Ezembe

by Jeffrey L. Morris

  “You are, you are. Now be careful, you must also watch the wind. You must keep the sails full, but not too full.” The trailing edge of the sail fluttered lightly. “You see the leech? It is luffing. Now turn from the wind a few degrees.” Bob tugged firmly on the tiller. The leech snapped tight, and the boat rode with authority. “We will make you a sailor, Robert!” Bob, for the moment at least, was suddenly free from the burden of being Bob.

  “God, he’s behaving like a human being,” Karen whispered to James. “What next?”

  As the day went on, the wind picked up and the bay whipped into a froth of whitecaps.

  “We need to shorten sail!” Havard roared.

  “Aye, Captain!” Bob roared back.

  “James, when I turn her into wind, you will lower the main, and Bob, you will tie that second row of ropes on the sail around the boom.”

  The two greenhorns moved competently, if not expertly, but with no wind in the sails, the boom slapped back and forth madly as Dorabella rolled. Havard tightened the sheet, but as Bob tied the last reef on, the boom slapped him on the chest, and knocked him flying against the rail and over the edge. His hand snatched a line as he fell, and he hung along the side of the boat, up to his waist in water. The crew scrambled to pull him back in, wet and gasping on the deck. He spluttered and gasped like a fresh-caught bass, then said, “That was fantastic!”

  “The idea is to stay on the boat, Doctor,” Havard admonished.

  “Yes, I know, but I feel so alive!” Bob grinned uncontrollably. He stood. “Oww!”

  “Let me see,” said Karen, and pulled up his shirt. “A bit of bruising; I don’t think you cracked any ribs. We’ll get some pictures when we get home. Can you breathe comfortably?”

  “Yeah. Just a bit tender.”

  Havard’s roars of delight were more than a match for the shriek of the freshening wind. “Hahahaa! All sailors get hit with a boom eventually!”

  “Well, I had already done that a few times with the little boat,” Bob admitted, sheepishly.

  “Havard! He could have been killed,” Karen said.

  Havard shrugged. “He survived, of course. He is becoming a sailor.” He rowed on the tiller, and Dorabella swung obediently to port. The reefed mainsail filled, and she pointed on Rock Hall as if she knew where home was.

  Pickin stood on the dock, grinning through a cloud of smoke, as they berthed. “Good sail, folks?”

  ~* * *~

  The floorboards on the porch of Pat’s run-down old duplex were rotten. The screen in the door was torn. Pat answered the knock in his robe and slippers. “Come in, come in.” The house was clean, but was cluttered with books—thousands of books—piled everywhere.

  “How went the sailing?”

  “Fantastic. You should try it sometime.”

  “Ah, I’ll give that a miss, thanks. Don’t mind the mess; I’m still moving in. Come into the kitchen; I’ll make us a nice cup of tea, and you can tell old Pat what’s going on.”

  James moved a stack of books from one of the kitchen chairs and sat. Pat pulled out another and slouched into it. “Right, what’s on your mind, young fella?”

  “Well, when we were on this sailing trip, Bob came down with a tummy bug.”

  “Hahaha, did he?” Pat doubled over, slapped the table, and laughed so hard the convulsions threatened to open his robe.

  “Yeah, he was really pretty sick, all right. Spent the first day puking over the side.”

  “Beautiful! I wish I’d come along now. Did you get a picture?”

  “Well, no. But the—”

  “Haahhaaaw!”

  “You know, he actually was pretty okay for the whole weekend, Pat. I think once he relaxes a bit, he’s actually a decent kind of guy.”

  “Arsehole? Phwawh. Never.”

  “Pat, you ripping on Bob gets a bit old after a while. Maybe if you stopped riding him, he’d behave better towards you.”

  “Not a feckin’ hope. You’re just not bitter and twisted enough yet to see the beautiful truth of it all.” Pat, still shaking a bit from laughing, spilled some tea on his robe. He dabbed at it with a dishtowel. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

  “Whatever. Anyhow, we had to bunk together.”

  “And?”

  “And when I fell asleep next to him, I did the usual thing with his ‘creatures’.”

  “Bwahwhahaw! In Bob’s gut? You were in Bob’s gut? I’m amazed you were able to fit, what with his head being up there and all.” Pat was in an unbridled frenzy of laughter now. James shot him a look, and after a few more chuckles, giggles and titters, Pat quieted himself enough to converse. “So what were they? Salmonella? Uh heh-heh-heh.”

  “No, definitely a virus. I’m not sure which variety, though. Some sort of rotavirus.”

  “You could tell that, could you? Good man. Okay, and?”

  “Well, something started speaking to me. Not like before, though; an intelligence.”

  “Feck off.”

  “I’m serious. I thought I was losing it, or that it was another dream or something.”

  “Oh, right, you had dreams? You never said.” Pat slipped his glasses on and sat to attention.

  “Yeah, last week I had a dream, but I knew it was a dream. It wasn’t like when I sleep and see the creatures; it was just a dream.”

  “Okay, and this wasn’t a dream?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “Well, if it was intelligent, that rules Bob out anyhow. He still thinks I’m paying him a compliment when I call him benighted. So, this voice. It said what, exactly?”

  James recounted as much of the conversation as he could. Pat listened carefully, then sat silent for a moment before saying, “Ah fer feck’s sake, that’s mad, Jimmy. Germs can’t talk.”

  “I know. Or at least I thought I knew.”

  “You scared the hell out of me with that ‘God’ bit. A world created by a god who lives in Bob’s upper intestine is a world that makes me want to end it all.”

  “Well, to be honest, a similar thought crossed my mind.” James grinned.

  “So what did you make of this ‘conversation’? Sounds a lot like ‘Who’s on First’ to me.”

  “I don’t know. At first, it seemed like I was just talking to a kind of robot.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, something intelligent.”

  “Jimmy, when you first came to me with this lunacy, I had my doubts about your sanity. Then I had doubts about my own when I started listening to you. And while it all seems to be panning out as we progress, the whole thing still stretches my head like a bloody balloon. But this...”

  “Well, I know it sounds nuts, but anyhow, why is this so different? I’ve been hearing what germs say. You accept that.”

  “Yeh, but they’re not intelligent. What you’ve been hearing up till now is like the calls of a crow or something. They’re primitive. It still amazes me you can interpret them, but you do have me believing you can. But this is a whole ’nother ball game.”

  “To be honest, I still don’t get what it’s all about.”

  Pat squinted, pulled off his glasses, and tossed them onto the table. “Neither do I, but what I think is happening is this: you’re sensitive to the various substances these creatures produce when they signal each other. As well as that, this feckin’ DNA thing has given you some sort of genetic memory that allows you to recognize these creatures on some level—an instinct. I have no idea why you have this or what benefit it is supposed to provide to you, but there it is.”

  “Benefit? You have to be kidding me.”

  “There has to be. The mutation is too complex to have been chance. It has to have been instigated by your father’s DNA, or perhaps a virus that interfered during your conception.”

  “How can a virus do that? Why would a virus do that?”

  Pat shrugged. “For its own benefit, certainly. It’s what viruses do. It’s what all life does.”

  “What?”

&n
bsp; “Evolution, dear boy. Every living thing has evolved a strategy for survival. The common cold incites the sneeze.”

  “Okay, so?”

  “Well, you sneeze, you spread the buggers all over the place, introducing them to new hosts.”

  “Ah, I see. So the cold virus is designed to do that?”

  “Designed? No, no, no, lad. It evolved. Same thing with the strategies that all of these guys develop. Well, the successful ones, anyhow. Remember the T. gondii?”

  “Yes, but their strategy, or whatever you call it, is very sophisticated.”

  “Well, yes, but not really any more than any successful organism. We’re the same, humans. Everything we are is aimed at making sure we survive long enough to make copies of ourselves. Every living thing, from an amoeba to an alligator.”

  “Well, except me. I’m just a freak.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Pat swirled the dregs of his tea in the bottom of his cup. “Fancy a drop of whiskey?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Sure? Water of life, that’s what the word means in Irish. What could be more apropos to this little chat?”

  “I’m sure. I think I’ve got enough life in me as it is.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m having one.” Pat pulled a bottle from a cabinet, and poured himself a neat two fingers. “Anyhow, I think that the virus has improved you. It’s given you this ability to help ensure you survive, simply because its own survival is dependent on yours.”

  “Oh. Oh?”

  “No shit.” Pat winked and raised his glass in salute. James raised his chipped teacup.

  “So what’s all this got to do with the voice?”

  “I haven’t a feckin’ clue.” Pat shrugged, then appeared lost in thought. “Tell me this: does this whole dealie with Bob’s gut, or any of this whole thing, worry you? Do you want to go on experimenting?”

  “Well, I seem to experiment whether I want to or not. But that was no experiment the other night when I heard that voice.”

  “True, true. But we could focus our efforts on stopping this from happening to you.”

  “Stop these germ experiences altogether? You could do that?”

  “I don’t know. We could try. A sleeping concoction might do it. There might be some other things we could try.”

  “Well, I was actually kind of interested in the voice, to tell the truth. I was a bit disappointed when it didn’t happen the second night.”

  “Spoken like a real scientist!”

  James blushed.

  “Let me have a little think on this. Maybe I can come up with something,” Pat suggested.

  “Okay. I didn’t tell Mom, by the way. About the voice, I mean.”

  “Probably wise. Let’s get a handle on it first.” Pat downed the remainder of his drink. “If there is such a thing as a handle on this. You get on home to bed, and we’ll chat about this when you can make time from your studies.”

  “Yeah, I do need to get some sleep.”

  “Yeah, get yourself a shower while you’re at it; you’re pretty gamey.”

  “Mom used up all the water in the boat’s shower.” James chuckled.

  “Ever heard of deodorant?”

  “I’ve never needed it. I’ve never smelled before.”

  “Ah, of course. Just as well, laddie! Anyhows, get yourself home and I’ll see you during the week.”

  “Okay, ’night, and thanks for the tea, and everything.”

  “My pleasure, Jimmy.”

  Thirty-one

  James did sleep well initially, but soon he began to dream, and the voice haunted it. The voice took on many forms in the dream, from the beeps and whirring of a simple virus to the thunder and lightning of the Biblical God. At times it sounded like lines from his textbook, at others like his mother or Peggy. By the time it was over, the voice had morphed into everyone he had ever known, every word he’d ever spoken, and every thought he’d ever had.

  James sat up, wide awake, sweating, and disoriented. He wobbled groggily to his feet, and as he slipped his robe on, he detected a foul odor. A little detective work with his nose revealed the culprit—his own armpits. He showered, scrubbing every nook and cranny meticulously.

  After James’ first lecture, he took a bench on the green and enjoyed the Indian summer, munching his lunch, his nose in a chemistry text. Winter would be there soon enough.

  As his class filed in to the lecture hall, James was at the receiving end of some peculiar looks. He took a seat, and when he pulled his sweater over his head, the girl in the desk next to him quietly picked up her books and moved to a seat far away. The stench reached his nose—a vile, suffocating vapor emanating from his armpits. He picked up his bag and made a quick getaway.

  Even outside, the fumes were overpowering. On a bench, as far from anyone as he could find, James sat down to try and make sense of what was happening. He could detect the source—a type of bacterium very similar to the one he’d been infected with after the accident. Harmless, but he had never had them clinging to his body before, at least not in these numbers. Something he’d eaten? That crab, maybe? A dull ache began to radiate through his shoulders and into his neck. Having only ever been ill the one time, he had only the vaguest notion of what it felt like, but it didn’t take a specialist to know that B.O. doesn’t bring on flu symptoms.

  James made for the nearest drugstore. There was a light breeze dispersing his aroma out of doors, but when he entered the store, he instantly cleared a swath through the shoppers. All within ten yards turned their heads and stared at him, noses puckered. Anyone closer speedily scurried away.

  James stepped up to the pharmacy counter. The unfortunate young lady manning it was trapped, unable to escape, and visibly distressed, but remained professional. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Erm, I seem to be having a bit of a problem with an odor.”

  “Yes, sir, deodorants are in Aisle Two,” she suggested, patently hoping he would go there immediately.

  “I tried one of those this morning, this one.” James reached into his bag and produced the can.

  “I see. And you applied this to...?”

  “My armpits.”

  “Right, and that is definitely where the smell originates?” The girl was a trooper.

  “Well, yeah, but it seems to be spreading.”

  “Okay, well, you could try washing with some rubbing alcohol. That might help. Or you could try some witch hazel.”

  “Will they work?”

  “They’re worth a try.” At this point, her deliberately shallow breaths stifled her speech. “Just try some on your forearm and check if there is a bad reaction, like a red patch. If it’s okay, wash off with the alcohol, maybe let it sit for a while, and then shower? It won’t hurt, anyhow.”

  “Anything else I can try?”

  “Yes, there is: aluminum chloride, but you will need a prescription for that. That would dry up the sweat the bacteria need to live.”

  “Can I have some of the rubbing alcohol, and, um, the other thing?”

  “Witch hazel.”

  “Yes, please.”

  The girl found both as quickly as she could, and dropped them into a bag. “Twelve forty-three, please.” James pulled out a ten and went fumbling in his pocket for the rest. The woman blurted, “That’s fine. Ten dollars is close enough.” James took the hint, handed her the bill, and left.

  The breeze the bike generated was a comfort, but even simply slowing for traffic allowed James’ little cloud of hell to surround him. Once home, he stripped and began rubbing the alcohol over himself. The howls of anguish as his little passengers’ lives were extinguished, music to his ears. Every nook and cranny of his body got the treatment, with first the alcohol, then the witch hazel. When he was satisfied, he went on a hunt for stragglers or escapees, and dealt with those ruthlessly. His clothing, he dumped on the shower floor and doused with bleach.

  When he’d finished, James plopped, naked, into a chair and tried again to calculate the
origin of his infection. Food, contact with others: he simply didn’t know. The most sinister explanation was that his expeditions were responsible, but he had not been exposed to this particular species as far as he knew. The boat: well, the sheets had been a bit musty-smelling, but no, and Bob’s issue had been a virus. The bottom line was this: he had no idea.

  Then, to James’ surprise, he sneezed. He rubbed his nose, and found green mucus hanging from the end. He had sneezed before—many times—but almost always because of dust or some other irritant. A look in the mirror revealed redness around his nose and eyes. He peered at himself, mouth agape, and pulled at his face. He looked awful. Something was very wrong. He’d feel like an idiot going to Pat or his mother, but on the other hand, he couldn’t do nothing.

  Fresh air. He’d take a walk. It was a nice day, and a little fresh air couldn’t hurt. James walked around the corner to Mancuso’s Market and asked for a packet of tissue. As the clerk handed him his change, James looked for his toxic friend. “Hey, where’s the delivery guy?”

  The clerk sniffed. “Vince? He died. Couple weeks ago. Big ‘C’ got him.”

  “Oh, God. I am sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, cryin’ shame. Helluva nice guy, ya know? He was one of the owners. Big success. Young, too. Plenty to live for.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. He seemed like a nice guy, all right. He used to deliver to me.”

  “Everybody knew him round the neighborhood, ya know? Guy was a prince.” The clerk sniffed again, then wiped his cheek.

  James walked down South Street. I could have helped that guy, he thought. Why didn’t I help him?

  As people passed him by, he’d stop and look at each one up and down, scanning them for infections, infestations, whatever he could detect. This guy had a dose of the clap, that one a foot fungus. All ordinary things he had never experienced, but now he was sick, too. Maybe he was becoming normal. Maybe the curse was lifting.

  James’ head was fuzzy, his thinking slow. An urge to lie down overcame him, so he walked back to the apartment.

  Gabby was sitting on his stoop, waiting. “Hey, stranger. What’s the matter, you don’t answer your phone any more?”