by Martha Faë
A few patients have sunk completely into their mattresses, their outlines so dim that you can only guess at them from the dents left by their bodies. I stop and look at one of these fading people and feel a chill. The deep, black sockets of the empty eyes are like two wells against the white pillow.
“What happened to them?”
I’m overwhelmed by both horror and fascination.
“Unfortunately no one can say for certain. We have only theories,” William answers.
Beatrice moves away from our group to sit down with one of the patients. She takes his hand and begins talking to him about the Creator.
“My understanding is that it’s a problem with lack of replication,” Morgan says, pushing her hair out of her face.
Beatrice rejoins us, her cheeks wet.
“It is a tragedy, an incomprehensible tragedy,” she says, taking an embroidered handkerchief out of her sleeve. “I would never dare to judge the Creator’s decisions, but...”
“Not the Creator again!” says Morgan, bored. She lets out a huff and walks away to consult the notes at the foot of each bed.
“Poor Morgan. She’s an unbeliever,” Beatrice whispers as she takes my arm. “May the Creator forgive me, but at times I think she is an imitator.”
I look at her, my eyes wide.
“That’s right, an imitator. You know, those people who believe themselves equal to the Creator, and try to imitate his virtues and powers. Many inhabitants of the Sphere claim that Morgan practices the dark arts. In fact—and please don’t mention this to her—they call her a witch as often as they do a fairy. What do you think of that?”
I shrug. Neither one exists, so it hardly matters what anyone calls her.
“Be that as it may,” Beatrice continues, “neither Morgan nor William shows the least respect for the Creator. I have great esteem for Mister Holmes, but he lacks faith, that is why he is so unhappy. But now I am wandering off the subject. As I was saying, I would never doubt the Creator’s good judgment, but I have to confess that I struggle to understand why this is happening to our companions in the Sphere. Some may not be what we could call good citizens, but the others... Oh, dear Dissie, some of the very best are here! Like him, for example,” she indicates a man languishing on one of the beds. “This is the good Aeneas. Never has there been such a noble, strong heart, or such a brave spirit. Very few have dared to take on a role like his, one that requires an almost interminable voyage, full of setbacks and tragedies. Few could withstand it. But Aeneas weathers the difficulties over and over again, repeating his Aeneid just as the Creator has assigned. Without bemoaning it—never have I heard him complain of his role. But one day he began to grow weaker, and then he reached the point where he could no longer move. And here you see him, lessened, shrunken in this bed. You would almost say that they’ve forgotten him.”
Morgan goes on reviewing the patient notes and writing things down in a little book. William follows closely behind, observing all her movements. When they finish they gesture for us to come with them. If I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes I would refuse to believe something like this could happen. But it’s true: these people, or beings, or whatever they are, are dying. And I feel like I’ve got to help.
They take me to an office where William and Morgan set out to explain the theory of replication, no matter how blasphemous Beatrice may think it is.
“We all contain a nucleus from which identical copies of ourselves can be made,” Morgan says, leaning her elbows on the table where we’re sitting. She clasps her hands and rests her head on them.
“I know,” I say, “I know about cloning.”
“Cloning?” asks Morgan with a furrowed brow, clearly interested.
Her scientific curiosity is enough to bring her down from her cloud of haughtiness. She seems, if not exactly pleasant, a bit closer to it. She wants to know all about the new word I just used and how the process is done, and I’m happy to elaborate. I explain how cloning works as best I can.
“Replication is slightly different,” says Morgan once I’ve finished my explanation. Her tone has changed completely; her scorn and sarcasm are gone. “It doesn’t have the weaknesses of cloning; the copies do not age or die prematurely. They are identical to the original. The fascinating thing about this process, which occurs in a space that we unfortunately don’t know anything about, is that—contrary to what you might think—each copy made strengthens the original. That is, it doesn’t take away a single iota of life, but rather the reverse.” William nods and Beatrice keeps shaking her head. “The more copies exist, the stronger the original gets. Although I have been studying this theory with Merlin for some time, there are some important details that I haven’t yet unraveled. For instance, why are some replicated and others not? What are the criteria? I think it is a question of spatial demand. Beyond the Sphere there is a space...”
“Beyond the Sphere there is nothing,” interrupts Beatrice abruptly.
“Darling Beatrice, please.” William lays his hand on top of Beatrice’s.
“As I was saying,” Morgan resumes her explanation without acknowledging the interruption, “according to the wise scholars who have come up with this theory, beyond the Sphere there is another place, which is divided into creative space and use space. Merlin and his companions believe that in this great space energy is in constant motion; it is divided and multiplied. In one of these divisions the spark that gives rise to everything you can see is created, and in the other that creation is put to use—do you understand?” I nod. “Some sort of activity in the use space triggers a greater demand for replication for certain blocks.”
“Blocks?” I want to understand it all, to get every single detail.
“Yes, sorry, I didn’t explain that. Blocks are the sets of citizens that share interconnected roles. I, for instance, am in the same block with Arthur, that moron Guinevere, and of course Merlin, whom I’m sure you know.”
“Merlin? No, I don’t know the name.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter, you’ll meet him soon. Everyone loves him, both here and outside of the Sphere. There must be something that causes us to be constantly replicated. I’d like to think it’s because of me”—Morgan lets out a nervous giggle—“but I won’t kid myself. I know that if one of us is moving replication energy in the use space it’s Merlin, and not just because he’s one of the best wizards out there. He’s always been very charismatic.”
“According to this theory,” William adds, “and in light of Morgan’s apparent good health, the block to which she belongs is continually being replicated. It’s clear that it is successful in the use space.”
“Thanks to Merlin,” Morgan says, with surprising modesty.
“Thanks to whatever it may be,” William says, “the fact of the matter is that there are millions of your copies in the use space.”
Morgan smiles and makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. Beatrice hasn’t interrupted again, but she hasn’t stopped shaking her head disapprovingly, either.
“Replication happens to the whole block,” Morgan continues, “and that affects the health of everyone that makes up the block—do you see?”
I nod. I am genuinely interested, and I can’t deny that I enjoy being trusted with information that only a few people know.
“And there you have it,” says William. “But all this is no more than a theory. The reality, at least as of now, is that we don’t know why the citizens of the Sphere that you’ve seen in the hospital beds are so ill.”
“So you don’t believe in the theory?” I ask, confused.
“Great, sweeping studies like this do not interest me terribly. The theory doesn’t seem completely wrongheaded to me, but I am only interested in it insofar as it can be of practical use. Which it has not yet been.”
I do like theories; I always have. Proven theories, of course. Finding patterns, rhythms of activity—I’m really into that. I like trying to figure out what can be predicted out of all the apparent
chaos. It really gets my mind going. I look at Beatrice, her head still down, and feel sorry that we’re so different in this one way.
“Morgan, have you looked for shared traits in the blocks that have more replication?” I can’t hide my enthusiasm.
“I have tried, but haven’t found a pattern yet.”
“You mentioned your friend Merlin’s charisma before—do you think that could have something to do with it? Are there more copies of the most likeable groups?”
“I don’t know why I said that, really. I’ve combed through the personalities of the most replicated, and there are all sorts. Some are kind; others are wicked... I don’t know. I have to confess that I haven’t been able to find anything that they all have in common. I also thought it might have to do with their roles, you know, that maybe there was some particular behavior that resulted in more demand in the use space than others. But I haven’t been able to find any common thread there, either.”
“What, exactly, is a role?” I ask.
“We call a daily routine a role. The things one does repeatedly.”
“So here you all repeat the same actions over and over again?”
“Of course!” Morgan and Beatrice reply simultaneously.
“Why?”
“Because that is how the Creator wishes it,” says Beatrice.
“Because it is in each of our natures,” Morgan corrects her, “in the code from which we are formed... What did you say it was called in your world?”
“I guess you mean DNA.”
“That’s it, DNA!” Morgan snaps her fingers with a smile and then gives herself a little knock on the head to commit the word to memory.
“Let’s see,” I say. “Even though you haven’t found a common factor in the character or the role of the most replicated yet, it seems clear that there’s some kind of natural selection, right?... Some have found a way to adapt better to their environment, so they’re more successful. I mean, if I’m understanding you right, more copies are made of those who know how to behave best in the use space.”
“No,” Morgan answers, sounding disappointed, “sadly it’s not that simple. We have observed that someone might be in excellent health for a very long time, which indicates good replication in the use space, but then they stop replicating and lose strength. Just like that. On the other hand, there are others who might go for a while without being replicated, like you’ve seen in the hospital, and then just when you think all is lost, that they’re going to disappear, they regain strength. Something happens in the space and they’re reborn. As if they’d been republished!”
“This all sounds like heresy to me,” Beatrice says sorrowfully, still leaning on the table. “Everything that happens is by the Creator’s design.”
I can see that she’s gathering up her courage to say something else. She sits quietly for a few seconds, her fists on the table and her head down.
“Truly, I believe that all your theories are doing nothing more than provoking the Creator’s wrath. Things in the Sphere could get even worse because of it. Who knows? Maybe what has already happened is a punishment. We’re all paying for those of you who cast doubt on the Creator’s work. Merlin, you, and all your so-called scholars have offended him.”
Beatrice’s speech is so serious and dramatic that Morgan and I have a hard time holding in our laughter. We give each other a look, take a deep breath, and just barely manage to stay calm.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”
Beatrice’s tone is bitter, and her face so sorrowful that I feel bad for having been so clearly interested in the theory of replication.
“I think that we should all go,” says William. “We all have a great many matters to attend to.”
“You can stay with me,” Beatrice tells me. She’s just as kind as ever, and that makes me feel even worse for having shown so little respect for her beliefs. Why do I feel like I’ve been cruel? It wasn’t that bad, but I still can’t help feeling guilty.
“After all, you don’t have your own home in the Sphere, right? And I feel responsible for your presence here... If you’ll allow me to feel responsible for it,” she says, looking at Morgan.
My face goes red. Morgan has invited me to the library to show me her notes on replication. I think I’ve found some common ground with Morgan—the passion for science outweighs any personal dislike. I feel Beatrice’s hard, polished hand on my arm, light and warm. I know I should go home with her right now, but I can feel my blood pumping at the thought of learning more about the mysterious spaces of creation and use.
“Beatrice... I... You see...”
I can’t find the words. I have to be careful. I have to tell her tactfully, to be as sensitive with her as she has been with me.
“I’m going with Morgan to the library... You don’t care, do you?”
A round of applause for the queen of tact. Beatrice stands there, frozen. After that total failure all I can do is look at her with my best puppy-dog eyes. It’s a lousy trick, I know, but it seems to have worked.
“Of course I don’t mind, go,” Beatrice answers with a bitter smile. I can see the disappointment in her empty eye sockets, but no matter how much she disapproves, she simply can’t bend us to her will.
9
We leave Gannochy House and head toward South Street, where we had planned to split up. When we turn onto narrow Castle Street the thundering of powerful wings leaves us frozen right where we stand. In the space of a second my blood goes cold and then seems to boil over. A sort of electric shock passes through my entire body. That noise—I’m sure it’s the same as what I heard on the beach. Which is terrifying, but also means we have a chance to unravel the mystery. What if it really is me? What would happen if I could actually help these “people”? I wait for instructions from William, but they don’t come. Morgan pulls me hard by the hand. We run down the street just in time to see narrow, elongated shadows falling on the cobblestones, and then they’re gone.
“They came out of Dorian’s house!” Morgan shouts, resting her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “Look.”
She points to a low house with a ceramic mouse and cat on the tiled roof. The door is wide open.
“Dorian!” Beatrice calls, approaching the doorway. Her voice is cracked with fear.
“Mister Gray, are you there?” asks William as he goes inside.
“Let’s go!” Morgan says, and takes my hand again.
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. This is the first time in my life that I’ve been in a truly serious situation.
I can’t believe my eyes. The inside of the house is nothing like its exterior. On the outside it looks small and cozy, but inside its proportions are impossibly large. I’m tempted to go back out to the street just to look at the tiny façade of the building again. There simply cannot be this much space inside. There’s a sort of instant enlarging effect and I watch, amazed, as we move forward and the space seems to get even bigger. Rugs and tapestries come one after another; the little crystals on the chandeliers tremble and twinkle in the draft from the front door. Silently William points out the pieces of a huge Chinese vase, the different grays of the intricate design standing out against white porcelain. They’re so beautiful that my hand moves closer, pulled by some invisible force. One of the fragments has been broken just beneath the head of a sinuous dragon, cutting its throat. My fingers stop in mid-air. The dragon’s snout with its long protruding tongue makes me shudder, and my stomach turns. It feels like I’m looking at the remains of a dead animal, not just a piece of porcelain.
Everything is in disarray; there are books thrown all over the place. Someone has slashed all the paintings on the walls, and I feel the same way about the hanging strips of canvas as I did about the vase: it’s as if the paintings had been alive. I shake my head, trying to chase away the unsettling feeling that some of the canvases are in their death throes. I glance over at Beatrice and regret it right away—the look on her face is no help at all
. You would think she was standing before the body of someone who had been very special to her. The elegant curtains are ripped, too, and on top of a huge grand piano we find a bottle of wine tipped over on its side. Whoever rampaged through the house did it just seconds ago: we can still see the last drop of wine falling onto the dark stain on the polar bear rug.
“The fire is lit,” says William calmly, holding his pipe in his right hand without taking it all the way out of his mouth. He seems completely unperturbed.
“That means the intruders we saw escaping just kidnapped Dorian Gray,” adds Morgan, her hair disheveled from running. William shakes his head, simply but emphatically. “But... the house has been turned upside down, the door was open, and we saw the shadows as they ran away... If the fire is lit it means Dorian was here,” Morgan insists.
I agree with her. The proof is irrefutable. William just keeps on examining the room as if he hadn’t even heard Morgan’s words, and the stony look she had when I first met her reappears on her face. I don’t blame her.
“Indeed,” says William a few seconds later. There’s no way to know if he’s referring to Morgan’s observation, or just talking to himself. “We should split up to search for Mister Gray; he has to be here somewhere.”
“But then...” I can’t quite put my doubts into words. Why did he say ‘indeed’?
Maybe it isn’t that William has an impenetrable expression. Maybe I just never read him right until now. He doesn’t have any expression because there’s nothing inside of him—no sensitivity, no reasoning, nothing! Why would he seem to agree with Morgan and then a moment later say exactly the opposite? It’s obvious that the intruders have taken this Mister Gray guy. We have to hurry up and rescue him, not search for him in his ransacked house. Morgan clenches her teeth so hard her jaw trembles. I’m surprised at her self-control; knowing what she’s like I would’ve bet on her exploding, but she doesn’t say a word. She and Beatrice nod and look around, searching just like Holmes ordered them to.