The Physician's Tale

by Ann Benson

  Quietly, Janie said, “We’ve always wondered.”

  “Well, wonder no more. The bacterium didn’t just ‘emerge’ by mutation. It was engineered—cleverly, so it would look like a natural occurrence. But there were signs. The CDC kept pretty close tabs on active strains of bacteria from that region, even with the budget limitations they had toward the end, because the region was such a mess. There was only one strain that had the potential to give rise to DR SAM, and it would have taken three mutations to get there. Some whiz kid in our support unit did the math—the probability of three natural mutations taking place like that without any kind of an interim trail was off the charts of negative probability. Something like fifty trillion to one against it happening that way.”

  “So someone cooked it. My God.” Janie paused. “I—I couldn’t even imagine who could do such a thing.”

  “The same kinds of people who fly planes into buildings. It’s no different.”

  “The scale was a little larger.”

  “I don’t know if they understood that.”

  After a brief pause, Janie said, “But all along, everyone said it was natural—scientists, medical experts; why didn’t anyone else come up with the same conclusion?”

  “I don’t have an answer for that. I think someone probably did. There were some pretty prominent scientists who died in the first outbreak. You’d think most of them would have known how to stay safe.”

  The implications of what Lany had just told her were huge; Janie sat on the log in silence and let the weight of it settle. Finally she said, “Does anyone know specifically who was responsible?”

  Lany shifted her position slightly. “There were no public claims of responsibility, but rumors got around in our unit that it was a fundamentalist group: religious zealots who called themselves the Coalition. Supposedly they were a mix of assorted hard-liners—various sects of Muslims and fanatic Christians who figured out that they could bring the world back to the Dark Ages a lot more easily if they cooperated and then divided the spoils.”

  Or the Middle Ages, Janie thought. What more appropriate way than with a plague? “Where were they from?”

  “All over the world. Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, some of the rogue former-Soviet states. We heard that displaced Russian scientists provided the raw materials; lots of microbe samples went missing from the Russian equivalent of the CDC when the Soviet Union fell apart. We were too busy tracking down stray nukes to worry about a few little bugs.”

  “Which proved to be the larger threat,” Janie mused. “Did anyone ever go after this ‘Coalition’?”

  Lany shrugged. “I don’t know. If anyone did, it had to be well after the first outbreak. But who would go? The army, the CIA? Everything was so confused. If I had to bet, I’d say they’re still out there, working hard to create more chaos.”

  The sound of rustling leaves, louder than the mountain breeze could generate, shocked them out of their concentration. Janie turned toward the noise and saw a small flock of turkeys not far into the brush. She sat upright and pulled an arrow out of her quiver, nocked it into the bow, and let it fly. On hearing the snap of the bow, the birds took off into the woods. Janie’s arrow went high and missed.

  Lany’s did not.

  “That’s a big hen,” Janie said as she stood over the quivering bird.

  Lany bent over and pulled up one pants leg. She drew a knife from a scabbard strapped to her lower leg, then stood and offered it to Janie. “You want to do the honors?”

  Janie reached down and pulled up her own pants leg, revealing the same arrangement. “It’s your bird.”

  “Okay.” Lany reached down and sawed her knife through the bird’s neck. The quivering stopped. They watched as the blood spurted out of the stump. When the flow diminished to a trickle, Janie said, “We should each take one leg. It’ll be heavy for either one of us.”

  They carried the headless bird between them out to the powerhouse. After a cursory check, everything seemed in order, so they made their way back along the path, more quickly than they’d come out; a trail of fresh blood had the nasty tendency to attract larger predators. As they hurried by the same vista, Janie looked off into the distance at the cell towers, and said with a sigh, “Wouldn’t it be great if we could just get them working?”

  “What the hell, I’m already a bloody mess.” Tom took the big bird out to the barn and gutted it, tossing the unusable innards into the growing pile of pig remnants, stuffing the rest into the cavity.

  They went inside to check on the little girl, who seemed, miraculously, to be holding her own. The father maintained his tearful vigil at the bedside. Janie touched his shoulder lightly for reassurance, but said nothing. When they were back in the kitchen, she said, “I don’t want to give him any false hope, but I didn’t think she’d make it this far. That infection on her leg—it’s bad. But maybe the maggots are taking some of the strain off her system in general. Once that infection is under control…”

  Lany watched Janie put a large pot of water on the cast-iron stove. “Where’s everyone else?” she asked.

  “Chores,” Janie said. “This time of year, there’s so much to do to get ready for the planting. All those innards Tom had piled up? Trust me when I tell you he’s dreaming of fertilizer. He’ll grind it all up and make this kind of disgusting soup—Ed thinks it’s some kind of gold. The others are out there getting the ground ready—the greens and carrots can go in pretty soon. We have a tractor; Tom and Terry managed to convert it to ethanol, so we can use it for planting. We plowed behind the horses for a while, but it was a nightmare with the rocky soil up here. That nice stone wall along the edge of the courtyard is made up of rocks we pulled out just in the first two years.”

  The water was boiling by the time Tom came in with the turkey. As they yanked the feathers out of the bird’s dimpled skin, Lany continued the interrupted story of her migration eastward. “I worked with a detective in Boston on the Durand case. Old Wilbur was originally from Southie. Well, the detective was happily married when we first met, but his wife died in the first round. We’d stayed in touch. When they were reassigning biocops across the country, I got myself transferred to Boston. Pete and I, uh, got together pretty quickly after that.” Almost with embarrassment, she added, “Tends to speed things up when the world is falling apart all around you.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Janie said, her empathy genuine. “The way I got together with Tom was similar, although we’ve known each other almost all our lives. You get focused when…you need to.”

  She said nothing about Bruce.

  Lany smiled again, but sadly this time. “I wish I could say my situation had as happy an ending.” She heaved in a somber breath.

  A dark look came over her; Janie watched in sympathetic quiet as Lany pulled feather after feather out of the bird, until she recovered her calm and began to speak again.

  “So when they started transferring people out of the immediate Boston area, I told them I wouldn’t mind being sent out, someplace where there weren’t so many memories. Evan came along with me. They were so desperate for volunteers that they agreed to pretty much anything I asked. We went to Hamp for a while; Steve Roy’s brother-in-law was a sheriff, and I had some dealings with him there. Just before things really went wild, he got in touch with me and asked if I’d like to come out to Orange.”

  “An offer you couldn’t refuse.”

  She nodded soberly. “Evan and I came out just as the second wave was getting really bad. I probably don’t have to tell you much about what happened after that.”

  “No,” Janie said. “You don’t.”

  Kristina shook Janie out of a dark dream in the predawn hours. She sat up quickly; Tom stirred at her side.

  “I think it’s done,” the girl said.

  Janie threw off the covers and sat on the side of the bed. “Already?”

  Even in the thin light she could see the sparkle in Kristina’s eyes.

  “Come on,” Kristina s
aid, pulling her along.

  Janie stood in front of the computer screen and looked at the results of the biospectrometer reading. The sounds of other people stirring throughout the lodge were a distant accompaniment. The lines and bars and numerals didn’t mean much to her. “This is what it’s supposed to be? You’re sure?”

  Kristina pointed to a line of text on the screen. “That’s the formula for synthetic insulin,” she said.

  Still in her nightgown, Janie sat on the edge of the little girl’s bed. She washed a small section of the thin thigh with soap and water, then rinsed it clean. She guided the needle into the flesh of the muscle—what was left of it—and gently pushed on the plunger until the syringe was empty.

  The father gave her a pleading look.

  “If it works, it won’t be long. We’ll know pretty quickly.” She patted his arm with as much reassurance as she could manage, then left them alone.

  The others were already assembled in the main room. Only Sarah and Alex were still asleep.

  “So?” Michael said.

  “We wait. And pray.”

  A short while later, the father came into the room. Everyone turned toward him, but no one said a word.

  “She wants water,” he said. His face was streaked with tears. A rousing cheer went through the room; everyone rushed to surround him with hugs of joy and congratulations. The father broke free and took Kristina into his arms, and nearly crushed her in his embrace. Janie went to the kitchen for a glass of water, then walked, her steps light and happy, to the vigil room.

  “I guess it really was the greatest invention of the twentieth century,” Michael said as he examined the duct-tape patch on the leg of the green suit. The mud from his fall had all been washed away by the people of Orange, who’d donated a bit of their precious supply of tape to repair it. “Inside and out,” he said. He looked up at Caroline. “I can’t imagine this won’t hold.”

  “It’d better hold,” she said. “Right now, I don’t even care about those hot spots.”

  “We still need to know,” he reminded her gently. “We got distracted by…” He paused, searching for words. “By everything else,” he said finally. “Hopefully there won’t be any additional adventures. No panicking, promise me.”

  She did, but he knew that the minute he was outside the gate, her panic would set in, and it would not abate until he returned. There was nothing more he could do to soothe her. He carried the suit, because this time he was accompanied by people who could help him get in and out of it when he was near the gathering point.

  Lany and Michael went out the gate first, then the father and child on their one horse. Janie and Evan brought up the rear. As the gates on the safe world closed behind her, Janie looked back and hoped she would pass back through them, at least once again.

  Thirteen

  “Ah, Chaucer, come in,” King Edward said.

  The youth raised himself up from his deep bow and crossed the audience room, noting with interest as he approached the king that none of the usual sycophants were about.

  “I am in need of your skills again.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty, I am delighted to be—”

  “Yes,” the king interrupted. He stood to his full and impressive height. “One understands quite well that you are.”

  Feeling a bit chastened, Chaucer stood straight and still on the ornate red carpet; he remained uncharacteristically silent while the king walked slowly around him. When the circumnavigation was complete, Edward said, “You have matured into a handsome young man. Your mother and father always speak well of your progress with letters. Of course, we are the beneficiaries of your expertise and see that progress firsthand while our scribe is otherwise occupied.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “I am told by those who have observed the two of you together that my daughter is equally appreciative of you.”

  So, he thought, as Kate predicted, here is the warning. Chaucer cleared his throat nervously, then said, “It would be an honor of unspeakable proportions to be admired by such a lady as herself.”

  The king smiled in amusement. “She is lovely, is she not? She puts me to mind of my own mother, even more so than Isabella. Of course, she bears some resemblance to me, would you not agree?”

  “Beyond a doubt, sire. And if I may be so bold as to say again, for I have said it many times before, she bears a striking resemblance to my lord Lionel.”

  “Ah, yes, she wears the Plantagenet blood as handsomely as her brother.” He sat down again on his favorite carved wooden chair and stretched out his legs. “I have plans for my daughter’s future, Chaucer, that are important to the welfare of our kingdom. One day soon she shall be married—well married, I can promise. Therefore I must insist that any affection between the two of you remain a playful flirtation only, a passe-temps, if you will, and that you not profess any kind of love or other such nonsense to her.”

  Before replying, Chaucer reflected a moment. “Of course, sire,” he said, “I shall comply with your request.” He paused again, as if in reflection. “Begging your indulgence, my liege, do you truly consider love nonsense?”

  “Young man, now is not an ideal time for such a discussion.”

  “I understand, Your Majesty, but I pose this question philosophically and with all due respect, for I would not displease you. I only ask because it is easily seen that you and our beloved queen, your wife, still show—on most occasions—a wondrous affection for each other.”

  The king laughed. “Boldly said! You are young yet, Chaucer. Someday you will understand the many forms that love takes. I would not recommend royal love as a model for emulation.” Then he became quite serious again. “And for the moment, I must insist that you refrain from any serious entanglement with my daughter. It is a good and kind thing for her to have the occasional attentions of a worthy gentleman such as yourself. But we should not raise false hopes in her heart, for any romance between you will not have my sanction, despite your fine qualities.”

  Chaucer kept his face as emotionless as possible. He responded in a flat tone. “I understand completely, sire. But allow me to take my leave of her gently—she is a sensitive young woman, as you no doubt realize.”

  “Of course. Be kind and sweet to her; God alone knows that she deserves some sweetness after the horror of her time in Europa. Had I only known…Well, we shall not speak of the unhappy past right now; we cannot change it, much as one would like to do so. I am glad that we have come to this understanding. Now, if you will kindly take up the pen, I would dictate some letters. The rider will depart on the morrow and there is much to be written.”

  For several hours, Chaucer wrote as the king spoke; once or twice he asked the king to pause so he could stretch his hand and relieve the stiffness. It was very late when they finished the last letter, a particularly long one; this would be his last opportunity to set the plan he and Kate had formulated in motion. He looked up to see if the king was watching and saw that the monarch was rubbing his eyes in fatigue. Chaucer tipped the ink pot deliberately, causing a puddle of ink on the page.

  He leaped to his feet and scooped up the parchment to contain the spill. The king turned around at the sudden noise.

  “My apologies, Your Majesty,” Chaucer said. “My hand has become quite cramped—please forgive me for my oafish spasm!” He showed the king the gathered mess. “I will rewrite the letter this evening and bring it around for your seal when it is done.”

  The king looked at the spoiled parchment and scowled. “Very well, but bring it back before the hour of terce tomorrow. We do not wish to delay the courier’s departure.”

  “I will, sire,” Chaucer said. He went to the secretary, grabbed two pieces of fresh parchment and another pot of ink, and bowed his way out of the king’s study.

  Two different guards stood outside Kate’s door, having relieved those who were with her most of the time. Neither one of the brutes said anything to Chaucer as he stood waiting for the knock
to be answered.

  Kate opened the door herself.

  “Your writing lesson, lady,” Chaucer said, displaying the parchment and pot. “I have corrected the errors. His Majesty is quite chagrined and suggests that we review them.”

  To her confused look, he said, “Immediately.”

  She looked to the guards; they showed no interest whatsoever in Chaucer, who had acquired a reputation for exaggerated mannerisms.

  “Oh, very well, if the king insists,” she said, having finally understood Chaucer’s feint. She closed the door behind him after he entered.

  Chaucer took her by the arm and led her to the far side of the room, and spoke in a whisper. “The courier leaves tomorrow morning, so there is little time.” He held out the parchment and ink. “You need only tell me what you wish to say to your père.”

  There was no hesitation, for the formation of a plan had occupied all her thoughts. “Tell him that we will meet beyond the oaks. On May Day.”

  Chaucer sat down at her writing table and put himself to the task of the message, pausing now and then to consider his words, once or twice scratching out what had been written to substitute a new word. A few times he asked questions about her intent and her destination. When the work was complete, he handed the sheet to Kate. Her eyes fairly devoured the lines on the page.

  She looked up when she was finished reading. “A poem. I would not have thought of it.”

  “I have tried to disguise my hand,” he said. “My apologies for the scrawl.”

  “I could not have done half as well myself,” she said, “and he will understand! This is all that matters. You are a marvel, Chaucer. A true marvel.” She handed the page back to him, her face afire with excitement.

  He rolled it neatly and tucked it into his sleeve. “It will go to the courier on the morrow.” He took her hand in his. “But before I go there is another matter to be addressed.” He hesitated for a few seconds, then said, “We were, it seems, quite convincing in our portrayal of lovers. The king has, as you predicted, taken note, with disapproval.”