have to do with making everything better? And for that matter, why did anything need to be made better at all? What was so wrong with the Quest—the same Quest that had rescued her and countless other young Oddfits, the same Quest that sought to discover and document the breathtaking wonders of the More Known World to their fullest—that Yusuf would flee from it, urge others to hide from it, seek to make nonsensical atonement on its behalf?
There had once been a question—a single mystical and abstract question whose answer Ann had felt relatively sanguine about not knowing, never knowing. And now the question had multiplied and spread, taking root in the foundations of the people, the ideas, the realities in which Ann had placed her faith, threatening to bring all of it tumbling down—but only if the answers were found. And that was the most maddening thing. There were no answers. It was like watching a wave frozen in midair, waiting to crash. It was like waiting for an explosion to happen.
Ann yanked back the curtain to the entrance of Nutmeg’s home. She felt relief already at the prospect of hearing Murgatroyd’s sleepy, good-natured voice, of being able to talk with him about more light-hearted, trivial things, like he was always happy to do.
But Murgatroyd wasn’t there.
CHAPTER 14
Ann didn’t know it, but Murgatroyd hadn’t been sleepin
g particularly well either. Not as badly as Ann, to be sure, but at some point during each of the past three nights, his eyes had flown open and he’d found himself staring into the dark. On the first two occasions he lay perfectly still. And after a while, his eyelids drooped again, along with his body, succumbing to gravity’s pull. Then he drifted back to sleep almost as if he had never woken up at all.
These interruptions to his slumbers were hardly noticeable. They’d had no effect on how rested he felt when he sat up, and by the time he rolled out of bed, he usually had forgotten them entirely—enough, at least, to respond with a genuine “Yes, thank you!” when Ann or Nutmeg had asked if he’d had a good sleep. Yet they did indicate that Murgatroyd was capable of being more troubled than Ann or even he himself gave him credit for. And very, very early that morning, while a cheerful Nutmeg and an irritable Ann were off in a nearby clearing discussing the true essence of twigs, Murgatroyd’s eyes had opened, and instead of closing again, they remained that way. Continuing in the same vein, his body, instead of resuming its relaxed state, tensed and rolled to one side. His brain began to stir, and his limbs began to stretch. Then, Murgatroyd looked around and found that everyone else was already gone.
He wasn’t alarmed. There was a quality of newness to the air and the darkness, indicating it was no longer the night before, but rather the morning after. They must have woken up early, he reasoned. Nutmeg was probably drawing things in her notebook. Ann was probably out investigating, or perhaps taking a walk. Before he knew it, he was outside as well, flip-flops on, the fur cloak he had borrowed from Nutmeg over his shoulders, walking through the trees in the direction of the lake.
There is a primitive clarity about the suddenly awakened mind, roused and plopped in the ice-cold bath of living, breathing reality. Murgatroyd’s brain was in such a state now, and as it strode through the brisk morning air, encased in Murgatroyd’s head and propelled through space by Murgatroyd’s legs, it repeated to itself two sentences—two concise sentences—that articulated perfectly the source of Murgatroyd’s unconscious nighttime agitations. The first: Is the Quest really bad? And the second: Is Benn really bad?
The questions alternated, creating a rhythm, a beat to which Murgatroyd’s feet stepped as they approached the sandy pink shore.
Is the Quest really bad?
On the face of things, the answer was no. According to Benn, Uncle Yusuf had said the Quest was mostly good. And Benn seemed to agree. But still! Bad enough to force an entire group of people into hiding? Bad enough that all the other Originals, apart from Benn and Nutmeg, tried to avoid Ann and Murgatroyd, scurrying away whenever they could, or else eyeing the two Questians with suspicion whenever they walked by? This seemed pretty bad.
“Don’t take it personally,” counselled Nutmeg on the second day of their arrival when he and Ann had strolled through the marketplace only to clear it out entirely. “Think of the Quest as a creeping, choking weed.”
“Erh . . .”
“You know, a weed that creeps along the ground that might choke another, smaller plant in its path. It doesn’t mean to do it, but it does.”
“But Yusuf said the Quest was mostly good. How is a creeping, choking weed mostly good?”
Nutmeg had thought for a bit. “Well, maybe it’s not the best analogy,” she’d admitted at last.
Is Benn really bad?
Though Murgatroyd had declared his belief otherwise when Ann first suggested it, in reality, the possibility had persisted as just that—a possibility—and taken up residence in his mind despite Murgatroyd’s conviction that it simply wasn’t the case. Not Uncle Yusuf’s best friend and ice cream–making partner! Impossible! And yet . . .
Murgatroyd had reached the end of the forest path. Resting a hand on the crook of a tree, he stared out beyond the beach at the water.
“You’re up early.”
Murgatroyd whirled around. “Oh, it’s you!” he exclaimed in relief. And almost immediately, he seemed to hear the same words echo in his ears, but more ominously: Oh. It’s you.
He froze.
Benn was dressed in a fur cloak as well, and there was a long fur pelt wrapped around his waist instead of the short sarong he wore during the heat of the day. In one hand he carried an empty woven basket. In the other, he held a half-eaten cardinal yam.
“I’m going egg collecting. Want to join me?” Benn grinned as he said this, revealing a set of crimson-stained teeth.
Murgatroyd remained silent.
“I was going to make ice cream today for you and Ann, and I need the eggs,” Benn explained. “The boat’s big enough for two.”
Finally Murgatroyd managed to open his mouth. “No, thank you,” he croaked.
Benn chuckled. “It won’t take long. We’ll be back before Ann even knows you’re gone.”
Murgatroyd lapsed into silence again and stared uncomfortably at his feet.
Then Benn understood.
“I didn’t kill that woman, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His voice was very soft and sad when he said this. “I promise. I know Ann doesn’t believe me, but you do, don’t you?”
Murgatroyd’s ears burned hot. So Benn knew. He looked up and found Benn looking at him with a sad, earnest expression on his face.
“I swear I didn’t kill her,” he said in that same quiet tone. “And I swear I’ll bring you back unharmed.”
A wave of remorse washed over Murgatroyd. Of course Benn wasn’t the killer. He had always known it in his heart of hearts. He shouldn’t have doubted. “I believe you,” he said. “Of course I do.”
Benn looked hopeful. “Do you? Really?”
“Yes!” affirmed Murgatroyd.
Benn beamed. “Let’s go, then. My boat is over there.”
Benn’s boat did have enough room for two people, but no more. It had two parts—the boat proper, where he and Benn sat, and a long piece of wood that looked almost like a miniature boat but that hadn’t been hollowed out. This piece floated in the water parallel to the part they sat in and was attached to the main portion by two wooden poles.
“It provides stability,” Benn explained as he began paddling them away from the shore, his strokes powerful and sure. He was indeed a very strong man, and before long, the island where the Originals lived was nothing but a dark speck behind them.
The sun had just come out, but it rose with surprising gentleness, a reserved brown orb bobbing on the horizon, though it would quickly brighten to scarlet in the course of its ascent. Hovering ahead, just above the surface of the water, were several of the enormous mosquitoes that the Originals called birds, as beefy and round as Murgatroyd remembered. Benn lifted his paddle, and the boat glided to a stop just a few metres shy of the winged creatures. Murgatroyd could see now that they were quivering violently, straining, as if engaged in some act of colossal exertion. Then the bird closest to them squeezed a pale-orange sphere out of its abdomen, which landed in the water with a soft splash. This was joined by another sphere, and another, and another, until there were fifteen of them, floating in a triangle-shaped raft.
“Eggs,” Benn whispered, which made Murgatroyd glad that he hadn’t said “Poo!” aloud.
“Ah,” murmured Murgatroyd, and they lapsed again into silence.
Once all the birds had finished and buzzed away, Benn dipped his paddle into the lake again and pulled them alongside one of the clusters. Up close, Murgatroyd saw that each egg was roughly the size of a Ping-Pong ball, with a smooth shell whose glossiness reminded him of jade.
“Did you go egg collecting with Uncle Yusuf when he was alive?” asked Murgatroyd.
“At first,” said Benn. “Then I started going alone.”
“How come?”
“I’ll show you.”
Benn reached towards the cluster and detached a single egg. He weighed it in his hand and turned it over in his palm with his thumb and fingers. He looked at it up close and from far away. He held it to his nose and gave it a good sniff. Finally he held i
t up to his ear, as if listening to what it had to say. And just when Murgatroyd was beginning to squirm with impatience, Benn placed it carefully and lovingly into the basket.
“That’s what Yusuf used to do with all of them,” he informed Murgatroyd. “Every single one. And that’s why I began going out alone. He used to examine mine too. By the time we collected enough eggs for a single batch of ice cream, it would already be midday!”
Murgatroyd broke into a laugh as well, and just like that, any remaining tension from their earlier exchange vanished into thin air.
“Now let me show you my method,” said Benn, extending his whole body over the side. With a great sweep, he gathered the entire cluster into his arms and deposited it swiftly, but gently, into the basket, which he had wedged firmly between his thighs. Then he brought the boat alongside five more clusters and did the same.
“That’s it—we’re done!” said Benn, and turning the boat around, he began rowing back to shore.
“Why didn’t Uncle Yusuf do it that way?” asked Murgatroyd.
“I asked him the same thing,” said Benn. “You know what he said? He said he didn’t feel comfortable changing the course of a being’s entire existence without properly assessing the situation first. And you know what I said?”
“What?”
Benn looked Murgatroyd square in the eye. “I said to him, ‘Yusuf. They’re just eggs.’”
The timing with which Benn delivered this last line suggested it was designed to make Murgatroyd laugh, but for some reason, it didn’t. Instead, Murgatroyd peered inside the basket and contemplated the heap of little spheres within.
“Everyone who knew Uncle Yusuf said he liked to take his time,” he said.
“He certainly did. That’s why he took so long to tell you about the Quest.” Benn shook his head. “I loved Yusuf like a brother, but if you ask me, he thought too much. Sometimes he thought himself in circles, and what he came up with in the end didn’t always make sense.”
