The Alchemy of Happiness: Three Stories and a Hybrid-Essay

by Jason Erik Lundberg

  From behind you, a voice, authoritative and female, says, —You didn’t have to do that, you know.

  Stepping into view is a short Chinese teenager, her blue and black hair short-spiked in seventeen different directions. Dark makeup around her eyes and mouth. Clothed in silk brocade: a red jacket embroidered with the dragon and the phoenix, and black form-fitting silk pants embellished with the lotus and the crane. In her hands is a hand-carved walking stick, two different types of bamboo, combined, intertwined, one dark, almost obsidian, the other light, greenish. You did not see her enter the cage, and cannot think of how she has gotten inside.

  —Can you understand me? she says.

  —Yes.

  —Why did you kill the Tocsin? It was the last of its kind in the Park.

  —It attacked me.

  —So? You can’t die.

  —What?

  The girl steps over you. She cradles the body of the charred and bloody bird, and sings a low song in a language you’ve never before heard, full of melodious words and tones. The grayish smoke from the bird’s singed feathers thickens, opaques, becoming a solid thing which detaches itself, pulsing in time to the girl’s song, and it lifts into the sky, past the netting at the top of the cage, rising higher and higher, sprouting wings, it’s only a speck now, rising, and then it disappears from sight. The bird’s physical body exhales loudly, then crumbles to ash.

  She stands up, dusts herself off, looks you over.

  —You’re a mess, she says.

  ~

  The subterranean cave you now inhabit is built into a large hill, not far from the cage in which you awakened. Cooler than outside, but cozy, decorated with generic landscape paintings and overstuffed furniture decades old. You lie on a dusty leather couch, but no leather you’re familiar with, something dark purple and spotted. Your wounds throb. The girl dressed the one in your leg, the most serious, because, according to her, even if you can’t die, you can still lose the ability to walk if the damage is too severe. A tourniquet, a dressing, a pungent salve applied to your other scratches and gashes, stinging and numbing, the ointment made from distilled tiger saliva. At least you are no longer bleeding, and the girl even found some clothes and hiking boots for you, helping you into them without comment. You get the impression that a large naked man is no big deal for her.

  —My name is Ming Liu, she says. —I am the guardian of this place.

  —And what exactly is this place?

  —Jurong. It used to be a Singaporean bird park. Now it’s more.

  —More?

  —Listen, I know you have a lot of questions, but I’m not the right one to answer them. Even if I knew the answers, I would not be allowed to tell you.

  —Allowed by whom?

  —That’s one of the answers I’m not allowed to give. There’s only one person who can help you: the Undine. I can take you as soon as you’re up for the trip.

  Every six hours or so, she brings a jellied fruit paste for you to eat, and a tureen of cool, clear water. In between those times, she’s out, patrolling the Park, doing her rounds. You sleep fitfully, jerking awake after only a few minutes, irrational and unconscious fear gnawing at your tired brain, the fear that when you wake again, you’ll have lost your memory once more. But eventually, you sink into slumber, dreamless in oblivion.

  Ming Liu carried you here on her shoulders, fireman-style, her slight frame surprisingly strong. You passed through the mesh of the cage as if it were vapor, non-existent. A compound illusion. When you asked her why the birds did not just fly away, she exhaled, as if this were a question a five-year-old might ask, and said:

  —There’s no reason for them to test their reality, is there? The mesh was actually there at one point, but they can’t tell the difference. As long as they’re fed and kept healthy, they don’t try to escape. Now, be quiet. You’re heavy enough without all this talking.

  ~

  After three days, your scrapes and gashes have healed, and your leg is sturdy enough for you to walk on it. You still experience a dull pain, and occasional twinges of something sharper, but Ming Liu assures you that it’ll go away in time. You are surprised at the rapidity of your recovery, unsure whether you naturally heal this quickly, or whether it is being in this place, in Jurong.

  Ming Liu offers her walking stick, and you lean heavily on it as you both exit the cave, from the shadows into the reality of sunshine and humidity. What was once a zoological park, with clear pathways, maintained carefully by gardeners and horticulturalists, is now an overgrown jungle, crowded with hundreds of species of bamboo and palm and banyan and heliconia, a profusion of greens and pinks and yellows, a twenty-foot high canopy saving you from direct sunlight. The intensity of the light is no less diminished, though its harshness is muted from its passage through the leaves. Walking paths have been taken over by indigo mosses and Bird of Paradise and Voodoo Lily, a natural floral labyrinth, an invitation to losing yourself forever, impossible to navigate without Ming Liu’s help.

  The going is slow, your reliance on the walking stick a hindrance in the heavy undergrowth. Every so often you pass another cage, more and more colorful birds, mutated, five times bigger than what you think they should be, their size ominous, and they stare at you as you hobble by, the intelligence clear in their eyes, no longer stupid animals, more dangerous for their cognizance. Any noise they normally make is silenced with your passing. Under their intense scrutiny, your skin crawls.

  Spaced out along the path are several swampy pools, dark brown water infested with algae and clumps of starfish and rotted logs. The smell of decay is strong. You see the outlines of things swimming in the murky water, creatures with an impossible number of eyes and fins. A bevy of dragonflies hovers above one such pool, a silent communion, as if in prayer, and the serenity is destroyed by an amphibious monster, a water-born weasel which hisses as it leaps into the air and snatches three of the dragonflies in its mouth, then drops back beneath the surface with hardly a splash.

  Knots of gnats pervade the air, buzzing in your eyes, your ears, your nose. You get the impression they are trying to find a way into your skull. Mosquitoes nip at your skin, and you soon wear patterns of red weals over your arms and neck. Beside the giant birds in the cages, other smaller free-ranging birds populate the countless number of trees and plants. However, you are surprised at the absence of other animals, tigers, monkeys, rodents, and you tell this to Ming Liu.

  —I’ve wondered about that myself, she says. —There don’t seem to be any non-avian mammals in the Park, beside the two-legged kind. Just the insects, fish and birds.

  An explosion from the greenery in front of you, a burst of feathers and small bodies, of green and red and yellow and black and blue, and you scream and fall to the ground, hands over your face, the sound and fury of countless beating wings streaking by you, a hundred thousand winged projectiles, and then they’re gone, a massive flock lifting up into the sky, an amorphous colorful blot headed where it will. Ming Liu helps you up, a smile wriggling its way onto her lips.

  —Australian lories, she says. —Come on, we’ve still a ways to go.

  Limping slowly, slowly, trying not to trip over roots or the occasional mallard. Farther down the footpath, late afternoon now, is the biggest tree you’re ever likely to see, as if Yggdrasil, the Norse world-tree, has taken root in Jurong. The apotheosis of banyan trees, its massive trunk the size of a city block, sprouting hundreds of roots as thick as your body, and an infinite number of massive branches stretching up into the clouds, and beyond. Hanging from almost every available surface of the tree is a reddish moss that pulses in the breeze, as if it is breathing. Clinging to the areas of bark not occupied by moss are gnarled shelf mushrooms the size of your head, occupied by dozens of different kinds of insects, all crawling over the surface of the fungus, teeming with life.

  Suspended from one of the lower branches, thirty feet from the ground, is a spindly middle-aged man with a blunt rifle, being attacked by dozens of s
mall, laughing, white-bodied birds. Their high-pitched taunts fill the air.

  —Groundling!

  —Carnivore!

  —Piss off, meatbag!

  —Slow human!

  —Your mother was a cuckoo!

  Surrounding the man seems to be a buffer of wind that the swarm of birds is unable to penetrate. At your approach, the man lowers himself to the ground on his harness, and the cyclone of air dissipates. His features are South Asian, possibly Indonesian, and he wears a tired smile. The birds rise as a group, disappearing into the branches.

  —Hey, Kadek, Ming Liu says. —Bali mynahs again?

  —Yes, they have infested the lower levels of the tree. I have been battling with them all morning. Silly creatures. If I could just get a clear shot, I could take care of nearly all of them. Can you help?

  —I can try, she says.

  She turns to you.

  —Hang on to something.

  You grab the trunk of a nearby bamboo tree as Kadek ascends via the harness again. The mynahs flock down from the branches for another assault, buffeted by the protective cyclone that has again sprung up. Ming Liu takes the walking stick from your hand, drives it deep into the ground, closes her eyes. She opens her mouth and emits a deep thruuuuuuuummmmmmmm, barely perceived by the human ear, a vibration felt in the marrow of your bones, in the air itself. The ground shakes and rumbles, leaves fall from a dozen trees, the mynahs freeze in place, equilibriums unbalanced. Kadek aims his weapon at the cluster of birds, swinging and shaking in his harness, unable to squeeze off a shot, and he’s yelling to Ming Liu, but her eyes are closed and she can’t hear anything for the deep bass rumble, the earthquake of her voice, and the branch Kadek is suspended from cracks, sending him straight down, a collision course with the ground, but before he hits, the weapon misfires, right in your direction, and the next thing you know is abominable pain, the low bass replaced with high-frequency shriek, the sound blinding you, an obliteration of pain, a white noise of pain, and you feel the heat rising within you, activated by the sound, by the pain, a rapid buildup of green fire, and the pressure is abruptly too much to bear, so you release the heat, the fire, and you hear screams, a multitude of screams, and slowly, slowly, the feeling dissipates and the high-frequency shriek fades and your sight returns.

  Crumpled up on the ground, Ming Liu shivers, her clothes charred, her skin pink and burned underneath. Littering the ground under the tree are the smoking corpses of mynah birds, motionless. Kadek rushes over, unharmed, and gently turns Ming Liu onto her back. Her breathing is ragged, shallow. Most of her hair is gone.

  Kadek’s eyes accusatory, —Must you destroy every living being you meet?

  —I ... I didn’t mean ... it was ...

  —Help me. We need to bury her.

  —But she’s still alive. She’s breathing.

  —Do what I say! It is the only thing that can help her.

  Scattered on the ground near the trunk of the banyan tree are groundskeeping tools, including a pair of shovels. The two of you dig into the ground, far enough away from the roots that the going is rough but consistent, and after the hole is deep enough, about three feet, you and Kadek lift Ming Liu and place her into it. You are still unsure about this, but the look on Kadek’s face is stern, such a difference from before. You throw the dirt over her, creating a small mound to cover Ming Liu’s still living form. Kadek tamps the dirt tight with his shovel.

  He then tends to the dead mynah birds, planting each one in the ground surrounding Ming Liu, digging with his fingers, an oval perimeter of dead guards, dead sentries.

  —What are you doing?

  —You deserve no explanation, Kadek says sharply. —Sit over there and do not talk to me.

  You hobble to the base of the great tree, sit on a massive root. From your position, you hear Kadek sing in a low voice, in the same strange language you heard earlier from Ming Liu. But this song sounds different, not a goodbye, not a release, but more of a plea. The song, soothing, seeps into your brain, and you lean against the tree, the exhaustion of hiking and the most recent events taking over your body, and you are asleep in minutes.

  ~

  The next morning, you awaken to fog, and voices. Kadek and Ming Liu stand just out of earshot, arguing intensely in hushed tones. It crosses your mind that they are discussing what to do with you.

  Ming Liu catches your eye and cuts off a sentence mid-word. She gingerly makes her way over, aided by the bamboo walking stick, her steps delicate. Her hair has already started growing back, blue already streaking through the black, as if it is her natural. Her skin is smooth and unburned. To your surprise, her expression is not fury, nor reproach, but concern.

  —Are you all right? she says.

  —I think so. Are you all right?

  —It appears I am. The rebirth was successful.

  —Are you immortal too?

  She laughs, a boisterous sound that doesn’t fit with her small frame.

  —No, I’m not immortal. You are, and the Undine is, but not me.

  —So how?

  —I told you. Rebirth.

  And as you look closer, there are subtle differences, the eyes tilted just a bit more, the cheekbones higher, the lips fuller, the face less round. She radiates a glow, possibly the glow of rebirth, but it seems more than that, a happiness that wasn’t there before. A definite improvement.

  —But it was so fast, you say.

  —I had help.

  She pads over to the freshly disturbed grave, and digs with her toes in the surrounding dirt. A miniscule bird skeleton pushes to the surface, its hollow bones stripped completely. Dozens of its brothers and sisters poke out of the ground, the group of annoying Bali mynahs silenced forever. Even the ones in the tree are mute today.

  —What is it with you and endangered species? she says with a bit of a smirk.

  —It was an accident, that gun Kadek had ...

  —I know, I know. You probably would have gotten a similar response from me. But listen, you’ve got to learn to control your abilities better. I’ve seen you do it, so I know it’s possible.

  —You’ve seen me?

  —Yes. From before.

  —Please, tell me what’s going on. If you knew me before I lost my memory, you’ve got to help me.

  She opens her mouth, her eyes showing an eagerness to reveal the truth. But then she shakes her head. —I’m sorry. It’s not my place.

  The fury wells up within you, the helplessness, the frustration. Why won’t anyone just level with you? Why all the secrecy and mystery?

  —Why not? Why isn’t it your place?

  —It just isn’t. The Undine ...

  She closes her mouth again, as if this is a bit of information she wasn’t supposed to reveal. The Undine seems to be pulling all the strings in this place.

  —Fine, you say. —I’ll have to find out from her directly. I get it.

  Kadek steps into view, a look of shame and embarrassment in his eyes.

  —I must apologize for my behavior yesterday, he says to you. —It wasn’t completely your fault, what happened, and I was angry with myself as well.

  He gathers all his tools together in a bag, shoulders everything, and shakes your hand.

  —Good luck.

  —You’re not coming?

  —No. I have duties within the Park, but I will see you when you return.

  He turns and disappears into the jungle, humming a tune loudly to himself. After several moments, the humming fades away, and Ming Liu turns to you.

  —Ready?

  She leads you halfway around the base of the giant banyan tree, carefully navigating the network of roots and frequently putting out a hand to balance herself, arriving after several minutes at a split in the trunk on the other side, a dark gash. A cold breeze drifts out of the opening, bringing with it dampness, leafmold and decay, the smells of a forest in much cooler climes.

  She taps the gash with the head of her walking stick, and it widens, opens
, the wind from inside rippling your clothes and chilling your bald head. A motion from Ming Liu, an indication to enter the tree. The thought of so much coldness makes you nervous, but you squeeze through the gash, pushing through into total darkness, instantly chilled to the bone. She follows, and the gash closes again with a wet sucking sound.

  —What happens now? you yell to be heard over the gale.

  She takes your hand and squeezes tight. The wind changes direction and increases, pulling you upward, and your feet gently leave the ground. You float for a moment, then you are jerked upward, pushed from below and pulled from above, and you’re unable to tell how fast because of the darkness but your stomach lurches, and your internal organs feel as though they want to escape through your feet. You fall upward, twisting now, and turning, and the nausea pushes bile into your throat but you clamp your teeth. Ming Liu’s hand grips yours, so tight that you’ll have bruises later. Falling forever and always, as if this will never stop, as if you will fall upwards into the blackness of space, and beyond, falling past the limits of the solar system, the galaxy, the universe itself, never to return.

  But then, your movement slows, and a dim light creeps into your vision, getting brighter, expanding from a point into a fuzzy halo. A hole, a passage to daylight, and you’re through it, once again emerging into daylight, brighter than supernova. You hover above a wooden platform, you’re held up by the wind within the tree, you float there amid the upper branches. Ming Liu performs a series of deft maneuvers, twisting and contorting her body, wriggling out of the column of air and landing easily on the platform. You clumsily follow her example and manage to tumble out, landing on your injured leg, and the pain from your thigh shoots up your spine and into the base of your skull.