by Coral Walker
2
Magic Dust
Dr Peter Pentland felt against his palm the warmth of its furry body. Its ears drooping and its purple hairless tail coiled listlessly, the mouse was dying.
Brianna, sitting on the end of the bed, legs folded and knees held together in her enveloping arms, didn’t move.
“Brianna?” he asked, and glanced at the blank wall she was staring at.
She didn’t answer.
“How are you today, Brianna?” he asked again, a little concerned.
“Jane ran away, and she wasn’t happy,” she said bluntly.
“Is that what’s bothering you?” He smiled and took a glimpse of the book that lay next to her on the bed with a bookmark sticking out. There was only a score of pages left. Although he couldn’t remember much about the book, he did remember the ending. “Why don’t you finish it and find out what happened to Jane?”
“I’ll save it for tomorrow.”
“You can finish it today, if you want. I have plenty of other books for you to read.”
“No, Peter. This is my last one. There isn’t time for more.”
For a while, he stood, speechless. Then he thought of the mouse.
“You might like to have a look at this.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and held out his hands, palms held together like a seashell.
He waited for her unhurried gaze that was still drifting along the blank wall and opened his hand as it fell upon it. The glint in her eyes darkened and a frown crossed her forehead. She shuffled forward with her arms to get closer before carefully scooping the little mammal from his hands into her curved palms.
With a touch of guilt, Peter watched while Brianna, tenderly flipped the little body, revealing its wounded leg that was bent outwards and stained with blood.
The frown on her face deepened as she spoke, “Poor thing, what happened to its leg?”
“I found it in the basement. It was caught in a mousetrap.” Peter said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “It was found like that,” he added quickly as the first sign of doubt flashed in her eyes.
“A mousetrap did not break its leg — someone did this deliberately,” she said in an accusatory tone.
He compressed his lips together and smothered a grin. It was getting hard to keep up a conversation with her. As her supernatural skill improved, she was now pretty good at reading his mind. He had to try very hard to clear his mind when he was with her, especially when he had something to hide.
He felt slightly relieved that it wasn’t him who had inflicted the injury on the hapless creature. Tony Gladwell, the nice, amiable guy, who could sit all day reading graphic novels on his tablet, had committed the misdeed.
“Sorry, it was one of the guys in the base. You know, nothing much happens here, so they find amusement in any passing thing.”
She frowned again. Peter, though feeling slightly sheepish, was quietly amused.
She moved the little animal closer to her chest and cupped a hand over it. The mouse, alarmed, twitched a little but calmed down the moment the hand was positioned above it, stroking it without touching it. He was fascinated. Back rigid with attention, he quickly put on gloves and took from his coat pocket a small, white digital vacuum pump.
The mouse twitched some more. She hovered her hands with the stroking movement increasing in speed until the mouse was completely relaxed and still. Peter watched as she straightened the bent leg with an inconspicuous motion of her fingers. There was no sign of suffering, and the mouse remained motionless. Again she resumed the hovering-stroking movement.
For a while he stared in disbelief. He could see that a healthy rhythm had returned to the breathing of the small body that had been fading away just minutes ago. Its ears gradually perked up, and the long tail that had flopped lifelessly a short while before now had a renewed vigour. Like a man possessed, he grasped the vacuum pump, his gloved hands shaking with excitement. As soon as her hand lifted, he quickly leaned forward with the pump.
A quiet drone filled the room.
He felt her glance, startled, questioning, perhaps a little annoyed. He went on, fastening his eyes on the droning gadget that was greedily sucking the air from around the revived creature.
After packing the pump safely in his pocket, he returned her gaze. She was looking at him with eyes so pure.
He felt a sudden awkwardness, as if his beliefs had been called into question. He was alarmed, became defensive, and strove to regain his poise.
“I am a scientist, Brianna,” he heard himself muttering. “A scientist is always curious about things. What you have done to the mouse is simply amazing. How did you do it? Was it a miracle? There must be a physical explanation for it. If we can observe the mystical power that you have exerted and study it, perhaps we could figure out exactly how you did it. We might be able to recreate the miracle in a scientific way. If we can do that, people will suffer less.”
His composure came back to him as he talked. He could see that she was listening agreeably. Of course she would. Scientific study, scientific research, scientific…under the cover of its divine purpose — for the future of the human race — would get away with just about anything. A girl like Brianna never failed to believe it.
“I will go and have a good look at this,” he smiled, patting his pocket with a touch of satisfaction.
+++
Nina sat with her back as straight as a tree trunk. Her head tilted at an odd angle, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she looked thoughtful.
Peter sank into a cushioned armchair, his legs sprawling in front of him, his tablet comfortably nestled on his lap. He caught a glimpse of something shining under Nina’s revolving chair — the silver ballpoint pen that was with her all the time — and grinned. For a while at least, he thought with amusement, he would be spared from that irritating clicking noise.
Nina wobbled slightly and looked around, appearing a little lost, before turning back to the screen.
“This is Prince Mapolos’ gene sequence,” he started, swiping the tablet with a finger, “damaged by some faulty genes, mostly in chromosome 23, chromosome 25 and chromosome 36. We have set the program to cut out those bad segments and replace them with Bo’s healthy ones. It’s a routine gene operation, no foreseeable difficulties. The recovery time is the major concern. For the repairs to take effect, months, rather than days, are required.”
“Lord Shusha won’t be pleased with that,” said Nina, frowning.
“Yet, that isn’t the biggest problem. Look at this, Bo’s gene sequence, healthy and balanced. Now I zoom in … chromosome 44 … its gene sequence … now we see the particular gene segments that will replace Prince Mapolos’ faulty ones …”
“SV34 and SV35 are among them, the ruler’s genes that endow him with the power to rule others,” exclaimed Nina with a sparkle of excitement. “But for some peculiar reason, Prince Mapolos’ genome doesn’t contain any ruler’s genes, not inside chromosome 44, or any other chromosome. So the point of this procedure isn’t just to treat Prince Mapolos’ physical infirmities, is it? It will also transfer those ruler’s genes from Bo to the Prince.”
Aware that Lord Shusha’s men might be patrolling outside, Peter listened discreetly and kept his face neutral. No sooner had Nina stopped talking than he started again in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.
“Look here, this visualisation simulates the after-effect of splicing Bo’s genes into the Prince’s gene sequence. See the problem? Look at the chromosome that has Bo’s genes implanted — it is unstable. Parts of it break off and seek other chromosomes to attach to. Instead of attaching to them, they disrupt these chromosomes as well, and they also break apart. It is an unstoppable chain of reactions, extremely destructive.”
“Are you suggesting that, if the operation goes ahead now, the host genome will be destroyed because of this chain reaction? And as a consequence, Prince Mapolos will die?”
“Exactly!”
She looked shocked, and search
ed around again for her ballpoint pen but failed to see it the floor under her chair. “How long have you known this?” she asked.
“For a while now. I thought I might be able to prevent the disruption by finding a particular combination of enzymes, but I failed, and I must admit it is impossible.”
“Impossible?”
“Yes, impossible.”
“You’ve kept it very quiet.”
“What could I do? Tell Lord Shusha the operation is a certain failure and Prince Mapolos will die as a consequence of it?”
“So you made up all those stories about the healing powers Brianna might develop.” Nina pulled a face.
“No, they’re not made up, not by me at least. Ms Upright put it into my mind and called it a ‘miracle’. When she was with Professor Nandalff, she saw Tyanna save a wounded man with her healing power, so she thinks that if Brianna becomes just like Tyanna by swallowing the Pearl of Targar, then sooner or later she will develop the same healing powers that Tyanna had.”
“Do you really believe all that about fairies, magical powers?”
“It’s hard to say. I’ve met Tyanna before and know she possessed some power but I’ve never seen her do anything with it. But then I thought, why not, at least it gives Brianna a reason to live — Lord Shusha needs that reason, or he might …” He swallowed as he thought of the loathsome look in Lord Shusha’s face whenever he set eyes on Brianna. What had this 16-years-old girl done to deserve such intense hatred?
“However,” he dismissed the thought and continued in a lighter tone, “I saw it with my own eyes today.”
“Saw what?”
“Brianna used her newly acquired healing power to cure an injured mouse,” he said with glee, the excitement still fresh in his mind.
“Have a look now, Nina, magic meets science,” he tapped the tablet’s screen, “I collected the air soon after she had healed the mouse. Now add the mystical molecules into the liquid … look again at Mapolos’ genome.”
“Isn’t it an amazing piece of art, right down to the microscopic details?” He paused to admire the image on the screen himself as if he was seeing it for the first time. “See those blue flower-shaped particles … they are the molecules emitted from Brianna. Colourless of course — blue is the colour I added for identification. How peculiar that those molecules seem to have their own volition. They go straight to the sites that need fixing, and get on with it. See the changes? When Bo’s gene segments are inserted there is some slight disarray — parts of the chromosome try to break off, but then the process stops and becomes stable again. Remarkably, it seems the healing molecules have harmonised the sequence and made peace between the inserted genes and the host chromosome. And that’s not all. I have also looked into how the cell cycle is affected by the mystifying healing molecules and found sufficient evidence to suggest they have the power to stimulate protein regeneration and reduce the cell cycle for recovery — that is how she healed the mouse right in front of my eyes.”
“Are you suggesting that we can completely cure Prince Mapolos if we use Brianna’s healing power?” Nina cut in, eyes round in wonderment. “How long do you reckon for the recovery?”
“It depends. The concentration of the healing molecules in the sample is still relatively low. If it were increased tenfold, I reckon he would be cured in a matter of minutes.”
For a while, Nina sat still. When she tilted her shoulder, her glance accidentally fell onto the floor. At once she saw the ballpoint pen, bent down to pick it up and, losing no time, started pressing it, much to Peter’s annoyance.
“We can have the operation soon, can’t we? It’s just a matter of making Brianna generate as much healing power as possible,” she said, her face shining with excitement. “Shall we let Lord Shusha know? Where’s Ms Upright?”
“Party.” On a chair at the far end of the room, Tony Gladwell, who had come in unnoticed, raised his head from his tablet, his eyes puffy. “Engagement party of Lord Shusha’s daughter, I was told,” he added.
3
Engagement
“What has happened to the ribbon, my Lady? It looks old and tired,” the maid said and extended her hand to touch it.
Cici stopped her in time. “It’s just as it should be,” she said icily.
The maid glanced up, startled by the coldness of her tone. “Are you alright, my Lady?” She let a smile cross her face and nattered on, “My mother always says chewing a Lleca leaf calms your nerves.”
She delved into her pocket and drew out a small parcel. “I always have something ready for an occasion like this. Do you feel like one, my Lady?” She spread the parcel open to show her a handful of slender yellow leaves.
A subtle smell filled the air, pleasingly fragrant.
Cici took one, gripped it between her front teeth and nipped it. Immediately her tongue was suffused with a strong, minty taste.
The maid stared at her with curiosity.
“Thanks. You may go now,” she said in a flat tone and turned. She heard the shuffling footsteps of the maid as she left and bit harder on the Lleca leaf. The tip of her tongue was now numb from the spicy sensation, and that was all. Still, she was filled with dread.
She lingered to the balcony to get a breath of fresh air, but the busy scene below upset her. Men in work clothes were putting the final touches on the pergola and canopies; women in lace frocks were bringing baskets and baskets of bread, cold meats and wines to tables with glittering centrepieces; children, on ladders and benches, were hanging up lanterns, ribbons and wind chimes.
Her eyes swept over to the raised stage behind all the bustling activities — musicians sat dangling their legs off the edge of the stage with mugs in their hands and wind instruments by their sides as they watched some dancers and actors, a short distance away, unloading large wooden boxes from a wagon.
Her gaze was suddenly drawn to a separate stage with dark flags fluttering on its poles. From how it was fenced off by metal chains, and the gloomy colour of the flags, she knew straight away it was a stage for slave fights. She didn’t know why, but when she glanced one after another at the erect poles, each with a slave fettered to it, her heart pounded, and her breathing became harsh.
She knew it was him already before her glance fell on him. She hesitated to connect him with Ornardo, for his skin was no longer the blue she expected but the pale shade she dreaded. He looked dejected, perhaps frightened, with a thick black chain tight around his neck.
She trembled as she drew back her gaze. She turned abruptly, sprang to her feet and ran, her long dress rustling as she darted across the stately room. She almost bumped headlong into a petite blue figure that had walked unexpectedly into the room.
“What are you doing here?” she squealed, panting hoarsely.
“Your father asked me to make sure you are alright,” Ms Upright answered, staring at her with her small, round eyes.
Putu was towering behind her, smiling blankly at her. Dashing past the bony woman, she grasped Putu by his large warm hand. “Why is he there? What have they done to his skin?”
Guttural sounds came from Putu’s lips, but then Ms Upright took over.
“One of the combat slaves died last night quite unexpectedly, so we are now short of slaves that can fight,” she said looking at her with a cold arrogance, and interlacing her bony hands across her flat chest.
“Three is a bad number for a party like this,” she continued, “Jack is a slave anyway, plus he is what everybody is talking about — Lady Cici made a good purchase in buying a white-skinned slave who’s so good at fighting. Folks have come from far away to see him. Even Prince Marcus himself asked about him.”
“He is no longer Jack. He is Ornardo,” she moaned. The arena flashed back into her mind. Jack, Jack, the lad who leaped so high and killed the large bokwa with one stroke. And the Queen, she remembered suddenly with horror — she had promised the Queen to have Jack killed.
“Folk won’t know that,” Ms Upright paused, let a
mysterious smile cross her face, and added, “and, I am sure he will be as quiet as a stone.”
Sino, they had given him sino to keep him quiet.
“Ornardo is not a slave!” Cici shouted, her face creased with disgust.
“You know your father. This is a punishment, my Lady. No matter who he is, he should never have broken into the lab and stolen Lizi’s body.”
“A punishment for me too, to see him beaten.”
Ms Upright threw her a quick glance, as if out of curiosity, for the despair in Cici’s tone struck her as odd. “I am sorry, my young Lady. Why not look on the bright side? You, Lady Cici, are to be engaged to the highly eligible Prince Marcus.”
“You call that a bright side?” Cici cried, the sarcasm in her tone was starkly clear.
For a while, the room went quiet.
“Well, if that doesn’t cheer you up, then here is another way to look at it. Your father, of course, can do anything to the slaves. Among the four slaves bound to that stage, the boy you’re concerned about is the only one who can still wiggle his tongue between his teeth.”
+++
The Queen arrived to a rousing fanfare. When Cici went forward to greet her, Ms Upright and Putu retreated to a shadowy corner.
The Queen’s lone figure appeared so sombre that on first seeing her Cici hesitated, unsure what to expect. She trembled slightly as she gave a low curtsey. The dainty hand that the Queen extended for her to kiss was cold and stiff.
“What happen to the Arnartarna band?” asked the Queen, frowning. She stepped forward to have a closer look. “How terrible! It’s old and filthy, not at all appropriate!”
With a sigh, the Queen resumed a soft tone, “That’s what happens when you don’t have a mother to take care of you.”
Cici stood, gazing down and biting her lips. Perhaps the Arnartarna band did look old because it was made from an old piece of fabric she had pulled out from the bottom of a drawer, but describing it as ‘filthy’ was an overstatement. There might have been a couple of faint spots of mould, but that was all.