Authors: Martha Faë
“Are they in love?” I ask hesitantly.
William nods, is quiet for a moment, then shakes his head.
“The first three, yes, but not his majesty.”
From the tilt of William’s head I can tell that he’s scrutinizing me—if it’s even possible to do that without eyes. Finally he turns to the other two women. “Morgan,” he says, “tell Eurydice all the details about the research you’re carrying out at the hospital.”
“But...” Morgan stammers. At least she’s no longer objecting outright.
“Inform her of everything.”
It seems like I’ve earned William’s respect. I don’t know how or why, and honestly I’m more surprised than anyone. But maybe it’s not so important to get back home right away. A little more time without seeing my family won’t do me any harm. I can’t pretend that I’m not happy to be part of something this exciting, even if it’s also extremely weird. It turns out Holmes is a famous detective! Missing people, a team of investigators, secrets... suddenly I’m right in the middle of one of my childhood dreams.
“The best thing is to go to the hospital so Eurydice can see for herself.”
Morgan nods grudgingly, without speaking, or even looking at me.
“You must not speak to anyone of the hospital,” Beatrice implores, as she picks up her veil and gets ready to go out. “It is in a secret wing of Gannochy House.”
“Gannochy?” I feel my heart leap. “Isn’t that a post-grad residence hall?” That’s where Axel lives!
The other three give each other a look, even without eyes. Once again something I said has left them speechless. Well, I have been a misfit my whole life—why should it be any different with them?
“Gannochy House has always been a hospital,” says William, “those whose roles call for hospital scenes use it. But there is a wing that we use secretly as a permanent hospital.”
“
Permanent
... isn’t it awful?” asks Beatrice. “Those who have actually had to be hospitalized at some point know of its existence, naturally, but they have promised to never speak of it to anyone, in order to preserve the peace in The Sphere. It is simply chilling for someone to have to be hospitalized for an illness that isn’t part of a role.” Beatrice begins walking, her head low.
I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say. It’s not like hospitals are the most pleasant places on earth, but in the end, they’re part of life. I don’t find them especially horrifying.
“What kind of illness do the patients in the permanent hospital have?” I ask as we walk to Gannochy House. I know perfectly well that my question is more of an effort to calm my thundering heart than any real interest in the subject. Suddenly I can think of nothing but Axel. About our argument, and what a stubborn jerk he is. His selfishness, how I left the party knowing he was watching me. It makes me furious that he didn’t stop me. He should have. If I really mattered to him he would have stopped me from leaving with Carl. On the other hand... at least now I know I don’t matter to him. Not as much as he said I did.
“It’s more like exhaustion than an illness,” says Morgan. “The patients at the permanent hospital are suffering from a weakness that can, in some cases, be extreme. Holmes came to me in the first place because my healing ability is foolproof. Of course, that only works on roles that are interconnected with mine. So, as much as I hate to admit it, there’s nothing I can do in this case,” Morgan says, more humbly than I ever would have believed possible. And the fact is that she did heal me. In a matter of seconds the wounds on my hands were gone. I’m about to point that out when she goes on with her explanation. “So, since healing was not an option, we began to study the traits that the hospitalized people had in common. At first, obviously, we suspected that the disappearances could be related to borderline cases of the infirmity. Our first hypothesis was that the missing Sphereans had not vanished; they were just lying somewhere, almost invisible, unable to move due to a lack of replication. However, none of the missing persons had ever been hospitalized, and they all enjoy—or enjoyed—excellent health. Just think—Romeo and Juliet, their health has always been quite robust. I would even go so far as to say that they’re some of The Sphere’s healthiest inhabitants. They have an enviable rate of replication.”
“Quite so,” adds Holmes.
I really am interested in what they’re telling me, but as we get closer to Gannochy House my heart beats more and more wildly. I’m trying to come up with some excuse to leave; I’m not sure I want to see Axel. But as soon as I contemplate seeing him a thought begins hammering away at my head: I haven’t seen a single person I know since the accident. In fact, St Andrews isn’t even St Andrews, at least not quite. It’s hardly likely that Axel will be where he should be. Anxiety rushes through my body, and I wish with all my heart for this to be the moment you hear about, the famous defining moment when everything changes. What if I open the door to Gannochy House and everything goes back to normal? It’s ridiculous, but I want it to be true. I don’t even care about getting any answers. I’ll give up trying to understand why things have lost their color, why I’ve had to spend all this time among such strange people. I can’t bring myself to look up from the cobblestones. I’m afraid that if I do I’ll see that the dorm has changed, too, or even worse, that it’s not there at all. What if instead of a residence hall there really is a hospital? My hands begin to shake.
“Here we are,” says Morgan.
I look up. I swear I can hear the noise of my vertebrae moving, one by one, as I lift my head. Gannochy House is the same as ever. The windows are the same; the door hasn’t changed. This is the defining moment. I’m about to go home. I swear to myself that if Axel is inside I’ll forget all about the party. I’ll wipe the slate clean. If I have to pay a price to return to reality, I am more than happy to. I walk ahead of the others and stretch my trembling hand out to the door. For some superstitious reason I know that if one of them opens the door instead of me, I won’t be able to get back to reality.
“Over here,” William says softly, almost hissing.
The other three keep walking and I stand there for a few moments, dazed, my hand still hovering near the main door. Then I’m flooded with sadness, an inevitable, inescapable sadness, like what you feel at the death of someone...
something
you love. My companions are a short distance away. Beatrice beckons to me and I walk toward her, dragging my feet. I’ve never felt so discouraged. I try to cheer myself up, like a little girl who can be convinced that nothing is wrong. I tell myself that they’re just going to show me something in the garden, that’s all, and soon we’ll come back, I’ll open the door, it’ll be
me
who opens it, and then... Just beneath the pillars supporting the building is an unobtrusive back door, hidden behind a thicket. My heart sinks. Morgan pushes the door open without any ceremony, without any respect for my pain.
Inside it is silent as the grave, and the darkness is so thick I feel like I could reach out and touch it. Little by little my eyes get used to the dark, and I can make out a few shapes, but the light is so weak that there’s no way to tell if the dorm is the same as ever or if it has changed. I rifle through my memory for images of the one time I came here with Axel, but it’s useless, I don’t recognize anything.
We hurry through darkened corridors and up a series of staircases. When we reach the top floor, William finally opens one of the doors that dot the endless walls. Now there is enough light to see things clearly. We’re in a large room filled with beds: this really
is
a hospital, unfortunately. A ray of sun comes weakly through a window beneath which sits a nurse, an enormous, old book resting in her lap. The lines of her white cap and immaculate uniform stand out crisply against the gray shapes. Her gloved hands turn the pages slowly but smoothly, as if it’s crucial for her movements to be completely uninterrupted. Every time she turns a page a huge cloud of dust rises. The dust motes dance elegantly in the air, rising and falling back to the book in a sparkling wave.
“Artificial respiration,” whispers Beatrice.
Every time a cloud rises from the book the patients breathe deeply, then collapse back onto their pillows. I look at their faces. In some of them the wood is cracked; I see an arm split down its entire length. Under some beds are little heaps of wood chips. Some patients are so blurred that you would think they were about to disappear. I’ve never seen anything like it. No coughing, no blood, no bandages, not a single IV bag. Just bed after bed of blurred figures, faces full of the terror or the infinite sorrow they feel at the thought of leaving this eerie world.
A few patients have sunk completely into their mattresses, their outlines so dim that you can only guess at them from the dents left by their bodies. I stop and look at one of these fading people and feel a chill. The deep, black sockets of the empty eyes are like two wells against the white pillow.
“What happened to them?”
I’m overwhelmed by both horror and fascination.
“Unfortunately no one can say for certain. We have only theories,” William answers.
Beatrice moves away from our group to sit down with one of the patients. She takes his hand and begins talking to him about the Creator.
“My understanding is that it’s a problem with lack of replication,” Morgan says, pushing her hair out of her face.
Beatrice rejoins us, her cheeks wet.
“It is a tragedy, an incomprehensible tragedy,” she says, taking an embroidered handkerchief out of her sleeve. “I would never dare to judge the Creator’s decisions, but...”
“Not the Creator again!” says Morgan, bored. She lets out a huff and walks away to consult the notes at the foot of each bed.
“Poor Morgan. She’s an unbeliever,” Beatrice whispers as she takes my arm. “May the Creator forgive me, but at times I think she is an
imitator
.”
I look at her, my eyes wide.
“That’s right, an
imitator
. You know, those people who believe themselves equal to the Creator, and try to imitate his virtues and powers. Many inhabitants of the Sphere claim that Morgan practices the dark arts. In fact—and please don’t mention this to her—they call her a witch as often as they do a fairy. What do you think of that?”
I shrug. Neither one exists, so it hardly matters what anyone calls her.
“Be that as it may,” Beatrice continues, “neither Morgan nor William shows the least respect for the Creator. I have great esteem for Mister Holmes, but he lacks faith, that is why he is so unhappy. But now I am wandering off the subject. As I was saying, I would never doubt the Creator’s good judgment, but I have to confess that I struggle to understand why this is happening to our companions in the Sphere. Some may not be what we could call good citizens, but the others... Oh, dear Dissie, some of the very best are here! Like him, for example,” she indicates a man languishing on one of the beds. “This is the good Aeneas. Never has there been such a noble, strong heart, or such a brave spirit. Very few have dared to take on a role like his, one that requires an almost interminable voyage, full of setbacks and tragedies. Few could withstand it. But Aeneas weathers the difficulties over and over again, repeating his Aeneid just as the Creator has assigned. Without bemoaning it—never have I heard him complain of his role. But one day he began to grow weaker, and then he reached the point where he could no longer move. And here you see him, lessened, shrunken in this bed. You would almost say that they’ve forgotten him.”
Morgan goes on reviewing the patient notes and writing things down in a little book. William follows closely behind, observing all her movements. When they finish they gesture for us to come with them. If I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes I would refuse to believe something like this could happen. But it’s true: these people, or beings, or whatever they are, are dying. And I feel like I’ve got to help.
They take me to an office where William and Morgan set out to explain the theory of replication, no matter how blasphemous Beatrice may think it is.
“We all contain a nucleus from which identical copies of ourselves can be made,” Morgan says, leaning her elbows on the table where we’re sitting. She clasps her hands and rests her head on them.
“I know,” I say, “I know about cloning.”
“Cloning?” asks Morgan with a furrowed brow, clearly interested.
Her scientific curiosity is enough to bring her down from her cloud of haughtiness. She seems, if not exactly pleasant, a bit closer to it. She wants to know all about the new word I just used and how the process is done, and I’m happy to elaborate. I explain how cloning works as best I can.
“Replication is slightly different,” says Morgan once I’ve finished my explanation. Her tone has changed completely; her scorn and sarcasm are gone. “It doesn’t have the weaknesses of cloning; the copies do not age or die prematurely. They are identical to the original. The fascinating thing about this process, which occurs in a space that we unfortunately don’t know anything about, is that—contrary to what you might think—each copy made strengthens the original. That is, it doesn’t take away a single iota of life, but rather the reverse.” William nods and Beatrice keeps shaking her head. “The more copies exist, the stronger the original gets. Although I have been studying this theory with Merlin for some time, there are some important details that I haven’t yet unraveled. For instance, why are some replicated and others not? What are the criteria? I think it is a question of spatial demand. Beyond the Sphere there is a space...”
“Beyond the Sphere there is nothing,” interrupts Beatrice abruptly.
“Darling Beatrice, please.” William lays his hand on top of Beatrice’s.
“As I was saying,” Morgan resumes her explanation without acknowledging the interruption, “according to the wise scholars who have come up with this theory, beyond the Sphere there is another place, which is divided into creative space and use space. Merlin and his companions believe that in this great space energy is in constant motion; it is divided and multiplied. In one of these divisions the spark that gives rise to everything you can see is created, and in the other that creation is put to use—do you understand?” I nod. “Some sort of activity in the use space triggers a greater demand for replication for certain blocks.”