Out of Here

by Patty Jansen

  Sir Berthold leant back in his armchair, heaving a deep sigh. 'I don't know, Reginald. Just between me and you, I'm worried. It's my daughter . . .'

  'Ah, the lovely Annabelle. Is anything wrong with her?'

  'I don't know. She seems to have forgotten how to be happy. My wife says it's part of her growing up, but I don't like it. I want to see a smile on her face. I want to hear her laugh. I want to make her happy.'

  The king thought for a while and then winked. 'I can't claim great authority on the subject of girls, since I have only sons myself, but don't all girls dream of marrying a prince?'

  Now that was an idea worthy of a king.

  * * *

  Annabelle's hands descended on the table with a thud that made the household's prize china rattle. 'Prince Alexander?'

  Her father beamed from ear to ear. 'Yes, Prince Alexander. I've heard he is quite smitten with you.'

  Annabelle dropped her spoon in her soup with a dramatic, theatrical gesture. 'Mother, tell him he's off his brain. Prince Alexander has sail ears and pimples and he only ever talks about horses.'

  Dabbing soup off the table, Lady Giselde forced a smile in her daughter's direction, while flashing a where-on-Earth-did-you-get that-idea look at her husband. 'But he's a prince, my dear.'

  Annabelle gave an exasperated sigh. 'A prince. So what? Haven't you noticed? I don't give two figs about princes.'

  What language for a young lady! Berthold had to remind his wife that lessons in etiquette and embroidery might be more appropriate than those drama classes she was taking. He said, 'You're being entirely unreasonable, Annabelle. Prince Alexander is a very nice young man. He--'

  'Dad, I couldn't care less if he was emperor. I'm not marrying Prince Alexander.' She rose from the table, pushed away the chair, which fell over, and stomped off to her room.

  * * *

  The magician put down the ladle. His star-bespeckled cloak glittered in the light of the crystal that hung suspended from the cavern ceiling. 'Oh great and wonderfully brave Sir Berthold. Why is it that you grace me with your presence?'

  Sir Berthold flapped an annoyed hand. 'Please cut the dragonshit, Algernon, just answer my question: can you do it?'

  The magician lowered his half-moon glasses to the tip of his nose. 'A love potion, you say?'

  Sir Berthold nodded.

  Algernon frowned. 'But that seems quite unnecessary to me. The lady Giselde is without doubt the most devoted wife--'

  'No, no, no, it's not for my wife, it's for my daughter.'

  'Ah, the lovely Annabelle.' He smiled. 'Now who is the lucky young man upon whom she has set her eyes?'

  'Uhm . . . that is the problem. She hasn't set her eyes on anyone.'

  'But you would dearly want her to?'

  'Yes. She's coveted by the young prince Alexander.'

  Algernon frowned over the steam rising from the cauldron. 'She wants to marry Prince Alexander?'

  'Well . . . uhm . . . you see . . . I think she spends too much time in drama classes, and all those sad plays make her unhappy. She doesn't see the lovely young men who want her. That's why I need the love potion.'

  Algernon sighed. 'In that case, I'm afraid I can't help you.'

  'But Algernon--'

  'No, I'm sorry. True love is what you want, and none of my potions procure long-lasting emotion. Why are you so keen for her to be married?'

  Sir Berthold gave him a desperate look. 'I just want her to be happy.'

  'There are many other ways to achieve happiness.'

  Sir Berthold balled his fists inside his pockets. Leaders of religion sprouted meaningless phrases like this. 'Then tell me how.'

  Algernon tugged his beard and said, 'Have you tried asking her?'

  Ask her, and be mocked, ridiculed and made to feel the worst father in the kingdom? He'd rather fight the dragon.

  * * *

  Lady Giselde held up her embroidery: a dragon pattern in gold and red. 'Look sweetheart. I will present this to the Queen to be hung in the palace hall to commemorate your bravery.'

  Berthold slouched in a chair. 'Put it away. I'm not brave at all.'

  Lady Giselde lowered her work, and frowned. 'Not brave? But think of the dragon you slew and saved the land from all its evil magic--'

  'Just for once stop talking about the flaming dragon. That was nothing.'

  Lady Giselde's eyes widened. 'What is wrong, sweetheart? Has the king sent you on an even more perilous quest?'

  Not meeting her eyes, Sir Berthold felt a deep shame. The king's quests were lizard bones compared to this. He shook his head. 'I shall not be afeared. A knight should always look danger in the face, anticipate where the next attack will arise and pre-empt it.'

  And with that, he rose from the couch and went to his daughter's room.

  His heart beat in his chest and his throat felt drier than it ever had in his life. Turning the door handle, he almost wished it was locked, but the door creaked open.

  Pots and jars crowded the dressing table and frilly cushions spilled from the bed onto the floor.

  'Annabelle?'

  A muffled response issued from under the blankets on the bed. 'I hate you!'

  He flinched. 'Annabelle, please.'

  'I'm not marrying Prince Alexander.'

  'Did I say you had to?'

  The heap of blankets moved and a mop of lank blond hair emerged. 'But you said--'

  'I didn't say you had to marry him. I proposed you might like to, because I thought it would make you happy.' He averted his gaze. 'I suppose it doesn't.'

  'No.'

  Sir Berthold sat on the bed, feeling silly and vulnerable without his sword. 'I come home after a long trip away and all I see is your sad face, hiding behind that curtain of hair. I worry and wonder what I can do to make you happy, because I love you, Annabelle, and I can't stand to see you like this.'

  Annabelle slowly brushed her hair out of her face. Like this, she still very much looked like his little girl. She let herself fall into his arms; she smelled of perfume. 'I love you, too, Daddy.'

  'Then tell me, what do you want?'

  Annabelle stifled a tiny sob. 'I don't know, Daddy. You're so brave and everyone thinks I should be something great and wonderful. But I'm just ordinary Annabelle. I'm not pretty. I'm not smart. I'm not fearless, like you--'

  'I'm not fearless either.' A great weight fell from his shoulders with this admission.

  'You're not?' She looked up at him through her tears. 'You mean when you faced the dragon--'

  That infernal dragon again. Sir Berthold shook his head. 'My fears are in . . . other parts of life.'

  'Oh.' She paused to think. 'Like you're scared of spiders or something?'

  Spiders. Like teenage daughters, they watched prey become entangled in their complex webs. 'Something like that.'

  'Daddy? Scared of spiders?'

  Sir Berthold cringed, but Annabelle laughed and it sounded like music to his ears.

  About this story:

  Heroes are formidable fighters and not afraid of anything. In considering what such a hero might be afraid of, I didn't need to look any further than the family table.

  The Weed Eaters

  Originally published in The Fat Man At The End Of The World anthology

  Lunchtime in the University grounds. Bright sunshine flooded the old sandstone buildings, bringing colour and cheer to places normally serious and solemn. Students lounged in the main quadrangle, laughed and talked at the café or read newspapers on the grass.

  Tess McLaren hurried across the lawn, looking at her watch. She had agreed to meet her supervisors in the canteen, but had been so busy with her lab work that she had completely forgotten the time.

  She ran under the archway, into the next courtyard . . . and couldn't get through. About a hundred students had gathered around a be-suited young man speaking through a megaphone. ' . . . and now we as scientists have to stand up and be heard. The governments of the world are simply putting our concerns
aside. Not believing us--'

  Someone pushed a pamphlet in her hands. It is not too late to save the world from environmental disaster. Underneath this text, a thin, wiry man, his white hair curly and bushy, stared at her from a grainy photograph. Tess knew the picture well. British environmental scientist and Nobel Prize winner Jeremiah Galston was an icon. Once a riveting speaker, brilliant researcher and prolific author on sustainability, he must be about ninety now, living somewhere in his beloved Venezuela.

  'Hello there. Haven't seen you for a long time.'

  Tess looked up from the pamphlet into a round face framed by a short beard and spiked-up brown hair. 'Andrew. How are you going?' She cringed at her own insensibility. Last time she heard, Andrew Trenbarth still worked as assistant in the animal house and by the looks of things, he wasn't doing well. With sweat pearling on his forehead, he looked nervous, even on this relaxed summer day, and boy, had he gotten fat.

  He shrugged. 'I'm fine.' But he didn't meet her eyes. 'What about you?'

  'Actually, I'm on my way to meet Professor White and Dr Remi in the canteen. I'm already late so--'

  'You're meeting Professor White?' His eyes widened.

  'Yes, I just said so.'

  'Then I'll come with you.'

  'Uhm – I'm not sure is that's a good idea. We're meant to be talking about my thesis.' Besides, Dr Remi would be there as well.

  'Tess, I've been trying to see Edgar for weeks. Every time I ring up, he's either away, or busy.' There was a desperate tone about his voice. Tess remembered her last talk with Andrew: a monologue about his failed job applications. Not that she had anything against him, but he depressed her. He wasn't going to bother Professor White with that kind of talk, was he?

  She cast about for something to say and realised she still had the pamphlet in her hand. 'Did you hear what that demonstration was about?'

  Andrew's expression darkened. 'Galston League.'

  'They're all about environmental sustainability, aren't they?'

  'Sustainability? They're more like the new brand of terrorists--the whole clique of them.' Spit flew from his mouth.

  Tess frowned at him. The Andrew Trenbarth who had been in his last year of postgraduate work with Professor White when she started had been a gentle man and his viciousness startled her. 'What . . . what do you mean?'

  'They're insidious, all through the higher staff of the University. I've checked it. Vice Chancellor Deakin is a member, and Professor Parker . . .' He counted off on his fingers. 'If you don't agree with their ideals, you're out.'

  Oh--it was again about his failure to secure a research job. 'Look, Andrew, I've really got to go. I'm sorry, I really am.'

  'Listen, I'm serious about this. Do you know, Tess, there is evidence linking the Galston League to the Mexico City disaster? Do you know that Ramirez was a member, too?'

  Tess stopped walking. Pedro Ramirez. Thousands dead in Mexico City . . . It had been very cleverly done. A genetically engineered blue algae that had multiplied in the water pipes. Harmless until it broke down at temperatures of more than thirty degrees, which happened during the first hot day of summer. Senior scientist Pedro Ramirez had taken sole responsibility. Before he had been executed, he had released a statement. Not of remorse, but of defiance. He had, he said, done humanity a great service.

  She longed to tell Andrew that spreading this sort of nonsense wasn't going to get him a job and maybe he only needed to make an effort to look more presentable. But she didn't say it. After all, what did she know about jobs? So she only said, 'Andrew, every report into the disaster said Ramirez was a lone lunatic.'

  'Was he?' Andrew opened the pamphlet. 'In his statement, he said, "If the human race wishes to survive, there will have to be fewer people on Earth. The large cities are the cesspools of humanity, belching smoke and pollution into the sky."' He tapped the pamphlet. 'That's exactly what it says here. Look, Tess. It's the Galston League. They present a respectable face, but they have plenty of lunatic members.'

  Tess turned away from him. 'Sorry, but I have no time for this. I'm late already.'

  * * *

  They found Professor Edgar White and Dr Remi in the canteen, empty plates stacked on the adjacent table. After exchanging nods of greeting, Tess sat next to Professor White, while Andrew went to get his lunch.

  Professor White and Dr Remi peered at a paper napkin, on which Professor White had scribbled a few notes ' . . . and I will present the slide with the results . . . and then I show the graph--'

  'No, no, you'd show the table first,' Dr Remi broke in.

  If Tess squeezed her eyes half shut, his black curly hair glimmered like gold, and his face, olive-skinned with a prominent straight nose, resembled an angel's. His age impossible to guess, he could be anywhere between forty and sixty.

  Professor White scratched his head with the end of the pen. He frowned at his list on the napkin and scribbled some more. 'All right. I have everything in order now.'

  But Tess filled with dread, afraid he would forget something and make a fool of himself in front of five hundred conference delegates. Hardly the way the great Professor White deserved to end his career in science. Yet, he had changed so much since hearing his cancer had returned. He'd become absent-minded, bitter and forgetful. But then her bigger fear took over: what if Dr Remi asked her to present the paper instead? She would die in front of all those conference delegates.

  'Edgar, do you have a moment?' Andrew drew back a chair, and while he sat down accidentally kicked the table leg; his bottle of Coke fell over. It hit the edge of a plate of chips, sending half of them sliding onto the tray.

  Dr Remi turned to him and raised his eyebrows. 'Yes, and excuse me, too, Mr Trenbarth.'

  Andrew's cheeks grew red. In the uncomfortable silence, he gathered up the chips and put them back on his plate; then wiped his hand on his shirt.

  Tess cringed.

  Professor White ignored the unease. 'You wanted to talk to me, Andrew? What about?'

  Dr Remi demonstratively wiped spilled soup off his spoon and proceeded to eat.

  Picking up his pie, Andrew said, 'I've been trying to talk to you for a few weeks. Did you get my reports?

  Professor White stared at him, and an unreadable expression came over his face. 'It seems your conclusion is that because the rabbits were used in the trial, it means their offspring were infertile because of Maya Apple?' There was a tone of mockery in his voice that Tess found very unsettling.

  Andrew put his pie on his plate. 'Well--I wouldn't put it so bluntly, but . . . I feel it might warrant another investigation before you--'

  Professor White leaned over the table, pointing a finger at Andrew. 'You don't think we've done all required trials?'

  Andrew shrank back from the accusing finger, eyes wide. 'Well . . .' he mumbled and picked up his pie again.

  Professor White snorted. 'Well, we have done the trials. Hundreds of them. Ask Tess if you want. Tonight, it will be released.'

  Andrew gaped 'What? You're not serving Maya Apple salad at the conference dinner?'

  Professor White drew himself up. Odd spots of red had appeared on his cheeks. 'Why not? We've completed all the tests. Commercial harvest will start this month. Think of the benefits. You can eat, carry on as normal and lose weight.'

  Dr Remi nodded. 'Too right, Trenbarth.' His dark eyes went to Andrew's stomach, onto which the pie now oozed a drop of tomato sauce. 'You can eat what you like and still lose weight. That might benefit you enormously.'

  Tess cringed. What had Andrew done to deserve this treatment? She itched to say something, but in a few months' time, these two mean would decide over her degree.

  #

  Tess slid the door to the greenhouse shut. Her head still reeled from suggested changes Dr Remi had made to chapters four and five of her thesis. Have you considered this… but what about that . . . And this man suggested she started applying for jobs? He had to be kidding.

  Moist warm air blew out the vent above
the door and ruffled the leaves of sturdy plants which grew in tubs neatly spaced out on benches. Here and there, characteristic purple flowers punctuated the canopy of lush leaves. This was the research team's crop of gold. Solanum ecuadoriense, or Maya Apple.

  A polystyrene broccoli box waited on the small desk in the corner. On the lid lay a note in Dr Remi's loopy writing Please fill with leaves.

  Of course. For the conference dinner tonight.

  Tess took her lab coat off the hook beside the door and slipped her arms in. Something crinkled in the pocket of her jeans. She took it out. Damn--that stupid leaflet.

  She collected a bag of ice from the freezer and spread it in the bottom of the box. Then she took the secateurs from the hook above the desk and moved between the tables, cool leaves brushing her face.

  Strangle really, to grow and nurture these plants in this expensive controlled environment, while outside parks, river banks and nature reserves groaned under the massive stands of this weed.

  Tess remembered her first visit to the University's farm in her undergraduate days. Back then, the veranda of the house offered a sweeping view of pasture with grazing cows, traversed by the silver snake of the river.

  The last time she had been to the house, to retrieve the department's equipment before the sale of the property, the veranda was hemmed in by jungles of Maya Apple which had continued its insidious spread from the river up the valley no matter what university staff did. Whoever bought the property would have a hell of a job getting rid of it. So much fertile agricultural land was going the same way.

  Yeah, definitely stupid to grow these plants in the glasshouse.

  The harvesting of locusts for human consumption in Thailand had given Professor White the idea to find some use for the weed. First the team had worked on turning Maya Apple into animal fodder. But they had to stop the trial because cows on a diet of Maya Apple leaves kept losing weight. The jump from there to a weight loss vegetable had followed soon. Around that time Dr Remi became involved in the project.

  And now Maya Apple was the new wonder crop, about to save millions of people worldwide from their weight problems.