X. Scholar
Father Pastel's judgment about how long it would take to reach Bowershim from Hampton had been optimistic. It took closer to two days to reach the outskirts of the village, by which time Ingrid and Scott were irritated not only with the slow progress of their journey, but with each other. Ingrid snapped at Scott several times for asking questions about the region that she, being new to it herself, could not hope to answer. And Scott, in his turn, had long since stopped showing empathy towards her complaints about feeling dirty from wearing clothes washed in a river, or having a sore back from riding the niddy.
Thus their entry into Bowershim was done in relative speechlessness, as evening bore down on the arched backs of copious vegetable crops on either side of the road. Scott was not at all enamored with the smell of these crops, a faint but sour assault that pricked the nostrils until he could think of nothing but flies and dead rodents.
"What the hell are those things?" he asked, looking at a row of gnarled vines wrapped around a fence. Hanging from these vines were a number of ugly, orange and black spheres the size of baseballs.
Ingrid fetched a deep sigh. This, he'd learned well enough already, was her way of warning him she was in no mood for conversation.
Scott decided to heed the warning for now. He scratched his beard, which was growing thick again. He hadn't shaved since before leaving Hampton. Ingrid's legs were no doubt starting to get prickly as well. Scott glanced at them, feeling stupid about it but glad to have some kind of distraction, however insignificant, from that vague yet somehow sickening field odor. She gave no signal of notice to his observation; her hair hung over her eyes as she stared at the road.
And then...music.
Scott peered between the antlers of his niddy. The road bent to the right. From around this bend came the bright, happy notes of a fast tempo song. He looked at Ingrid. She too was listening. Her brow was raised, and for the first time since leaving the tunnel she looked ready to smile.
The melody grew louder with every step, seeming to swirl between the boughs of the trees and give them new life. To Scott it sounded Cajun in style. There were horns, an accordion, a zealous, staccato-laden beating of snare drums. He shared this speculation with Ingrid, who for the most part agreed, but felt that something along the lines of Zydeco was a closer bet. Scott had never heard the word Zydeco before in his life and could not for love or money think of how to reply.
"But where is it coming from?" he asked instead.
By then they were already rounding the bend. A wooden signpost with the word BOWERSHIM hammered onto it came into view. And in front of that, not more than a hundred yards off, was a jubilee of people in full swing on the town square.
The niddi's hooves took on a hollow sound as they stepped onto a gas-lit, cobbled street. Children ran everywhere, their laughter pealing through the evening air. Scott judged by their formal attire that they’d come with their parents to the party, and the party was attributed to a wedding. Many of the girls were carrying flowers.
"Scott? We need to tie up the animals. There."
Ingrid pointed to a man in brown who was beckoning them. He stood in front of a wooden rail where several other animals were tied.
"Good evening!" he bellowed, teeth gleaming beneath a curled mustache. "Bride or groom?"
Scott blinked and gave Ingrid a helpless look. He all at once felt like he was being asked for a password that he did not possess. Should he try to pass himself off as one of the wedding guests? Maybe he could dance around with Ingrid and float discreet questions to the other couples about Rupert Doody. He would be suave, charming...and completely idiotic. His detective skills--what few he had--were weak. None of the old T.J. Hooker reruns he used to watch covered tactical maneuvers at wedding parties in parallel dimensions.
But Ingrid came to the rescue. "We're just passing through town," she said. "Do you happen to know a man by the name of Rupert Doody? We were told he lives here."
"I know of him," the man allowed. "But he doesn't like to come outside very much, and I'm afraid I don't know his address." His face flushed a little. "Ah...it's five scrips if you wish to tie up your niddi."
"Let's walk around," Ingrid said to Scott.
She was jumping down from her beast before he could make any kind of reply. Soon after, they were doing exactly what Scott had contemplated minutes earlier: mingling with the party guests. Most of this went on in the town square, and while they lacked proper clothing for the occasion, the throng seemed happy enough to incorporate new arrivals. One man handed Scott a drink as Ingrid tugged him towards a dais--where the Zydeco band was set up--adorned with blue and pink streamers. Another clapped him hard enough on the back to make him spill it into the grass.
"Inuman na, pare!" he whooped, eyes rolling in different directions.
Everywhere was chatter and laughter. Couples danced like bats diving after insects. Somebody popped a champagne bottle. Somebody else belched. The smell of liquor and tobacco hovered. It all felt festive and pleasant enough. The one thing Scott did not care for was the heat, which had gone up a great deal on the square. It was a case of too many people occupying too small an area.
"Where are we going?" he called to Ingrid.
"I'm just looking for the right face!" she shouted back.
"What?"
At that moment a man with a large handlebar mustache stumbled over and dumped a full glass of beer over Scott's head. "Cheers, mate!"
Several other men laughed at this. Biting back a retort, Scott let Ingrid lead him away. The crowd did not dissipate as they reached the dais; indeed, it grew thicker. Ingrid drew him down the length of it, not pausing to talk to anyone. It took some tricky maneuvering. Small as she was, Ingrid looked rather like a child, twisting her way through a forest of adults to reach whatever candy rack she saw in her mind's eye. As a consequence, Scott wound up bumping into a lot of people. More beer and whiskey splashed onto his clothes. Ingrid received a number of high-pitched whistles from the men.
The crowd thinned somewhat in back of the dais. This, coupled with the fact that the area was not as well lit as the one he had just left, served to improve Scott's mood. No one was dancing and the talk was quieter. For the first time since entering Bowershim, Scott could hear insects singing in the grass.
Ingrid continued to look flustered. She released him and put her hands on her hips. Her eyes looked across the square to a shadowy street on the far end.
"Shit," she muttered. The word carried, for at that same moment the band finished their number. Several people cast odd glances in her direction. "This isn't going to work, Scott. Let's get away from the party and try over there." Her finger pointed towards the street. "I mean everyone here's either too drunk, or--"
"Hello!" a high-pitched voice called.
A tall, heavy-set man who'd been leaning against the dais stepped towards them. His complexion was of a very light brown that was similar to Ingrid's, though the skin was more chaffed, as if from overexposure to sunlight. If the condition was causing him pain, he gave no sign; his smile beamed, and his eyes were the most sober Scott had seen thus far on the square.
"You're not from around here, right?" he asked, halting his advance. "I mean I can usually tell. You two look the way I used to feel all the time."
"We're not," Ingrid allowed.
"Not even from this region I'll bet."
"Um...well..."
"I knew it. Dixon!"
This last was less spoken than sung over the man's shoulder, and in mere moments another, leaner man joined the group. He regarded Scott and Ingrid with the same, easy smile as the one worn by his partner, and his voice, when he spoke, contained the same roller-coaster-like intonation.
"Are you bothering these people, Varion?"
"Well I hope not," the larger man laughed. "I noticed them looking around like they were lost. It reminded me of us."
"We're not lost."
"Not anymore."
"So what region are you from?" Dixon suddenly asked. "Oh don't look so surprised. Varion never misses a trick."
"We're from the progressive," Ingrid replied.
"What's that?"
"Well, it's..."
Her words died off. Scott knew what she was thinking, or was trying to think. In their hastily attained knowledge about the many regions rumored to exist, never once had any of their educators--Lisa, Father Pastel--attempted to describe a singular region in detail. And now here was this man Dixon, blithely requesting the deed as if it were nothing more than a light for his cigarette. Scott wasn't even sure where to begin.
"It's very advanced compared to this one, from a technical standpoint," he ventured.
"Stand!" a drunken man nearby yelled. "Point!" And he pointed across the square.
It eviscerated Scott's train of thought. "I mean we have cars and trains and...and airplanes..."
"Bars and babes and hair-brains!" the drunk roared.
Dixon and Varion remained silent. Scott looked at Ingrid, whose face was registering a high amount of amusement, not at the antics of the drunkard, but at his own foolishness for swimming into waters far too deep for his verbal skills to tread. All the same, he was about start his attempt afresh when Varion said:
"The progressive. Is that what they've been calling it of late? In California I'm sure something like the totally bitchin' region would go over a lot better."
"Or the way too cool for fools frontier," Dixon added.
There was a span of seconds in which nothing was said. The drunkard was gone. He and his friends had tottered off.
"You're from California?" Ingrid asked, with a hopeful voice.
"Marina del Rey," Varion sang out, "born and raised."
"Ohio," Ingrid said, beaming with sudden joy. "Both of us."
"Well welcome back to the sixteenth century. I'm Varion Punzal. This crazy fag next to me is Dixon Anderson."
"Hey it takes one to know one!" Dixon reacted.
"I'm Ingrid Felton and this is my boyfriend, Scott Bremman."
Hands were shaken all around. Scott found Ingrid's broad smile contagious. Although Varion and Dixon were still little more than strangers to him, he could not help but be thrilled to meet natives of his own region after days of traveling through foreign territory.
"Did you get here the same way we got here?" Varion put forward with innocent shrewdness.
"They're lovers, of course they did," Dixon told him.
"Have you been here very long?" the other then asked, putting his arm around Dixon.
"Just a few days," Ingrid confessed.
"Did it frighten you? Crossing over I mean. Dixon and I went to bed together last Christmas night. The next morning we were here. It scared me so bad I was crying. I thought I'd gotten sick somehow and was hallucinating."
Dixon had pulled Varion closer to him while he spoke. "We had to convince each other it was real. Imagine that. Two men go to sleep in one bed and wake up in another, without any idea of how they'd gotten there. Then they have to reassure each other of their sanity."
"It didn't frighten me," Ingrid said, with slight emphasis on the final word. "I knew it was coming."
When Varion and Dixon looked blank, Ingrid launched into her full story. Scott suggested they walk further away from the dais as she spoke, but soon began to think lesser of the idea. For while the noise level of the party dropped with every step they took, the smell Scott had noticed outside of town earlier--the sour smell of rotting fruit piled on top of dead animals--had intensified. Varion and Dixon, when asked, were at a loss to explain it. They claimed the odor had come over the town this very evening.
Ingrid finished by the time they reached a quiet street. The two taller men looked sobered by her words. Their pace had slowed to a thoughtful, almost dreamy stroll. And while children from the party could still be seen playing on the sidewalks, their antics in ropes and rhymes did not penetrate the look that had come over Ingrid's audience.
Dixon stopped under a lamp-post. "I don't understand how you intend to accomplish what you're telling me," he said. "Even if your mother knew magic, casting the dambuhala back to their own region just doesn't seem possible." He blinked in thought for a moment. "How many of them are there?"
"About one thousand," Ingrid said.
"Oh my God," Varion marveled.
"We may have a few pieces of the puzzle with us already," Scott added.
"And what are those?" Dixon wanted to know.
"We know that the emotion connected with the ogres' region is hatred. We know from the Carlson Glass that Ingrid has...has a very pure form of this hatred inside of her, and that it can be retrieved."
But neither of the men looked reassured. It was time, Scott knew, to play his and Ingrid's one remaining power card: It was time to tell them why they were in Bowershim.
It did not have the effect he was hoping for. Varion's expression did not waver at all; Dixon offered a sad nod. "Everyone in Bowershim knows of Rupert Doody," he said. "Varion and I have even met him. I understand why you want to do the same. He's a foreigner in this region, and he's done extensive research into what makes travel between them possible."
"But you don't think it's a good idea," Ingrid surmised.
"Oh it's a good idea. But Ingrid...as much as Rupert knows, he's never been able to replicate what happened to him when he was a baby. Varion and I got the idea that this was a great source of frustration for him. Also..."
A pained expression came over Dixon's face. Two giggling girls skipped past them, hair bouncing, dresses billowing.
"What is it?" Scott asked.
Dixon lifted his gaze. His following words came with great carefulness. "Did this...this Father Pastel mention that Rupert is...ah, handicapped?"
"Yes," Ingrid nodded, "but we were interrupted before he could describe the nature of it."
"All right."
Dixon and Varion looked at each other under the weak yellow glare of the lamp-posts. On the square across the way, the party was still going full steam; the Zydeco band was playing faster than ever, and Scott thought the dancers must soon spill into the streets. Finally Varion shrugged and leaned to whisper something into Dixon's ear. The other man gave a grim nod.
"Do the two of you know of a condition called Proteus Syndrome?" Varion wondered.
Ingrid answered him first. "A little. The person who comes to mind when I think of Proteus Syndrom is Joseph Merrick."
"Joseph Merrick, that's right," the other nodded. "Born in 1862. Died in a London hospital in 1890 at the age of twenty-seven. Cared for by one Doctor Frederick Treves. Proteus Syndrome is a genetic disorder that causes unusual bone development, rapid skin growth, tumors. Parts of the body tend to become gigantic and deformed."
"Wait a second," Scott broke in, raising his hand. "Are we talking about The Elephant Man?"
"Yes," Dixon rejoined, "we are."
"So Rupert Doody has Proteus Syndrome?" Ingrid asked.
"As far as medical science in this region can understand. Doctors here are calling it Gnaritis. He looks very much the way Merrick used to look, but then nobody knew for certain what his affliction was either. Again, Proteus Syndrome was as close as doctors could get."
"It doesn't matter," Ingrid said. "If he has knowledge of how to travel between regions then we need to talk to him. The sooner the better." Scott watched her eyes shine with confidence. It was a look she achieved with relative ease, over and over again, now that her life had taken on a sudden, drastic change. "Can we see him tonight? Will he still be awake?"
"I think so," Dixon said, as Varion nodded. "He told us he prefers to be awake at night. Fewer people see him that way."
"Take us to him please."
They started walking again. No one spoke. Scott looked across the street and saw one of the flower girls twirling a pink ribbon over her head. Another, younger girl stood next to her, gazing up at the ribbon in wonder.
And then Dixon and Varion turned down an empty alley, leaving it all behind. They walked for perhaps thirty yards between two, two-story wooden buildings. The shadows around them grew darker. Scott drew a deep breath--and immediately regretted it. That evil smell which everyone else in Bowershim seemed to be ignoring rushed through his nostrils, making him cough. Was it getting worse? He thought yes.
At the end of the alley was a poorly-lit street of rocky dirt and neglected buildings. Ingrid fell in step with Scott; he put his arm around her. Black windows of closed shops leered from beneath awnings that were like the ragged sails of wrecked ships. In one a candle had been left flickering. By its glow, Scott could see something in the shape of a coffin on display, propped from behind. MONDUSHMOW'S, a sign on the shop's closed door read, ODDITIES.
They stopped before a T intersection at the end of the street, where stood a larger house that was more handsome than its neighbors. It was three stories high and looked to be made of ashlar. All of its windows were dark. A short flight of steps led to a pair of red doors decorated with gold trim. A second flight went down to a more plain door that Scott presumed would let on the home's cellar.
"This," Dixon told them, standing with his hands on his hips, "is the office of Doctor Grant Bowershim. His ancestors founded the village. It is also the home of Rupert Doody. Doctor Bowershim allows him to stay here under the condition that he be studied for medical science."
Scott looked at the windows again--all black, all uninviting. Were he to walk up the steps and twist the bell handle that shined on the door, he was certain no one would answer.
"Not there," Varion said, comprehending his gaze. "Mr. Doody's quarters are under the house." And he gestured at the stairs that led down. "Keep in mind the severity of his ailment is...rather high. It's affected his skull, his chest. Part of one arm and all of one leg. His appearance can be difficult to digest. It's why he prefers to keep night hours."
Ingrid did not hesitate. Her boots scraped with high-heat, summer dryness on the steps as she descended into the shadowy nook of the cellar door. Scott followed. Seconds later all four were crowded into the nook.
Ingrid balled her hand and knocked.