‘Did he?’
Eloise looked sharply at Anna, took her eyes off the car bumper in front, nearly caressing it with her own.
‘Oh god. You can be so bloody blind sometimes, Eloise. Sorry, no, just blind. Anyway. I liked that other one.’ Anna’s soft tones grew deeper, taking on a knowing growl.
‘Which one?’
‘Oh, come on! The cute one, the young one, the one that looked at you like you were a goddess. The one that made you happy?’
Eloise had forgotten that her friend had made an unexpected visit one morning when Tom had been there. Anna had said nothing at the time (observing their oft-broken pact, Eloise had presumed) but while taking in more than she’d let on at the time, clearly. And could Anna see her cheeks reddening now?
‘Oh, him! That? That was just a silly fling.’
‘Was it? You know, I don’t know whether I believe in unconditional love as such, sometimes not even between parent and child if I’m honest, but if it does exist then I saw it in the way that he looked at you, my love, and the way he was around you. The way you were together. Fling? My beautiful great arse, Dr Bloody Kluft.’
‘Well, whatever. It doesn’t matter now. It couldn’t have lasted.’
‘Couldn’t it? Why? Have any of the men your own age, or your own class, or education, or profession been any better for you? All those cleverly rationalised and well-funded excuses to behave like a complete and utter shit?’
Eloise was glad there was a good reason not to look at Anna, not to let her see the moisture in her eyes, but to keep them focused on the wet road ahead.
‘No. Perhaps not. And, yes, OK, I will admit that it was love. Oh god, it really was. But it wasn’t as simple as it may have looked, Anna. There were… complications. Anyway, never mind, we’re here now. Why don’t you jump out and pick up the tickets while I try to park…’
*
They have finally turned south again. It is a relief, although she recognises that these new shores bring fresh fears. Further back along the trail and many days behind them now, at the ragged and rising edge of their westward path, she had noticed what seemed to be steam rising and had hoped for another hot spring, but what flowed within this chasm had whipped her back to childhood visions of a world in flame.
It was a well like no other, turning and climbing, folding thickly upon itself. Bubbling and burning with crimson rage. Was this an open vein of the earth itself, with blood made of fire? Where and when might this wound purge, bringing its now familiar death and dust? Not again, she prayed, not again. Such heat was beyond appeasing, beyond dousing. She wondered whether the First Spirit might live here? Or something else, something made of shadow? It was no place for her, she understood that much. She had wrenched herself away from its transfixing hold and turned back into the black-stoned valley.
Now, with the channel crossing and the river of fire far behind them, the ground is quiet and healed. The chill has retreated and the land is greener. She has seen – and tasted, tested – animals and plants that are completely new to her. Several she would never try again. But the greatest wonder had come at another strange new place, perhaps the strangest she has ever seen. There was unfamiliar liquid of so many kinds here, some so thick with salt that it was unyielding to the living and she has learned to drink with caution. Other crystal pools in the midst of the great dry stretches beckoned with their clarity, the water seeming so fresh, so pure, but it stung the fingers and released a rotten aroma just in time to prevent her from drinking in its death.
And yet one spellbinding creature survived this bitterness and in numbers beyond imagining. She had seen it a few days back. As they’d travelled along the crusting shore of a still and shallow lake, she’d noticed a flowering tide in the distance, a pink pool of blooms swelling on the surface. Closer and she’d realised that this colourful mass was made of many things that moved together. Closer still and she’d thought she was in a dream.
They danced. These moving, feathered ‘flowers’. Turning together this way and that. On legs so long and slender it was unthinkable they did not snap with every step. Their limbs were matched by stretching necks that rose to curving heads and into beaks of a shape that she did not understand. And then… they flew. Her breath had fallen short as she watched them flock and rise into a cloud of shocking, streaming colour overhead. She’d wakened the child, shaken her and pointed to the sky. This sign was so clear, so special, surely it could mean only good for them. Yes, it must be so. Even in pools of poison, such life, such unbearably beautiful life, could not only survive but thrive.
Luckily, she has found other kinds of water here too. The right kind for her and the child to drink – and for a few careless others too. Yes, there is just enough water, or rather enough lack of water in a few receding drinking holes that it forces those high-jumping little deer to take chances. They crowd together thirstily to drink and make themselves such easy targets for spear, sling or arrow. Not since the oasis before the channel crossing has she enjoyed such abundance in choosing which animal to take, no matter how big or small, fast or slow, close enough for a confident aim or far enough away to demand a very lucky shot. But she will take no nursing mothers, no, never again, not if she can help it. And never any healthy young.
Because with every waking morning she thanks the watchful mother moon, as she slides towards her rest, for the gift of healthy young. For this precious, lively child who is beginning to take her first shaky steps. These efforts have slowed their progress but she cannot refuse her these stumbles towards freedom. She will be strong. Growing fast now, her daughter eats well from the ruminated morsels she feeds her along with the milk that still flows.
The little one is curious too. She will not let go of something that she has found, and her mother has indulged her in this. Although she watches her ferociously, reflexing to any small movement or noise around them, she knows that the tiny walking shell the child has found, blessed with its own protection, presents no risk. And it has a kind of charm. Four fat legs and an odd little face that emerge from safety given any opportunity to escape, though what the spirits had granted in shelter, they had denied the poor animal in speed.
At first she had considered trying to make a meal of it but food is bountiful here – and the ripples of honeyed laughter the little creature encourages from her daughter make every hardship worthwhile. The sound of this giggling, although light and lilting, is familiar. Then she realises that the shape of the mouth that makes this music is that of her own grandmother’s, a recognition that carries with it a deep sense of calm.
The next morning, a rip begins to open up in the pelt of grey overhead and she sees the colour blue for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.
22
The rain was pounding still, rattling the skylight in the attic, drowning out the sweet memories of Bach. Eloise could hear it from the comfort of her bed, though she was not yet ready to sleep, her smartphone keeping her awake. Her plan had been nothing more than a quick check of the forecast to discover how long this gale would last, but then before switching off she had made the fatal error of opening up her email. Amidst the logjam of international spam there was one new message from KC. She knew what to expect at this hour, their own particular and innocent form of ‘billet-doux’. Nothing more than a ‘Check this out…’ accompanied by a link to click, a smiley face, and a ‘U OK?’
Eloise had taken a chance and confided in KC about the mugging. She was learning to/wanting to have confidence in him and she’d needed to tell someone else who might care, someone other than her reliable coterie of female friends, as distracted and dispersed as they all were. Before the impromptu evening with Anna, she’d needed to tell somebody in person – and the two hands that KC had placed firmly on her upper arms, the look of sincere empathy in his eyes, had indeed comforted her.
Ideally she would have preferred complete surrender to the kind of swaddling hold that Tom had mastered, an embrace that told her silently and soot
hingly that everything was OK. Although Eloise was forced to admit that this natural protective reflex soon might have been followed by chest-beating threats to gather up ‘the boys’ and go seek out her assailant. But even this would have been preferable to a cold reprimand from Darius about her having too much trust or taking too many risks. At least KC’s apparently genuine concern and his appreciation of all her mixed feelings about the incident had made her feel less exposed and confused, if only by letting her talk about it for an hour.
The link he’d shared was in reference to that discussion and to where it had led them, the ongoing debate about inheritance versus environment, about the nature of ‘character’ and the effects of stress. Eloise clicked through to read a paragraph or two so that she might politely reply, but the article’s content called to mind another form of correspondence that was waiting to be finished. She could not resist. She opened up her notepad app and pressed the microphone button. (This was a new discovery that delighted her beyond description, as her fumbling fingers had never been able to keep up with the pace of her thoughts, and the tragicomedy of predictive text only made matters worse.) Eloise picked up where she’d left off at breakfast that morning and dictated into her phone.
So, where were we, Charles? Ah yes, I had been telling you about non-coding RNA and its role in gene expression, and its effects on its big brother, DNA. Oh, Charles, the pace we are moving at now is breathtaking. The things we’re learning about DNA, not only what it does in terms of protein building but everything else that it might be able to do and, more to the point, what we might be able to do with it! From medical applications to ‘fishing’ for particles or even data storage, the potential is astounding.
From a physician’s point of view we have begun to understand more about epigenetics now, or the changes to the ways in which genes behave depending on environmental factors. Not only ‘external’ stimuli but ‘internal’ too – and the role that chronic stress plays is particularly interesting. We have discovered that ‘memories’ about altered gene behaviour can be inherited, affecting the next generation without necessarily altering the genes themselves, only how they operate (or fail to).
There’s still so much we don’t know yet but the clinical hope of such research is exhilarating, from treatments with fewer side effects to earlier interventions with far less collateral damage. As for the social implications, we’re reminded of the importance of optimised environments and not only in terms of air, food and water quality but also in terms of quality of life – and, yes, even the quality of ‘love’. Or at least parental care. The effects of either its presence or lack thereof are measurable, Charles, whether that be in mice in the laboratory or in our own children, and whether they live in the poorest or the richest places on earth.
It should really come as no surprise but well-loved, cared for, properly stimulated and safe offspring do so much better – not only socially but also in the expression of their genes – when positive, nurturing conditions are in place. And this tendency can be transferred! (Consider how one person’s laughter can make a whole room start laughing, or how one angry person can make the whole room, or village, or tribe angry?) So it seems that not only the gene but also the way in which its blueprint is activated has the ability to be passed on… and I haven’t even started on the relationship between epigenetics and neuroplasticity yet because, well, we would be here all night.
There’s so much more I want to tell you, Charles. For example, what we are learning about your beloved nature (how I wish I could have joined you and little Flora on any one of those daily constitutionals!) and what we’re learning from nature offers such practical potential to improve life and not for the privileged alone. Indeed, as much as technology has helped us to understand biology the reverse is now equally true. We can see, on a microscopic scale, exactly how nature has already solved many of the problems we are juggling with today, but with maximum efficiency and minimum waste. (Albeit having taken millennia to do so.)
And soon we may have at our disposal, Charles, tiny, tailored ‘time-bombs’ of directed medicine that can boldly go where none have gone before! (Forgive the split infinitive, but you would have loved Gene Roddenberry, I’m quite sure of it. Although this is yet another tangent that sadly, we don’t have time for tonight.)
It’s all so thrilling, my dear, dear Mr Darwin, but also rather terrifying at times – and so dependent on trusting in the better part of human nature. Which we must, mustn’t we? I mean ‘goodness’ is essential to the equilibrium, as seems to be understood throughout the natural world, and apparent altruism has been observed even in colonies of microbes where some seem to sacrifice themselves when necessary for the good of the ‘guild!’ But what of us? I mean, what is human nature, after all, other than what we make of it? We are not reduced to its helpless slaves, we all have choices however limited they may first appear.
And what of our precious Sarah, Charles? Was she what might have been considered a good person and would we find her so today? Would such judgements have existed, or mattered? Yes, yes, I do believe they would. It’s been observed that even our monkey cousins have a well-developed sense of justice and fair play, throwing back slices of cucumber when they should have had a grape, with other monkeys ‘striking’ and refusing the grapes that their companions should have been given.
But what sort of choices might Sarah have had to make, Charles? Indeed, what choices might have been made for her? Might she have had to do terrible things and if so, would she have suffered any guilt? How might she have survived any of the terrible things that may have been done to her, or even the most basic yet relentless trauma of staying alive? Did her experiences change her as a person… more to the point, did they affect her genetic material, or her children’s?
We are getting close now, Charles. Did I tell you? So close. We think we might have the right set of cells now, finally.
Eloise could have carried on for hours, but it was getting late and she had a big day coming up. She knew that she must try (at least try) to sleep. She replied briefly to KC (a suitable interval having passed) with a ‘Thanks! And I’m fine, really, but thanks for asking,’ then switched off her phone. The blue glare that had been the only source of light in the room gave way to the orange facsimile of darkness that was the best the overcast urban night could offer and the white-on-white tones of her bedroom did nothing but enhance this half-life effect. She closed her eyes and curled up on her habitual left then immediately changed sides, wincing at the tenderness in her ribs from the mugging, and in turn thinking about (then trying very hard not to think about) either Darius, Tom, or KC.
*
She expects the skies to darken again, for the precious light to be stolen back from the earth, but instead it grows brighter by the day. There is colour in the world again. She thinks she may have forgotten how to see it because it keeps surprising her. One of the many amazing things about this land is how the brightness belongs not only to the plants but to all things, to animals, to insects, to birds – and, oh, the birds! It’s as if these creatures have no need to fade into sand or bush or forest. They shout their beauty out loud.
And they are clever, these flying rainbows. In the shelter of the thick forest they have now passed through, she had watched them as they built or played, or as they fished for food in bark or lake, with beak and claw, as they stole from their fellows and then hid their hoards, as they chose to fool or fight or flirt with their friends. As they called out in such complicated songs.
One, who kept his colour under his tail to show it only when it suited him, seemed also to talk. They had rested for a few days in a good, strong and shady tree, sharing it with a few of these watchful new friends – and she was sure she’d heard one of them say sshhh to the child, exactly as she herself had done when the little one cried out in her sleep. She was sure they shouted out the name she used for her daughter as they had left. Understanding that these creatures had wisdom to offer, she’d watched what they had ch
osen to eat, and had been right to trust their lessons. The brightness in those berries might have been a warning as much as a lure, and may have as easily poisoned them as nourished them.
All this fearless colour thrills her but also frightens her. Will any men or women they find also be made in startling shades of red and yellow and purple and blue? She is aware now that other colours are possible, she had seen it in the eyes and the hair of her child’s father, although his skin and features were much like her own. What will they make of her here, how could they become a part of this new world? Her instincts tell her to hide, to blend into the trees, the long grass, the rich soil when needed. But what if they might want to be seen? And what if they seem ugly and frightful to any others?
She begins to gather any bright, discarded feathers that she finds, binds them to her necklace, weaves them into the little one’s hair. She puts aside her fears. They will find a way to fit, if they are lucky enough to meet any others. They will find the way to belong to their bold new world.
23
The anticipation was fizzing, as if it were a first date. Eloise left for work early, relishing the quiet streets and bright skies of the post-storm calm. The reconstruction arrived by secure courier shortly after ten (too many coffees later) and the team had gathered directly outside the tempered glass box of the Clean Room, removing their protective gear. They could not risk contamination by taking the reconstruction inside the room, but it seemed only right to unveil the bust as near as possible to what remained of Sarah.
Bone Lines Page 21