by Tiffany Tsao
But before Benn could say a word, the strangest thing happened. The kettle fired a shot, a stream of boiling-hot water, which blasted clear across the room, narrowly missing Benn’s face and scalding his ear.
At the same time, the grille in the doorway began to rattle.
“Eh, Yusuf!” yelled a voice from outside—a neighbour, most likely. “You okay or not? Got water boiling!”
Benn transferred then. And once he was back in the freezer, heart racing, breath escaping him in ragged puffs, he opened his hand and unfolded the note.
He didn’t know what he expected to find. Something more substantial, he supposed. But the longer he dwelt on the matter, the more he felt that this was a rather unreasonable expectation to have of a message written by a dying man at a moment’s notice. He was about to tear the note up. He would never see the boy again. What was the good of keeping it? Yet as he stared at the insignificant scrap clamped between his forefingers and thumbs, he felt that to reduce it to anything even tinier would be simply ridiculous. To deliberately destroy such a thing, when it took up so little space and contained so little content, seemed so . . . petty. What’s the harm? he thought for the second time that night before tucking it into the inner pocket of his jacket. When he returned home to Cambodia-Abscond, he nestled it in the toe of the left moccasin belonging to his unborn child. No harm. None at all.
Not then. And not now after delivering the note to the boy after all these years. Benn felt calmer now. Much calmer. And as he approached his destination—an enormous boulder in the middle of the forest, away from the main path—he set down the basket of eggs and sighed. Certainly Benn wished the note had made Murgatroyd happier than it had. After all, who wouldn’t wish a prisoner a delightful last meal before his execution? But the unexpected nature of Murgatroyd’s response couldn’t be helped. He had done his best. And wasn’t that what counted—that one tried to do good?
He threw his shoulder against the boulder and shifted it, revealing the thinnest, most invisible of hairline cracks in the ground beneath. Moving the boulder wasn’t strictly necessary. He could probably transfer Ann and Murgatroyd through the rock with no problem at all—Yusuf had taught him well. But he didn’t want to risk it—especially not with Murgatroyd, whom they wanted unharmed. At least initially.
At the thought of what these people would probably do to Murgatroyd, his conscience balked. But he had no alternative. They were crazy, but they were the best chance he had of saving his people from the Quest.
Why is doing the right thing always so difficult? he wondered again before he disappeared.
CHAPTER 15
Murgatroyd was sitting on the beach, more or less in the same spot where Benn had left him, cursing himself for once again saying the wrong thing, when someone shoved him violently from behind. He fell face-first into the sand.
“Sorry,” said a low, gravelly voice after a prefatory snort. It was Nutmeg. “I didn’t mean for you to fall over. You’re not very strong.”
“It’s okay,” said Murgatroyd glumly, picking himself up and dusting the pink granules off his person. “You’re right, I’m not.”
“Why are you on the beach?” asked Nutmeg.
“I went egg collecting with Benn.”
“Where are the eggs?”
Murgatroyd pointed half-heartedly in the direction of the trees. “With Benn. He left. I think I made him angry.”
“Me too!” said Nutmeg.
“You made Benn angry?”
“No, Ann.”
“Ann made Benn angry?”
“I made Ann angry.”
“Oh. On accident or on purpose?”
“On accident,” said Nutmeg.
“Me too!” exclaimed Murgatroyd.
“I always say the wrong thing.”
Murgatroyd gave an emphatic and sympathetic nod, and as if on cue, the pair of them plopped down cross-legged on the sand and sighed.
“What did you say to Benn?” asked Nutmeg. “It must have been pretty bad. Benn almost never gets offended.”
“I think it’s what I didn’t say. I didn’t thank him for giving me the note Uncle Yusuf wrote to me.”
Nutmeg’s wonderful eyebrows shot up.
“Yusuf wrote you a note!”
Murgatroyd nodded. “Before he died. Want to see it?”
Encouraged by Nutmeg’s vigorous nodding, he took the note from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to her.
“I can’t read,” Nutmeg apologized. “We don’t use writing. And Benn never taught me how.”
“Oh. Well, it says, ‘Love, Uncle Yusuf.’”
“Who?”
“Hah?”
“Who should love Yusuf?”
“No, no, it’s like what you write at the end of a letter to let the person you’re writing to know who wrote it.” He tried to think of a good example. “Like: ‘Dear Nutmeg. Don’t be sad. Love, Murgatroyd.’” Realizing what he’d just said, his face turned the same colour as the sand. “Or ‘From, Murgatroyd.’ Or ‘Sincerely, Murgatroyd,’” he added hastily.
“What’s a letter?” asked Nutmeg, to all appearances unfazed.
Murgatroyd was relieved. “Erh. It’s another word for a message. So, like this one, but with more writing at the beginning.”
Nutmeg frowned. “So the rest of it is missing?”
“That’s what I thought. I asked Benn where the other part was. I think that’s why he got mad.” Murgatroyd returned the note to his pocket. “What did you do to make Ann angry?”
Nutmeg bit her lip. “I showed her what I see when I glimpse.”
“What do you see?”
Nutmeg gave him a wary look. “Are you sure you won’t be upset with me as well?”
“Why would I get upset?”
“I don’t know,” said Nutmeg with some vehemence. “But people often do when I tell them. Ann wasn’t the first, though she did get much angrier than anyone else. I wasn’t even going to tell her, but she was the one who wanted to know!”
Murgatroyd looked at Nutmeg solemnly. “I promise I won’t get upset!” he declared.
Once again, Nutmeg gave him a doubtful look, but upon seeing how serious he was, she broke into a small smile. “All right, I’ll tell you. I see pain.”
“Pain?”
Nutmeg leaned in. “It’s everywhere,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.
“That’s terrible!” exclaimed Murgatroyd, aghast.
“I know,” said Nutmeg. “But it’s the truth, even if it is unpleasant. I think that’s why people get upset. It’s not a very nice thing to find out. That’s why I stopped telling people about it.”
“So, that’s what made Ann mad?”
Nutmeg looked guiltily at Murgatroyd. “Well, partly. I also glimpsed her. And her pain.” A troubled expression settled on her face. “I think it surprised her. Or hurt her. Or something. I didn’t mean for it to have that effect, though. I feel awful about it.”
“It hurt her?” exclaimed Murgatroyd.
“Not permanently,” said Nutmeg quickly. “And not badly. I think it shocked her more than anything. I don’t understand it either. I’ve glimpsed people before, and it doesn’t usually do that.”
“So what do you think happened?”
Nutmeg frowned. “I think it has to do with how much pain she keeps inside her. May I ask what happened?”
Murgatroyd gazed thoughtfully at the water lapping at the shore. “She told me a little bit about it,” he murmured. “But mostly, I don’t know.”
Then they both fell silent, almost as if they were mourning. And as if doing its best to cheer them up, a ray of sunshine struck the surface of the lake, transforming it into a sea of frenetic sparkles.
“Did you have a bad life in the Known World?” asked Nutmeg, though she was obviously still thinking of Ann.
“Yes,” said Murgatroyd. “But to be honest, I do miss some things about it.”
“Like what?”
Murgatroyd thought. “It doe
sn’t make sense, but sometimes I miss my parents and my best friend—even though they weren’t very nice to me. And I miss being good at something.”
“What were you good at?”
“Being a waiter.”
“What’s a waiter?”
“It’s someone who brings you food at a restaurant,” he said. Then, in anticipation of Nutmeg’s next question: “It’s a place where people pay other people to cook them food. I was a really good waiter,” he said, his chest swelling a little with pride before returning to its usual concave self. “I thought I’d get really good at other things after I left the Known World. But it turns out I was wrong.”
“It’s okay not to be good at things,” said Nutmeg, trying to console him. “I’m not that good at most things either.”
“You’re probably better at them than me.”
Nutmeg recalled what she had witnessed of Murgatroyd’s abilities during his stay so far: how he had managed to anger one of their most docile chickens while attempting to milk her; how he had uprooted her neighbours’ prize-winning redflower bush in an attempt to help weed their garden; how he seemed to constantly be plagued by skin ailments.
“True,” she conceded.
“You can speak two languages,” Murgatroyd continued. “And you can draw really well. You’re the best drawer I’ve ever seen.”
A thought popped into Nutmeg’s head. “I can teach you if you like.”
“How to speak two languages?”
“No, how to draw.”
Nutmeg pulled her notebook and sketching tools from her cloak and began setting everything up.
Murgatroyd looked doubtful. “I’ve tried before. I’m not very good.”
“This is different,” she insisted, handing him one of the crayons. “This is glimpsing. There are two steps, and I think you’ll be good at the first one.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know, but I do.” She opened the notebook to an empty page and placed it in front of Murgatroyd. Then she pointed to a dead leaf to his right, half-buried by sand. “Step one: see the leaf.”
Murgatroyd saw it. “Okay.”
“No, really see it. Open it up with your eyes and look at everything it is and everything it was and everything it wants to be.”
Murgatroyd stared harder. “Okay.”
“Try to understand the leaf,” Nutmeg exhorted, trying a different angle. “Everything about it, every detail, every vein, every bump, every hope, every dream.”
“Leaves have dreams?” said Murgatroyd, trying to add power to his stare by frowning as deeply as possible.
“I’m not sure,” admitted Nutmeg. “But the important thing is trying to understand them even if they’re not actually there.”
Murgatroyd turned and rubbed his eyes. “It’s not working.”
“Try again.”
He obliged.
“What’s the second step?” he said, staring and frowning again with all his might.
“You draw what you see. It’ll come easily,” she added. “I promise. The first step is the hardest.”
Murgatroyd gritted his teeth and strained with all his might. Hello little leaf, he said silently. He flexed his mind’s fingers as well, so as to generate a friendly and invisible wave. I would like to get to know you. Everything about you. I want you to be completely open with me and tell me everything about yourself. He nodded his mind’s head encouragingly and rested his mind’s chin lightly on his mind’s hands in a manner that bespoke great interest. Go on . . .
He was just beginning to feel incredibly stupid when all of a sudden he felt a burning sensation at the base of his neck. Slowly the leaf’s boundaries became fuzzy and luminous, as if they were about to break apart entirely.
Then his concentration snapped. Still, he turned excitedly to Nutmeg, who had gone fuzzy and luminous as well. “I think I’m doing it!” he cried.
But Nutmeg only responded with a horrified stare. Before Murgatroyd could ask what was wrong, she reached for the back of his neck and plucked from it a very thick, sharp wooden skewer.
“What’s that?” he yelped as she pulled him to his feet. But then he heard a thunk and saw a skewer protruding from between her shoulder blades.
She emitted a piercing silence—some word that probably meant “Run!” or something similar. He tried to follow her directions, but instead found himself toppling sideways into the sand, being briefly annoyed at how often he’d been passing out these past few days. Three glowing shapes came into view, gliding towards him across the beach. As they got closer, Murgatroyd saw that one of the shapes was actually carrying another shape over its shoulder, and that this latter shape was a limp, unconscious Ann. He squinted. He knew the shape carrying Ann too.
“Pierre?” he mumbled.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” replied his abodemate, not looking particularly sorry at all.
“Who are they?” he heard Nutmeg rasp faintly.
“The Quest . . . ,” Murgatroyd mumbled, his jaw going slack. Were the Originals right?
Then, out of the darkness, Pierre’s voice: “No, not the Quest. The opposite.”
CHAPTER 16
The drug was known among the settlements as Spare Time, so named because that was exactly what it seemed to give you. It was also so named because Spare Time sounded a lot sexier than “the sweat of the shiny mosquito,” which was what it actually was. The animal that excreted it had been discovered by the Other and, as with all things discovered by the Other, was exactly what its name suggested: a mosquito, practically indistinguishable from Known World varieties, except it looked as if it were dressed in shiny blue spandex.
Living out one’s entire existence in a shiny, spandex-like exoskeleton was apparently very hard work, for the mosquito perspired. A lot. The first person to discover the remarkable properties of this fluid was not the Other, but a resident of the mosquito’s native Territory, Scotland-Brogue. The settler had opened her mouth to yawn, and two mosquitoes in the act of mating in midair had flown in. She sputtered. Then she gagged. Then to her immense surprise, she found herself cross-country skiing through a pine forest. She had never gone cross-country skiing before, but she became quite the expert before regaining consciousness in the arms of a concerned friend who had seen her crumple to the ground not a minute before. The mosquitoes involved didn’t survive, much less experience any skiing themselves, but their sacrifice resulted in the discovery of a truly astonishing drug—one of the most powerful the More Known World had to offer. If a bar of Peace of Mind took the edge off a hard day, five drops of Spare Time gave you a whole day of leisure free of charge, though the exact proportion of time lost to time gained varied greatly from individual to individual.
The drug was exceedingly rare, for the shiny mosquito was both difficult to find and difficult to catch. The most popular method of imbibing it was to swallow the creatures alive, because towelling off tiny insects and wringing their sweat into little jars was nobody’s idea of a good time. Still, obtaining Spare Time using this latter method was possible, and it had the advantage of versatility. The drops could be rubbed into the skin. They could be snorted up the nose. They could be used to coat the tip of a blow dart and shot into someone’s neck.
The latter was the version coursing through Ann’s bloodstream at that very moment.
If Ann had been someone else—Murgatroyd, for instance, or Nutmeg, both of whom were also deep in Spare Time’s embrace—she might have been experiencing a pleasant amble through a field of flowers or a luxuriously lengthy predawn glimpsing session. But Ann was Ann, and Ann did not dream pleasant or luxurious things. She dreamed of the past. And consequently, Spare Time transported her there and stranded her on its desert isle.
When Ann woke to the sound of the car engine switching off and Mama’s voice announcing cheerily, “We’re home!” she assumed it was one of the usual dreams, even though something was different (she couldn’t place what). She helped Mama unload the car—the rolling suitcas
es, the garment bags, the steam iron, and the two industrial-sized toolboxes of makeup, hair-styling products, and accessories. Then she unpacked her suitcase and put everything away, including the presents Mama had bought to reward her for her first victory—a plush Pound Puppies doll, a jumbo box of Crayola crayons, a set of soda pop–flavoured lip balms, and an expensive green velvet party dress that Mama had let her pick out, despite her firm belief that green wasn’t Ann’s colour.
She cleared the junk mail and late-payment notices from the dining table and laid out the bowls and chopsticks as Mama cooked the instant noodles. After they finished washing the dishes, she and Mama arranged her “Talent Division: Third Place” sash in the empty glass trophy case in the living room, and she listened impassively to Mama chatter excitedly about which trophies, when Ann won them, should go where. Then Ann took a shower and changed into her nightgown, brushed her teeth and blow-dried her hair, and let Mama tuck her in and turn out the lights. She fell asleep quickly, still haunted by the distinct sense that things weren’t quite right.
It was only when Ann arrived at school the next day that she realized what one of the wrong things was—when she was walking from the bus to the school entrance and someone behind her gave her backpack a sharp downward tug. She landed on her butt with a painful thud.
“So Hsu me!” yelled Jeanette Jones, which made everyone around her snicker. It was when her chest tightened and her bottom lip began to tremble and she wished she could go back home and curl up under her covers that she figured it out: the division between her present and past selves had been elided. No longer was she inside and outside her younger self, experiencing scenes from her childhood, yet simultaneously able to occupy the role of detached observer. Somehow, she and An An had become one, fused together, thinking the same despairing thoughts, feeling the same awful emotions, seeing the world through the one pair of eyes within An An’s body. Her grown-up self was now nothing but a tiny blob attached to her younger self’s consciousness, helpless to do anything but go along for the ride.
Two more revelations followed on the heels of the first one, as Ann continued to sit there, planted on the concrete, watching all the other children stream around and over her like fish moving mindlessly downstream. First: she had never dreamed for this long. The night remembrances were usually episodic: isolated scenes or, if multiple ones, discontinuous, like patchwork. But now, she was reliving the miseries of her past in a single unbroken line. Second: she had never dreamed about this—her last week of life in the Known World. The scene at the Mütter Museum had always been the furthest her unconscious had ever dared to venture, and for that Ann had always been profoundly grateful. Now here she was, being dragged closer and closer with each passing hour to that terrible moment, that awful climax on which her Known World life had ended, and she couldn’t even conceive what it would be like to experience it all over again.
