by Tiffany Tsao
Murgatroyd entered the store. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Then he noticed something incongruous. Seated behind the counter was a distinguished Chinese man of slim build wearing a navy-blue double-breasted suit, a button-down collared shirt of the richest lavender hue, and a silver necktie. A red carnation adorned his breast pocket, his hair was perfectly parted and impeccably combed, and he appeared to be absorbed in solving a crossword puzzle. So absorbed, in fact, he hadn’t registered Murgatroyd’s entrance at all. Near his elbow sat a half-empty box of Cadbury’s assorted chocolates.
Murgatroyd approached the counter and waited. The man still didn’t look up.
“Erh. Excuse me,” he ventured, timidly.
The man shifted slightly, reached for a chocolate with his left hand, and popped it into his mouth.
Murgatroyd coughed. Not because he wanted to get the man’s attention, but because he was suddenly overcome with a small coughing seizure, which caused the man to leap backwards, wrinkle his nose, and hastily move the chocolates to a ledge behind him where they would be safe from contamination.
“Sorry,” Murgatroyd wheezed as the coughing spell began to subside.
The man produced a white handkerchief and, holding it to his nose and mouth, drawled in affected Queen’s English, “I suppose you want something?”
It took a few seconds for Murgatroyd to express exactly what he wanted to say. “Erh. Are you Ann’s friend?”
“Ann’s friend?” The man pronounced these words with some incredulity, saying the word “friend” slowly and exaggeratedly. Recoiling in disdain, he looked as if Murgatroyd had dared to request something completely bizarre. Like a gold-encrusted hedgehog or a griffin claw.
“Ann. You know Ann? She told me to come here today to meet a friend of hers.”
“Today?” the man asked with the same incredulous disdain.
Murgatroyd grew even more flustered. “Erh. Yes. Ann’s friend.” An idea struck him, and he leaned in closer, only to have the man shrink away, clutching his handkerchief to his face as if Murgatroyd had the plague. “Erh . . .” Murgatroyd began, trying to whisper as loudly as he could to a man who was trying his best to keep his distance. “You know. For the Quest.”
The expression on the man’s face convinced Murgatroyd that not only did he think him disease-ridden, but also completely mad.
At length, the man decided to respond. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you are speaking. Let me go get my supervised.”
Murgatroyd thought he’d misheard. “You mean your supervisor?”
“No,” the man snapped. “My supervised. You don’t expect me to deal with these insignificant little things, do you? He deals with all of it. I supervise him.”
Tucking his crossword puzzle book under his arm and picking up the chocolates, he turned and briskly exited through a door behind the counter. A few seconds later, through the same door emerged a surly teenager sporting a bright pink, spiky hairdo and at least five eyebrow rings.
The teenager proceeded to scowl at Murgatroyd for what seemed like an eternity, making the latter feel extremely uncomfortable. That is, until he spoke.
“Good morning, sir. Can I help you with something?”
Much to Murgatroyd’s astonishment, the words were not only exceedingly courteous in and of themselves, but they were also delivered in a voice inexplicably rich, creamy, and flavourful. Murgatroyd felt all the tension in his body melt away. He was surprised, certainly, but not ill at ease, or even confused. He could even describe the sensation he was feeling down to the minutest detail, and it took the form of a vivid scene in which he himself was playing a part. It was his nine-year-old self returning home after his first day at school, miserable, humiliated, and soggy. It was unlocking the door and finding a pair of dry, freshly laundered flannel pyjamas on the table by the entrance. It was changing into them and then following, with his nose, the heavenly scent wafting from the kitchen. And inside the kitchen, sitting on a table, waiting for him, was a steaming bowl of tomato soup. Of course, that wasn’t what had happened at all.
“Sir?”
“I’m here,” Murgatroyd said, his voice surprisingly clear, “to meet Ann’s friend.”
“Oh, it’s you!” The teenager’s voice bespoke pleasant surprise, even though the scowl never left his face. “Yes, Ann told me you were coming. Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“No. Quite easy to find.”
“Oh good. I’m Ivan. Ivan Ho.” Ivan extended his hand.
They exchanged a handshake. “Murgatroyd. Murgatroyd Floyd Shwet Foo.”
“Shwet Foo. That’s a strange name.”
“My parents thought it would help me fit in better at school.”
“Did it help?”
“Erh. No, not really. No.”
“Oh. That’s a shame,” Ivan said. “Must have been terrible. At least that’s over and done with.” He grinned.
Murgatroyd had never had such a pleasant and effortless conversation before. Usually he dreaded talking with people he didn’t really know. He always felt that the other person was bored and he never knew what to say to make himself more interesting. Ivan, on the other hand, seemed as if he actually wanted to be talking to him, which was probably because Ivan did really want to be talking to him.
“So you’re going on the Quest, is it?” Ivan asked. “That must be why you spoke to Ann.” Ann actually had told Ivan very little about the whole situation. All she had said was that Murgatroyd was an Oddfit whom she had talked to about joining the Quest. Ivan didn’t mind the lack of information—he always liked meeting new people.
“Erh, no. Actually, I’m not going on the Quest after all,” Murgatroyd said a little sheepishly.
Ivan raised his eyebrows in curiosity. “Really? But why not?”
Murgatroyd shrugged. “Erh. Not a good time. My father has breast cancer.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry,” Ivan said. He tugged on his eyebrow rings, almost as if to express his condolences. “It’s just that it seems like such a great opportunity, you know? If I were an Oddfit, I’d take it. But you’re right. That does seem like a good reason not to go.”
“Are you a . . . a Questian?” Murgatroyd asked.
“Me? No.”
“How do you know Ann?”
“Oh, from a long time ago. A long time,” Ivan explained. “But every now and then, I do make a trip to the More Known World. It’s where I keep my pets.”
“Your pets?”
“Yes. I’m not much of a Sumfit. More like a One-fit. It’s tiring having to transfer so much between there and here. But they’re worth it, my pets.” Ivan’s eyes lit up. “Do you want to see them? Oh, even better! Do you want to feed them?”
Before Murgatroyd could respond, Ivan pulled out a short stack of index cards and offered them to him. “These are instructions for how to get there. They’re numbered, just in case you drop them and need to put them back in order. You shouldn’t have any problems.”
Murgatroyd took the cards. “Aren’t you coming? I’ve never transferred by myself before.”
“I just transferred there the day before yesterday, and I don’t think my body can take another visit so soon. It can be quite dangerous for a Sumfit to overtransfer himself.” Ivan reached over and patted his new friend on the back. “You’ll be fine. The instructions are quite detailed. How to get there, how to feed them, how to get back. That’s all you need to know. They’ll be happy to see you. Usually, they only get fed about once every two weeks.”
Murgatroyd looked at the first card and read it aloud.
“Step One. Enter the back room behind the counter.”
It was the same door that the man in the suit had entered only moments before. Ivan turned the handle, pushed it open, and gestured for Murgatroyd to come round the counter. He ushered Murgatroyd through the door before closing it behind him. “I hope you like them!” Ivan called through the closed door. Even muffled, his tomato-soup voice still felt warm and
pleasant in Murgatroyd’s ears.
The back room was dimly lit and cramped, filled with piles and piles of cardboard boxes of all shapes and sizes. Room had been made in one corner for a large paisley-print armchair and a stained-glass lamp, in and under which sat the man in the suit. He was polishing off the last of the chocolates, engrossed still in his crossword puzzle. He ignored Murgatroyd.
Murgatroyd placed the first index card at the bottom of the stack and read the second one: “Step Two. Find the crack in the wall.”
Murgatroyd looked around. He didn’t see any crack. “Hallo, sir?” Murgatroyd called to the man, who looked up slowly and disdainfully.
“Do you know where the crack in the wall is?”
“Wall?”
Murgatroyd decided that he would find the crack himself. And he did. It was hidden behind several large cardboard boxes of instant ramen—a hairline crack running from where the wall met the floor to the height of Murgatroyd’s knee.
Murgatroyd read the next card: “Step Three. Look straight at it. Feel homesick and alone.”
Murgatroyd found out that feeling homesick and lonely on cue was very difficult. He tried for a good eleven minutes to no avail. In his frustration, he slumped down with his back against the wall and hugged his knees to his chest. So much for his supposed Oddfit abilities. What’s more, now that he wasn’t going on the Quest, this might be the one chance he’d ever have again to see the More Known World. And here he was, trapped in a dark room with an unfriendly stranger. He felt helpless and restless all at the same time.
It was then that he heard a sound like fabric ripping. Looking up, he saw that the crack had opened to reveal a flight of stairs bathed in a dim violet light.
He read the fourth card. “Step Four. Go all the way up the stairs.” He began his ascent.
The ascent took a very long time. Murgatroyd felt as if he’d been climbing continuously for a good fifteen minutes at least. It seemed as if he were heading towards some sort of light source, for the higher he climbed, the less dark it got. The strange thing about the light was that it had started out as a deep violet hue, but was slowly transforming into red, then orange, then yellow, and now, a pale white—as if he were climbing up a sunrise. Ten minutes later, he was quite overcome with fatigue, and was about to sit down on the steps to take a short break, when the stairs ended.
He found himself in the middle of a very open, empty, and brightly lit space, blue and speckled like a robin’s egg, with no walls or floor or ceiling, but no horizon or scenery or sun either. He couldn’t tell whether he was outside or indoors.
He read the fifth card. “Step Five. Walk to the glass tank.”
He looked around: nothing but speckled blueness as far as the eye could see. A very tiny wisp of activity caught his eye. There! Far in front of him, slightly to his left, was a cluster of hovering tiny black dots. Gradually, his eyes began to make out the faint outlines of a rectangular glass tank.
This all should have struck Murgatroyd as very peculiar indeed. Yet, it didn’t. Just as when he first heard Ivan’s tomato-soup voice, he had that unfamiliar and pleasant sense of coming home. He approached the tank, and as he drew near, he saw that the tank was filled with little flying insects buzzing about. They looked suspiciously like mosquitoes.
He read the sixth card. This was the longest set of instructions so far.
“Step Six.” Murgatroyd read slowly. “Locate the circular panel in the glass on the side of the tank. Unlatch the panel. Open it quickly and stick your arm in.”
For the first time in this whole endeavour, Murgatroyd felt a twinge of fear. Were the instructions serious? He turned quickly to the seventh card to see what it said.
“Step Seven. Hold your arm steady inside the tank and count backwards from sixty. Admire and bond with the mosquitoes as you feed them.”
So they were mosquitoes. Still hoping that the cards weren’t really telling him to stick his arm into a tank full of blood-sucking creatures, Murgatroyd skipped ahead to the eighth card.
“Step Eight. Don’t feed them too long, or they’ll get too fat! Withdraw your arm, making sure to shake the mosquitoes off first, and close and latch the panel.”
Maybe the ninth card would read, “Just kidding.” Murgatroyd read the ninth card. “Thank you for feeding my pets! Aren’t they sweet?”
Murgatroyd sighed, flipped back to card six, and began carrying out the feeding instructions. Once Murgatroyd’s arm was inside the tank, the mosquitoes flocked to it, covering it in a seething, humming mass of ravenous insect hunger. At first, he felt nauseated, but as he continued to watch how lustily they suckled at his pale, thin arm, the disgust and fear began to melt away. Each mosquito, he noted, was completely ignorant of the fact that this arm was attached to a larger sentient being staring at them in wonder from outside their glass enclosure. He was so mesmerized by the spectacle that he’d forgotten to start counting backwards from sixty, so he began counting backwards from forty.
“Thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven . . .” The longer he looked at them, the less they appeared a giant, indistinguishable mass. He could pick out individuals now, the delineations of the veins on each wing, the contours of their abdomens swelling slowly with his blood.
“Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen . . .”
Strangely enough, he felt as if he really was bonding with them. He felt an affection for each of them.
“Three, two, one, zero.” He shook them off his arm before withdrawing from the tank and latching the panel. His arm felt prickly all over, and already, red welts were beginning to appear.
He looked at the tenth card. “Step Ten. Don’t scratch. It will make it worse. Much worse.”
All of a sudden, his arm was inflamed in itchiness. He groaned and tried blowing on the bites to relieve the pain.
“Step Eleven. Go back down the stairs. I have some lotion that will help with the itching. See you soon!”
By the time he had finished reading the card, his arm had become a swollen, throbbing, burning, misshapen lump of flesh. Murgatroyd raced to the stairs and began a hurried climb downwards. Unfortunately, he had indeed climbed a long way to the top, and even though he made his way down as fast as he could, it still seemed to take an eternity. Finally, he arrived at the bottom. There was only one small problem. There were no more stairs, but there was also nowhere else to go. Panting from the itching and the pain, he hurriedly flipped through the cards to see if there was another step. In the dim purple light, he could hardly make out the words.
“Step Twelve. Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, stare at the crack in front of you. Feel homesick and alone.”
Murgatroyd groaned. The crack was easier to find from here. It was almost four times the size it had been in the Known World and was indeed right in front of him. But he really didn’t feel like feeling homesick and alone. He felt itchy. So very, very itchy. In fact, that was all he could feel running through his mind—an itchiness, as regular and resounding as a heartbeat. Itchy. Itchy. Itchy. Itchy. Itchy. Itchy.
No. If you want to get out of here, you have to concentrate. Murgatroyd gritted his teeth and tried to think back to the scene from his childhood that Ann had used to get him to see the More Known World during their first meeting. Then he thought of how he had felt all last night—the doubt and mistrust and dissatisfaction and isolation . . .
He was back. The man in the suit was still sitting in his armchair, doing his crossword, but Murgatroyd barely registered his presence as he sped past him and burst out the back-room door.
Ivan was standing there to receive him, a green plastic bottle in his hand. “Stretch out your arm.” Murgatroyd obeyed, his eyes watering. Ivan drenched the arm in lotion and vigorously rubbed it in. The pain and heat vanished instantly. Murgatroyd looked at his arm. It looked like its pale, non-inflamed self again.
“Is it better now?” Ivan asked.
“Much better.”
“Did you like them? My pets?”
&nb
sp; His mind less clouded with pain, Murgatroyd reflected. “Yes, I did.”
“They’re a very rare variety of mosquito and very sensitive. Ann got them for me from a new Territory she’d been exploring. They don’t do well in the Known World, so that’s why I keep them there. They can live for much longer and I don’t have to feed them as often.”
“Why mosquitoes?” Murgatroyd asked.
“It sounds a bit funny, but I like them.” Sighing, Ivan shook his head at his own silliness. “I don’t know why. They probably don’t even know or care about me. Or what a pain it is to feed them. Literally. Luckily, I do have this lotion.” Ivan jerked his head towards the back-room door. “My older brother invented it.”
“That’s your brother?” Murgatroyd exclaimed.
Ivan nodded. “He’s a little eccentric, but he’s very clever. He’s not really as bad as he seems.”
Murgatroyd smiled.
“Thanks for dropping by,” Ivan said, tugging on his eyebrow rings, this time as if it were his way of smiling. “I have to start taking inventory right now, but it was nice to meet you. I hope your father gets better.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry you can’t go on the Quest.”
“Yeah,” Murgatroyd rubbed his neck and looked at his feet. There was a moment of silence, as if they both were mourning the missed opportunity. “Ann did say she’d still be there, in case I changed my mind, but I don’t think I’ll be going.”
“Yeah. It’s a shame,” Ivan said.
The bell above the entrance door tinkled. Both Ivan and Murgatroyd looked up to see who had come in, but nobody had.
“Must be the wind,” Ivan said.
Murgatroyd nodded. He felt reluctant to leave this new unexpected acquaintance he had made. “It was nice to meet you,” he said.
“Nice to meet you too. Oh, wait a second. I almost forgot.” Ivan handed him a paper cup of vanilla soft-serve ice cream. It had a little blue parasol stuck in it. “Have a Mister Softee. Free of charge. If you do see Ann, tell her I said hi. Here’s a spoon.”