by Tiffany Tsao
It was possible to transfer to the interior of the Caves themselves, but Ann had felt a bit too worked up about what she was going to say—a combination of anticipatory aggressiveness and, more unusual for her, nervousness. A short trek beforehand would calm her down. She transferred to the topaz fields of wild-growing grain surrounding the Caves and commenced walking briskly towards the meeting place.
From the outside journeying in, the Caves were magnificent: petrified blue-grey clouds billowing forth from the land’s surface. The rock they were formed out of was Aminate—similar in every way to obsidian except for its colour. All through this great rock formation snaked a series of tunnels, hollowed out, it was conjectured, by some elemental force at some bygone point in time: streams of liquid perhaps, or wind currents, maybe an ancient rock-eating fungus. Yusuf’s abode lay somewhere within them, and getting to it was so complicated that the trail markers he’d planted for the benefit of any visitors approaching his abode from the exterior also served to remind himself of the way back whenever he emerged from the Caves to retrieve drinking water, bathe, or empty his chamber pot. Thankfully, the trail markers were still in place: clusters of spiral-shaped mushrooms. In the sunlight, they were the same blue-grey colour of the Aminate on which they grew, and one had to have a practiced eye to spot them. Ann had taken this way to the Great Freezer several times in the past, and she could pick them out easily. Two clumps of them flanked the entrance to Yusuf’s; or rather, the entrance to the vast subterranean passageways in which his abode could be found. In this cold underground world, the mushrooms grew too, but in sunlight’s absence, they emitted a steady phosphorescent orange glow. They lined the corridors—not only underfoot, but also on the walls and overhead. Also growing in the tunnels were tufts of soft-wheat—a variation of its sister species growing on the plains outside. The outdoor variety, if properly detoxified, made a versatile and nutritious stew, excellent with melted cheese or fruit jam. This cave variety made poor eating but excellent wearing. The fluffy white tufts could be spun and woven into a luxuriously soft fabric, and held colour so beautifully that even soft-wheat dyed with the palest of pigments took on a rich hue. Soft-wheat, like the mushrooms, grew everywhere, and whenever Ann passed any, she reached out and ran her fingers through the silky stalks.
The air inside the caves was cold and dry, and grew colder and drier the deeper Ann went. Before too long, Ann had to pull out the sweater and hat she had brought along in her oversized bag. Deeper and deeper she descended, down twisting slopes and around turning bends, one after another, until she finally reached the last long, narrow tunnel, which terminated in a door—a wooden slab on hinges fitted roughly into the surrounding stone. Yusuf’s abode. Pushing it open, she entered the rooms within, navigated a few more winding bends, slid down a chute-like tunnel, and emerged into the frozen, wide-open space that had once been the Great Freezer.
The One and the Other were already there. She could make out two tiny silhouettes waiting a considerable distance away, illuminated dimly by the patch of glowing mushrooms they were standing in. It took Ann another twenty minutes to cross the vast, dark plain to where they were. The One was appropriately dressed for a visit to the Aminah Caves: a practical cloak made of soft-wheat-and-wool blend, a heavy shawl swathed around her neck, a giant fur turban, and mittens. The bulky clothing would have overwhelmed anyone else of that slight a frame, but the One’s presence far exceeded her size. The Other, who took great pride in his ability to withstand discomfort and inclement weather conditions of all sorts, was not only standing, but standing on one leg while maintaining a painful-looking yoga pose. He was wearing hiking boots, tiny track shorts, and a spandex cycling top. Remarkably spry for a man of sixty-five years, he could cover as much Territory as the fittest of the younger Oddfits—oftentimes more, because of his experience.
Ann took a battery-powered lantern out of her bag, switched it on, and set it at his feet. By the new light, Ann could see that the Other had grown even more tan than when she’d last seen him; almost as brown as the One, but with a ruddy red glow.
“Hi, Ann. Long time no see,” he chirruped, breaking out of his pose to stretch his hamstrings.
“Yes, it’s been three months, Other,” Ann replied, addressing him by his title because reminding the Other that he had a title always made him happy. The Other was so good-natured, easygoing, and predisposed to being content that it was easy to make him happy. Sure enough, like a toddler rediscovering the pleasures of a once-favoured toy, his face broke into an enormous grin.
“I’ve been exploring,” he explained. He was always exploring. That was what made him happiest. “Twelve new territories in just three months. Not bad, eh? One of them has great rock-face for climbing. And great rapids for rafting. And great cloud dirt for skiing.”
Ann smiled inwardly. The One and the Other were about as different as any two beings could be.
“Can we get on with things?” the One asked grumpily. Stiffly, she rose to her feet. There was a reason why she’d chosen a warm desert for her abode.
Ann pulled Murgatroyd’s file out of her bag. “We need to discuss Murgatroyd Floyd’s situation.”
“We do?” the Other asked, scratching his head. “Why? You said on the phone that he’s decided not to join the Quest after all.”
The One folded her arms. “Yes, Ann. Just out of curiosity, what is there to discuss?”
At this display of condescension, Ann could feel the anger that she’d spent the last hour trying to dissipate bubbling up within her. Forgetting the well-reasoned argument she’d practiced in her head earlier that day, she went straight to the point.
“We need to change Murgatroyd’s mind about the Quest. The Known World is destroying him.”
Once the words were out of her mouth, she knew that she had said it all in the worst way possible.
The Other looked quizzically at the One. “We can’t change people’s minds for them, can we? It’s not . . .” he searched for the word he wanted. “Ethical.”
“You’re right,” the One affirmed. “We can’t. You know that as well as anyone, Ann. If this is your way of explaining yourself, you need a lot more training.” Thinking even more on the two sentences Ann had just uttered, she frowned. “Did you just say he’s being destroyed?”
Inwardly, Ann slapped her forehead. Outwardly, she tried to look unfazed. “Yes,” she stated, straightening her spine. “Yes, I did.”
“What in the worlds are you talking about? He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
“Will you let me explain?”
“By all means, please do,” the One said, her voice oozing sarcasm.
“Yes, do! This is quite interesting,” the Other chimed in enthusiastically. He plopped himself down on the ground and crossed his legs as if he were waiting for a bedtime story.
Ann struggled to regain her composure—she almost always had it, so on the rare occasion she lost it, she always found it immensely difficult to get it back. After a few calming breaths she did, and she proceeded to point out to her audience of two the perplexing inconsistencies of Murgatroyd’s situation: how long he had been in the Known World, but how oddfitting and out of place he still was, almost as if he hadn’t been undergoing adaptation at all.
“Ridiculous,” the One snapped. “If he wasn’t adapting, he’d be dead by now. It’s the only way an Oddfit can continue to live in the Known World.”
“And yet, he hasn’t turned Sumfit, has he? Shouldn’t he have by now?”
The One sighed. “Didn’t we discuss this already?” She turned to the Other to explain what she and Ann had discussed a few days ago. “He probably started out at an exceptionally high level of oddfittingness, so it’s taking him longer to adapt.”
“Oh, I see.” The Other nodded approvingly. “That sounds like a good explanation.”
“What?!” Ann said indignantly. “No, it doesn’t! It’s no better than mine. And I have other reasons to believe that Murgatroyd isn’t adapting.”
“Really?” the Other asked, his eyes wide.
“Really,” she affirmed. “Tell me: what’s it like for a very oddfitting Oddfit to live in the Known World?”
“They don’t feel like they belong,” the Other promptly answered. “They feel homesick all the time. Depressed. They don’t understand things the same way others do. They don’t get things right, and they say things wrong. Other people think they’re weird.” Having revisited his own unhappy childhood experiences of oddfittingness to come up with this answer, the Other looked profoundly sad. He sighed deeply and, with an abstracted look in his eyes, wrapped his arms around his head, almost as if he were giving his brain a consoling hug. “It’s terrible, really.”
“Yes, it is,” Ann said pityingly, almost sorry that she had asked the question at all. “But imagine if other people didn’t just think you were weird. Imagine if they wanted to make you miserable.”
The Other gasped and, clutching his knees, nimbly rolled himself into a horrified ball.
“Now look what you’ve done!” The One bent down and patted him comfortingly.
“I’m sorry,” Ann said. “But I think that really is what’s happening. Look!”
Crouching down next to the Other as well, Ann took a piece of paper out of the file and lightly brushed the crown of the Other’s head with it. Cautiously, he raised his head, and the three of them looked together. It was a copy of a class photo from Murgatroyd’s secondary school days. Murgatroyd, the only white child in the class, was also wearing what appeared to be complicated and needlessly ornate orthodontic headgear.
“According to his official dental records, there has never been anything wrong with the alignment of his teeth,” Ann informed them. “And look at this.”
It was a page torn out of Prestige magazine: “An Interview with Singapore’s Restaurant Queen” the title read. It was a picture of Shakti Vithani dressed in a scarlet, puffy-sleeved Versace gown with an oversized gold crown on her head and a black leash in her hand. The leash was attached to the shirt collar of a docile Murgatroyd kneeling on all fours in his waiter’s tuxedo. Ann read the caption out loud: “Queen Shakti and her star waiter.”
Last but not least came the photo of the Floyd family by the hyena exhibit at the zoo. “He looks like he’s having a good time, doesn’t he?” Ann remarked dryly.
“No! He doesn’t!” exclaimed the Other. Ann sighed. She always forgot that the Other didn’t get sarcasm.
The One broke in. “Ann, what’s your point?”
“The point is that Murgatroyd hasn’t adapted. And worse still, the Known World is obviously doing something to him. Something bad. Something destructive. He can’t stay there. We have to tell him.”
The One spoke quietly. “Tell him what exactly? That we think the Known World is ‘doing something bad’ to him and that he must leave it? That goes against all our principles. Choosing to exile one’s self permanently from the Known World is a tremendous, life-altering decision. People can’t be told to choose it. It’s not right. They have to choose it themselves.”
“And he will choose it himself, once he knows the facts,” Ann argued.
The One shook her head. “These aren’t facts.”
Ann was speechless for a time. “You’re joking, right?”
“You’re not the only one who’s read his file, you know. I have. The Other has. At least two or three other Questians have. From what I read, he’s as happy as someone that oddfitting can possibly be, apart from the very occasional bouts of homesickness and discontent. He loves his parents, he loves his best friend, he loves his job. If anything, that’s a sign that adaptation is indeed underway.”
Ann couldn’t believe her ears. “Fine. You’re right about that,” she conceded. “I can’t explain why he thinks he’s so happy. But he can’t possibly be truly happy. I mean, look at him!”
Ann pulled out a photocopy of Murgatroyd’s identity card, blown up to several times its original size. Together, they studied the unflattering but accurate portrait of Murgatroyd—the half-closed eyes, the half-open mouth, the hunch in the neck and shoulders. Even though the photo was in black and white, one got the impression that there was a sickly tinge to his skin.
“That’s not very nice,” said the Other. “He can’t help the way he looks.”
The One nodded in agreement. “Really, Ann. I didn’t expect you to be so superficial.”
Ann let out an exasperated growl, shut the file, and slammed it on the ground. The One and the Other were shocked. This was the most infuriated they had ever seen her. Ann was never infuriated. Abrupt, sometimes. Curt, often. But never angry like this. It was in fact only the second time in her life Ann had ever been so enraged.
“So we can’t warn him?”
The One gave her an icy gaze. A gaze that made clear that the answer was “no” and that she was thoroughly embarrassed for Ann and her unprofessional behaviour. “In fact,” she added, “From this moment onward, you are forbidden from further contact with Murgatroyd Floyd until your appointed meeting time with him on Friday evening—if he chooses at his own free will to come.”
“What?!” Ann exclaimed. “This is ridiculous!”
The One’s face darkened further. “Ann, the decision is final.”
The Other shrugged apologetically in Ann’s direction.
Ann could only glower in response. “Fine.”
With that, she transferred back to her abode in Madagascar-Aplomb, stomped to the dock and plunged into the sea, clothes, shoes, and all. She needed to cool off. As she began swimming the first of fifteen laps around her floating wooden home, she reflected that it was a good thing she had taken matters into her own hands before the meeting. Murgatroyd, she hoped with all her might, would meet with Ivan. She wasn’t going against principles or disobeying the silly prohibition that the One had just put in place. Not at all. She was simply trying to provide Murgatroyd with more information on which to base his ultimate decision.
Still, Ann had conveniently omitted to inform the One and the Other of what she had done. Just in case.
CHAPTER 18
Murgatroyd stood across the street from the 7-Eleven convenience store that Ann had directed him to. Ann hadn’t told him what time in the morning he should get there, so he had set off right after his parents had left for work. It was now 9:56 a.m.
He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. After he’d returned from work last night, he had called Kay Huat to tell him the bad news about his father and about not being able to go on the Quest.
“So you’re not going, eh?” Kay Huat had said in response to the news. “That’s too bad.”
“Yeah,” Murgatroyd had said glumly.
“But I think you’ve made the right decision. After all, your father is more important than the Quest, right?”
Murgatroyd sighed heavily. “Yeah.”
“You’re doing the right thing, Shwet Foo,” Kay Huat reassured him. And ever the loyal and dependable friend, he attempted to cheer Murgatroyd up by listing all the reasons why not going on the Quest was a good thing. There were two.
Despite Kay Huat’s best efforts, Murgatroyd still felt dejected when he put down the phone and went to bed. He hadn’t slept very well, spending all night lying on his back staring into the dark, kept awake by the emotional tumult he had been feeling the whole day—a combination of the terrible news about his father’s breast cancer and his own distress at the new streak of selfishness that he seemed to have developed recently. This new selfishness bothered him a lot. Why did he feel so resentful at not going on the Quest when it meant helping his parents and spending precious time with his ailing father? And why, all of a sudden, did he feel so ungrateful towards his parents? These thoughts and variations of these thoughts churned inside his head until the sun rose and the birds began chirping outside. His father’s cheery voice announced that breakfast was ready. His father and mother had made French toast.
Despite his parents’ best efforts to
draw him into conversation that morning (such efforts alone were far from commonplace and should have surprised him), Murgatroyd had continued to dwell on these matters, even as he had sat with them, mechanically depositing breakfast into his mouth. He, of course, had informed his parents the night before that he had decided to stay with them instead of leaving for the Quest. And they had shown obvious delight, even though they’d initially made some sounds of protest. This morning, however, all protest had subsided into pure gratefulness.
“My dear boy, we are so glad,” Olivia had said, bestowing a light kiss on her son’s forehead. So light, in fact, that Murgatroyd hadn’t even felt it, though he heard the smacking sound of her lips. But of course, that was just his imagination. Of course she had kissed him. Of course his parents loved him. Of that he was utterly convinced. How could he doubt it? And yet he did.
But what reasonable cause did he have for these doubts and inklings of mistrust, which seemed to have sprung out of nowhere? He couldn’t pinpoint anything exactly. Hadn’t they always been good and kind to him? Hadn’t they?
Bringing his mind back to the present, he walked up to the 7-Eleven. From the outside, it looked just like any other 7-Eleven. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows he could see the modestly sized shelves stocked with snacks and amenities, a magazine rack, a soft-drink dispenser and Slurpee machine, an ice cream freezer, and near the cash register, a heated display case of steamed buns and another one of curry puffs. Murgatroyd wasn’t sure what else he had expected, but part of him, however miserable he felt, had hoped that since the store was presumably connected to Ann somehow, it would have at least looked a little different.