Anchovies Are Not a Laughing Matter
Ben pressed play
on his computer, restarting the grainy footage of an old lecture on YouTube. Onscreen, a hundred or so academics of all shapes and sizes were seated in a Yale auditorium, applauding the arrival onstage of a wiry man in a tweed jacket and bow tie. He took a few moments to adjust his wire-rimmed glasses and then sip a glass of water.
This was Professor Barnard, Ben’s possible answer to Nicole’s mystery.
“Welcome to you all and thank you for inviting me here today. It’s an honor to speak to such a venerable audience.”
The sound of polite applause started up again. On his laptop, the video showed a close-up of the professor. Ben paused the screen and stared at the man. He tried to find the words for him. Was he majestic? No …
mercurial
. That was it.
The mercurial Professor Barnard sported a neatly trimmed beard and a shock of salt-and-pepper hair that contrasted against his dark skin. His shiny eyes were quick to find points of interest in a room, and Ben wondered what it would be like to come under his eminent gaze. Pressing play again, Ben moved across his bedroom to clamber onto his desk chair, which wobbled underneath his feet.
On the video, the applause died down and the professor cleared his throat. He was nervous — Ben had picked up on that each time he’d studied this lecture, and watching it through to the end, he had came to understand why. The polite applause belied an undercurrent of cynicism in the room, and Professor Barnard was preparing himself for instant unpopularity.
Ben sure knew what that felt like.
He affixed the last poster to the wall and carefully climbed down again, using the back of the chair for support. He stood back and proudly surveyed his bedroom.
Posters of
The Lord of the Rings
, M.C. Escher, and a map of the world had been replaced with hundreds of notes, drawings and printouts. Many ideas (including animal sacrifice) had been crossed out, and some (such as alien invasion and the end of the world) had big question marks next to them. One theory was emerging over all of the others. In large letters, a sheet of paper inscribed with “Fountain of Youth” was positioned at the center of the long wall next to Ben’s bed.
After his run-in with Nicole outside the cafeteria, Ben’s determination to get to the bottom of the mystery had increased. He had realized then that she was aware of everything that had been going on. Her reaction — implying that she had some control over those events — had been like dousing a smoldering barbecue with lighter fuel.
He’d let it go when she’d repeatedly yelled “stop!”, mainly because the whole scene was truly embarrassing, even by his standards. If she’d only realized that he was just trying to help. Now he needed the time to process the new information he’d gathered, namely the fact that it was a power over which Nicole had some choice.
Ben had recently taken to locking his bedroom door, and after a few days, he’d begun to organize his research. Today, he’d set to the task of pinning up all lines of clues he had in the way detectives might do in their office.
Initially, he’d found one small reference to the idea of a Fountain of Youth, from Professor Barnard’s references on Wikipedia. This pointed to a paper that cited Professor Barnard’s work. After many hours of further digging, Ben had hit upon some obscure old lectures, videotaped in the early ’80s with the era’s distinctive fuzzy color and mono sound. He’d had a hunch the professor was on to something, and he’d viewed this particular video about a dozen times, combing it for any further clues and links he could pursue.
He sat back down in front of it again now and slurped noisily from his can of soda.
After some shuffling of papers, the professor began, placing the first transparency on his overhead projector. On the far wall, an image of an ancient painting beamed, full of rich golds, reds and purples, depicting a group of people bathing in waters.
“The Fountain of Youth. Most cultures have a take on it. It is an enduring myth, tapping into the heart of the human condition’s insecurities and fears regarding mortality. From Mayan paintings to the travel tales of Juan Ponce de León, from fables to the writings of ancient Greek Herodotus, we have searched and still we have not found.”
With shaking fingers, he lifted up the transparency and replaced it with another. An ancient painting of two men wearing white turbans and sitting opposite one another, with a bowl containing two fish between them, appeared on the projector screen.
“Here’s Al-Kidr and Alexander watching as the water of life revives two salted fish. It’s a little like anchovies springing back to life on your pizza.” Professor Barnard chuckled to himself, although no one else in the room seemed to find it funny. He used the deafening silence to ease another transparency onto the projector.
The audience was shown a close-up of a delicately inscribed mirror case.
“It may be hard for those of you at the back to see, but this 14th-century mirror case is a detailed portrayal of what people of the day thought a Fountain of Youth looked like, and it is representative of many more examples of this kind of iconography. Old people — usually being carried — will arrive from the left. They will strip and enter the pool. The people in the pool are youthful and naked, and, after a while, when you look to the right of the picture, the revived leave and are shown fashionably dressed and seemingly heading out for a very good time.”
Ben laughed. This video was from 1987, which suggested to him that the old professor probably wasn’t around anymore. However, given that he hadn’t found an obituary, he still hoped there might be a chance he could meet him.
“As you’re probably all aware, the city of St. Augustine, Florida, is home to the Fountain of Youth National Archaeological Park, a tribute to the spot where Ponce de León is said to have landed,” the professor continued. “Although there is no evidence that the park’s fountain has any restorative effects, visitors still flock to the park to drink the water. You see, the myth endures. The writings and tales go on. None of us can imagine dying, because we don’t know what it’s like not to be here.”
He swapped for a new transparency. This was of cave paintings depicting in rich ochre and swift strokes a figure in the center with outstretched arms. “Now, Ponce de León’s writings about his travels through the Americas never mentioned the fountain, and it only became associated with him after his death. ”
Ben took a deep breath. He knew what was about to come, and each time it took his breath away.
“So I say to you all today: I believe we have been searching in the wrong places for hundreds of years. These images, stories, and artifacts are actually a striking example of ‘polygenesis,’ a term for the simultaneous appearance of vivid, similar tales in far-flung locales. Now look again at these transparencies, and tell me what you find common in all.” Deftly, the Professor flicked between each — the mirror case, the saltfish, the medieval scene of pool frolicking.
The professor surveyed his disgruntled and cynical audience and understood that none of them was going to help him out. He returned to the cave painting transparency, and the stick figure now dominated the screen, its red arms held out evenly.
“People. That is what is common to all — people. The saltfish are living, but there are people seated at either side of them. The same is true of all the other paintings.” Professor Barnard pointed back to the cave painting. “I believe the Fountain of Youth is an epithet. A saying. The reason — with all of our technology and archeological expertise, chemical expertise, carbon testing, X-ray scanning and radar and sonar — we have still been unable to trace the famous waters. The Fountain of Youth isn’t a place, and it isn’t special waters. It is a person. What I have now come to learn was referred to in ancient Sanskrit as the ‘Balancer.’ This person has the power to balance the forces of life between the living.”
A low murmur rippled across the audience. The professor waited a few moments before continuing.
“This person had incredible gifts, and would be much sought-after by those in power. What better way to protect this person than to hide in plain sight? To put out a tale that people would take to their hearts about water — healing waters. Meanwhile, the Balancer could go on about their business, trading life and health by sacrificing other living things. Maybe some seek fame; others hide in the shadows for fear of others exploiting their skills.”
His audience was now far from receptive, and the professor had to raise his voice to almost shouting level to be heard above the disarray.
“Yes, what I am suggesting demands a radical rethinking of how we view life, the world and its delicate balance. The historical figures who have shaped our worlds, those we look up to — perhaps they were Balancers. A tribal shaman in a remote tribe, a gifted doctor in a battlefield, a well-loved ruler of a peaceful village, a Salem witch, a powerful warlord. Somebody that inspires. Joan of Arc? Somebody who performs miracles. Buddha? Sai baba? The Dalai Lama? Or perhaps … perhaps even Jesus Christ himself.”
The sound of chairs being scraped back and barely concealed outrage echoed all around. Here was when the camera’s focus moved away from the professor to chart the exodus of some of his audience. It was a silent protest. There was one curious man who did not leave, however, but instead stood eyeballing the professor from a low vantage point below the stage. He was no less menacing despite only coming up to the professor’s shins. The camera zoomed in on him now as he stared up.
“How could you, Jim? After everything that’s happened?”
The professor swallowed, observing the emptying room with something like amusement.
“How could I not? It’s true,” he replied simply.
“Are you crazy? These fairy tales will ruin everything! You weren’t supposed to say that last part. Nobody will ever fund anything we do ever again!”
When the man started mentioning money, Barnard began to gather his papers, which infuriated him further.
“Oh, I know — your project is bigger than that. But can’t you see? You’re destroying our department and this school!”
The professor was about to add something when his colleague spied the camera and placed his hand over the lens. After a momentary close-up of a pink palm, the video ended.
Ben had scoured every one of the comments below the video, but he found only the same scorn and ridicule he’d seen in the auditorium audience.
Ben knew what it was like to be an outcast. He felt for this man, but more than that, he had an idea about where to go next.
He would take from the professor one clue — about hiding in plain sight. He had yet to pursue the man who was so angry with the professor. It would involve a long search through years of Yale alumni, but Ben was going to do it.
He would honor the work of Professor Barnard by taking up where he had left off. He had a head start, too — he knew a Balancer.
Where’s the Flower Donation Box?
W
alking the corridors
of Evergreen Hospital’s p
ediatric ward, Nicole again followed the brightly colored linoleum footprints to Ethan’s room. She thought about the previous visit, which was just after Mrs. Truman’s yard devastation. Seeing Ethan would have been so much easier with her best friend by her side. She had texted Amy that morning to ask whether she’d like to come along, but had been disappointed to receive word from Amy that she still wasn’t feeling up to it.
Ethan had been moved to the ICU overnight, and as Nicole observed the emaciated boy through the glass to his room, he was wearing an oxygen mask and seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness. His dad was stooped low, holding his hand. He was reading from
Harry Potter
, and though the glass was soundproof, Nicole could tell he was acting out the different characters’ voices like her own dad used to. Her favorite had been his rendition of Severus Snape and his condescending tone, which had always made her giggle.
Nicole knocked on the glass and Mr. Geller looked up, raising a small smile upon seeing her. Letting Ethan know what was going on, he came to the door to let Nicole in.
“Hey, Nicole. It’s really good to see you.”
“Hi, Mr. Geller.” There seemed to be no words that could convey how awful things were, so she hoped that resting a hand on his arm would be enough.
“How is he?”
“We’re hoping for the best, but … well … he’s fighting.”
“I won’t stay long if he’s tired.”
“Oh, no. He’s been talking about you all week. You are always welcome!” Mr. Geller guided her inside.
“How are you and Mrs. Geller?” she asked, sitting in the seat the tired-looking man had indicated for her.
“She was here last night. We’re staying in a hotel across the way so we … well, so we could be close by.”
Nicole knew what that meant.
“I didn’t want to leave the little man alone right now and was waiting for the nurse to get here. Do you think you could stay with him while I take a bit of fresh air? He’ll probably just sleep.”
Nicole agreed and watched the man kiss his son’s forehead, after which he left them alone.
The room was filled with cards, bought and homemade. Pictures and goodwill messages from school friends were tacked up everywhere, and balloons bobbed about in the corner next to a few fading daisies in a vase. Ethan’s parents had made it as bright and cheerful as possible. That the place was overrun with color and bright objects was a testament to their feelings of helplessness.
After a moment, Nicole picked up
Harry Potter
at the page where Ethan’s dad had left off. She started reading, copying Snape’s tone and demeanor as he tried his best to scare Harry.
When she reached the end of the chapter, Nicole’s stomach tightened at the sight of the book. It was such a large book. Would there be time for Ethan to get to the end? She felt a little squeeze on her hand.
“SuperNix,” Ethan whispered hoarsely.
Nicole set down the book and squeezed his hand in response. He stared up at her with a smile in his eyes.
“Hey!” she beamed.
“Where’s Awesome Amy?”
“I sent her off on a mission by herself to fight crime and save the world. Do you think I’ve done the right thing?”
Ethan thought about it and then shook his head side to side. Nicole laughed and he joined in, but this quickly turned into a grimace. Nicole caught herself wondering how much pain the boy was in.
“Do you need any juice?” Nicole poured some for the boy and helped him sit up and remove his oxygen mask far enough for a straw to get past.
When he’d had enough juice, Nicole set down the cup and secured the mask again.
For a moment, Ethan surveyed the room and his surroundings as though he were seeing them for the first time. He squeezed Nicole’s hand a little more tightly.
He was afraid.
Nicole felt her heart beat faster.
“What’s gonna happen, SuperNix?”
Nicole thought about it. The Gellers had explained that Ethan had been told he was very sick, but what else was there to say? “I don’t know, Ethan. But the doctors are doing their best. Stay strong.”
“I am strong!” He showed a weakly clenched fist as proof. Nicole liked his spirit. She turned back to the book, wishing for Awesome Amy’s presence.
“Tell me about the fire again.”
Nicole wasn’t sure whether it would be the same without Amy’s energy, but she began. Within the first few sentences, she knew she was telling a highly lackluster version that wasn’t helping Ethan’s mood at all. She was also forgetting certain aspects of it, and Ethan had to remind her about the choky smoke, the scarf wrapping, the wildfire smell and all of the other outlandish details Amy had added.
“Do you know what? I think we’ve both heard this story enough,” Nicole said. “I have a different idea. Wanna see something special?”
Ethan shrugged.
“OK.”
Nicole knew she was risking things, but she’d gone a whole week without killing anything, and that fact had brought her comfort. She could do this. She could break her rule and do this one small thing for a dying boy. The surprise might change something for him — might shock him into feeling better. Who could say?
Nicole pointed. “Look at the daisies.”
Ethan did as she asked.
Nicole concentrated on the daisies. She remembered the smiling, giggling Ethan and how he’d howled with laughter at jokes about Amy’s hair. His wisecrack at her superpower joke and the picture of SuperNix he’d drawn. And she thought about the bouquet of roses she’d passed in the hallway on the way to the room.
Ethan eyes widened and he gasped.
Nicole looked across to see the daisies had become bright white and yellow, with straight vivid green stalks and proud leaves.
“How did you do that?” Ethan stared at Nicole incredulously.
Nicole grinned. “Magic!”
“I saw it!” Ethan’s eyes were sparkling now, and he drank some more juice.
At that moment, Ethan’s dad returned. He seemed shocked to find Ethan with a little color in his cheeks and a smile on his face.
Nicole put her finger to her lips and indicated for it to remain a secret between them.
“Hey, little man. What’s gotten into you?”
“SuperNix!” He couldn’t help it and pointed at Nicole. She laughed.
“Guess who’s here to see you?” he said.
Peering in at the doorway giving an upbeat wave and beaming was Ethan’s mom. The petite blonde entered the room and went straight to hug her son.
She planted a big kiss on the side of his face, which he didn’t wriggle out of but instead clearly enjoyed. She turned to Nicole. “My husband’s been telling me how much you cheer Ethan up. Thank you so much for coming.” Ethan’s mom snuggled into him again, and Nicole knew it was time for her to leave.
“Say bye to Nicole.”
“Bye.” Ethan raised his finger and put it to the mask and made a “shhh” sound.
Mr. Geller accompanied Nicole out of the room. With one glance back at Ethan and his mom, Nicole left and went back into the corridor.
The air there felt suddenly stale and hot. Nicole realized she had a terrible lump in her throat, and her stomach felt heavy.
She and Mr. Geller turned to the glass and watched him for a moment longer. She felt awkward and totally out of her depth.
“Come on. I’ll walk you out,” Mr. Geller offered. On their way, they passed a nurse who was fussing over a wilted bouquet of flowers that looked as though it had been discarded on a chair. Nicole made a mental note to put some money in the flower fund later on.
Ethan’s dad asked her the normal questions about school and hobbies until they reached the fresh air of the parking lot. Nicole said she would catch the bus back home. A stop was placed conveniently just outside the hospital.
“I guess this is the last time we might be seeing you,” he said.
It was a statement with enormous implications. Nicole nodded, feeling the tears and emotion welling up inside her once more.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know. I know you mean it, too.”
“It’s so unfair.”
“He doesn’t deserve to suffer like this. He’s just a little kid.” Mr. Geller became choked up at his own words and needed a moment to regain his composure. “I’d gladly trade my life for his.”
The bus drew up, and Nicole indicated that it was hers. She gave Mr. Geller a hug and got on the bus — in part as an escape. Painful feelings coursed through her — of her mom’s words about leaving a part of herself behind, of her difficulties in helping others. Nicole’s own pain at the thought of Ethan dying was bad enough, but it must be multiplied hundreds of times for his parents. How could they bear it?
Still the bus wouldn’t leave. She watched helplessly as an old lady shuffled on slowly, followed by a woman who was digging in her pockets for money.
Could she just leave without trying? Could she live with herself?
There was a quickening in her veins as she unwrapped the folded-up crayon picture of freckled SuperNix. She held it in her hands as though it were a delicate, gold leaf. The beating of her heart caused the picture to judder with every pulse.
Outside the bus, Mr. Geller leaned heavily against the wall of the bus stop. Part of him was so desperate to see his son he could burst, and another part couldn’t bear to go back in, to face it all again.
The bus engine revved, and he watched it pull away as if his last hope were leaving on that bus. He shut his eyes.
He clenched his fists in anger and swallowed the bitter pill of his reality. Then, something made him open his eyes again and look up as the bus moved off.
Nicole stood in its place.
She had an expression on her face that he hadn’t seen before, and as she approached him, he straightened up. He let her speak first, because somehow he felt that was meant to happen.
“Did you mean what you said about trading your life for Ethan’s?”
“Yes.” Mr. Geller didn’t have to think twice about it.
“I can do that,” Nicole said softly.
“What?”
“I can do that,” Nicole whispered more firmly, meaning every word.